#Shape parameter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

undyingdecay · 1 month ago

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pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, sub!bob, sub!void (?), nursing, somo, ptsd, trauma responses, oral (female receiving).

a/n: usually i'd write void as dominant, but this is very experimental. so let me know what you think!!

taking care of bob was like cradling a wounded animal—tender, trembling, and easily spooked.

not a task for the faint of heart. he needed softness, patience, and the kind of love that asked you to go quiet with your breath when his hands trembled too hard to lace his boots. some days, he’d curl into you like he’d never been touched right in his life, and you had to wonder if that was true. he needed direction too, sometimes; a steady hand, a firmer voice when the static in his skull grew loud enough to turn rooms into warzones. there were days you had to pull him back from the edge with nothing but a whisper and the weight of your palm on his chest.

letting him wrap his precious, pink, heat-flushed lips around your nipple whenever he needed grounding probably didn’t help the situation, if you wanted to be technical. but when he latched on with that same bruised devotion he gave everything—eyes fluttering shut like his lashes were kissing his cheeks, murmuring broken things like “love you so much,” and “never leave me, never leave me”—you found it hard to draw a boundary. his need softened you, rewrote your parameters for intimacy. bob didn’t just touch; he clung. worshipped.

and he never just slept. that would be too simple.

nights with bob meant feeling him jolt awake, lungs pumping like he’d clawed his way out of deep water, the sheets damp with sweat and tension. his containment with the thunderbolts had made things worse—val’s voice, the electric hum of the restraints, the offhanded cruelty of taskmaster or the wary glances from walker all nested in his subconscious, feeding nightmares that turned into full-blown delusions if you didn’t anchor him quickly enough.

you’d learned to soothe him without asking questions, just letting his face find the curve of your neck, whispering gently into his hair until he found his way back to you.

but what you hadn’t anticipated was waking up to the distinct warmth of his cock already pumping inside you, slow and soaked in pre, a desperate rhythm like he’d been working himself up for minutes before you stirred. the first time it happened, he cried—actual tears—as he begged with wet, choked whispers, ”’m sorry, i just—needed, needed to feel close.”

his forehead pressed against yours as he moaned your name like it was the only prayer that worked. he trembled all over, arms anchoring you to him in a grip no human could break, and even if you’d wanted to pull away, your body was his—soul first, then skin.

“coming!—‘m coming, please,” he whimpered against your throat, voice cracking like he was breaking all over again as he spilled inside you with a full-body shudder. the warmth was sudden, thick, filling, a reminder that even now, even like this, bob could only come when he felt utterly safe.

yes, taking care of bob was work. but work worth it nonetheless.

taking care of bob and the void was nearly a full-time job. a job without hours, without pay, and without breaks.

you’d learned, early on, that the void wasn’t some passive thing lurking behind bob’s eyes like a parasite waiting to feed.

no, he was present. and yes—you’d come to call him he. not “it.” not “the other.” he had thoughts, shape, intent. he had emotion. he wasn’t just an aftershock of trauma or the chemical cost of power; he was born of bob, born from the same ocean of feeling that made bob cry into your skin and beg you not to leave him.

cruel at first. he was that, certainly. lurking in the shadows of bob’s mind like a poison-black tide whispering barbs just under the threshold of sanity. late nights were the worst. that was when the void would come, all sharp teeth and black honey voice, tormenting bob with visions and disembodied accusations—they’re going to take her from you, bob. she doesn’t love you. she pities you.

you learned to fight back the only way that worked: your body. your breath. your breast offered up like a peace treaty, letting bob latch on and suck delicately until the tension in his spine melted and he sobbed his love into your chest. but even then—especially then—you could feel him. the void. watching. sulking.

tonight was no different.

you shifted slightly beneath bob’s weight, the thick, post-coital warmth of his body heavy atop yours. his cock, still soft inside you, twitched once with some residual need, though his face was slack with half-sleep. sweat glued his golden curls to his temple, and you stroked them away tenderly, your other hand absently combing the length of his back.

but the room had gone still. too still.

you glanced up. scanned the shadows like a prey animal, listening not with your ears but your instincts. you’d come to know what it felt like when he was near. that sudden, uncanny drop in temperature. the thrum of tension in the walls like the building itself had a heartbeat.

and then—there. in the left corner.

dark. staring. you couldn’t see him, not exactly, but you felt him. the way you might feel your own reflection glaring back at you with different thoughts.

it wasn’t sadness tonight. that had passed. there was no grief in the room now.

what had settled in its place was green. sickly, ancient, choking envy that poured over the bed like smoke. it slithered between your toes, coiled around your throat—not enough to harm you, just to remind you you weren’t alone.

he wasn’t alone.

you felt it in bob’s body before he did. his grip on your waist tightened. just slightly, but enough. enough to feel possessive, to feel panicked. like even in the safety of your arms, he could hear the void creeping in, breathing lies into his skull.

you kept your gaze locked on that corner of the room. not with fear. not anymore.

he stares back. fist beginning to ball up before after a singular blink, he’s gone.

there’d been a shift after that night. small at first. subtle.

a breath caught in silence. a shadow that lingered too long.

you weren’t sure when you started counting how many seconds it took for bob’s pupils to dilate after a mission, or how often he blinked before speaking. these days, you measured time in the flicker of his gold-rimmed eyes and how tightly he clung to you in bed.

you wondered if anyone else noticed. once, after a mission—when bob’s hands still trembled faintly under the gloves and his breathing hadn’t quite evened out—you tried to confide in bucky. just a quiet, cautious sentence over lukewarm coffee in the kitchen.

but before bucky could say anything, walker cut through with a gruff, “don’t jinx it—what the hell are you even implying?” the chair scraped against the floor as he stood and left. conversation over.

so you stopped asking.

but you noticed. every moment. every shift.

bob wasn’t just calmer—he was quieter. the stillness didn’t stretch in tension anymore. it curled into you like an animal that had found the one place it wasn’t hunted. the nightmares came less often. and when they did, they weren’t as violent.

but the quiet had a cost.

he was everywhere now. not just bob—but him. the void. that endless shadow that was supposed to be a force of destruction but had become something far stranger. more present. more intimate.

in the shower, a cold gust would wrap around your spine—tight, deliberate, almost possessive. when you washed dishes, you’d glance down and find more soap on the sponge than you remember using. when you stripped for bed, sometimes you could feel his eyes dragging across your skin like a velvet shroud.

at first, it unnerved you. but then you saw what it did to bob.

he softened.

and that, above all, was what mattered.

he’d wake before you now, sometimes in the deepest hours of night, his body already half-curled around yours. you’d open your eyes to gold-streaked irises, wide and glassy in the dark. he never spoke. just stared. past you. through you. like someone watching a storm move through a window and waiting to see if it would break the glass.

the void was growing bolder.

what began as glances became touches. not overt—not at first. a ripple in the mattress. a cold draft across your throat while bob was buried between your thighs. then bob would whisper something afterward, shuddering, dazed, like he couldn’t stop himself: “he—likes the way you taste.”

you didn’t flinch.

it was never about fear. not anymore.

bob needed so much, and you had given it willingly. your mouth. your body. your voice. your patience. and now—your presence. you began to understand what it meant to be his anchor not just in flesh, but in the split seam of reality he lived in. when the void stirred, bob became gentler. hungrier. desperate to tether himself deeper into you, to press himself so close you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.

that night came in a hush.

rain etched slow silver trails down the window, glass shuddering now and then from far-off thunder. the overhead lights were out—containment maintenance again—so the room glowed faintly blue from the emergency strips along the walls. you could hear the hum of dormant tech and the wind slithering down the corridors, like the building itself was breathing through its vents.

you were already slick between the legs. not purely from arousal but from him—bob—his cum warm and leaking where he’d emptied himself in you less than an hour ago. soft now, but twitching occasionally, like even in his sleep he was reaching for you. always reaching.

then he moved.

not much. just a subtle shift of his spine, a hitch in breath.

and then colder.

the air dropped—sharp and immediate, like the temperature itself was pulled into the marrow of your bones. you felt it before you even registered the sound of his breath catching. bob tensed against you, curling inwards like a wing folding under pressure. his face, always so soft in sleep—boyish, angelic—began to twist.

his brow furrowed. his eyes squeezed shut. his mouth opened—no words, just a tremble, a flinch—and then he whispered, voice raw and too small:

“he’s coming.”

your body moved before your mind could catch up. you sat upright, one hand on his cheek, the other looping around his bare, trembling torso. his skin burned hot with panic.

“hey, hey—breathe. i’ve got you. you’re okay. just stay with me.”

but he wasn’t seeing you.

his eyes opened, golden and glassy, flickering around the room with frantic, unanchored energy. not looking at you—looking past you. through the walls. through the veil.

“he’s in my ribs,” bob choked. “in my chest. i can’t—he’s too close—i can’t breathe—”

and that’s when you felt it.

not from him.

from behind you.

from the other side of the bed.

a slow, deliberate shift. the mattress depressed as if a second weight settled into it. the air didn’t just go cold—it warped. like grief. like memory too old to hold.

you turned your head.

and he was there.

just like in the classified footage you weren’t supposed to see—filed away in some hard drive under val’s office, locked behind biometric clearances and layers of redacted history. the thing that tore through a battalion in syria like wet paper. humanoid, yes—but only in shape. his body was made of something that defied category: shadow like smoke, skin like liquid static, always shifting, never choosing. his form cracked in and out of visibility like the very laws of physics couldn’t bear his presence.

but his eyes—if that’s what they were—shone like slits of white flame, narrow and hollow, like lightning trapped inside a skull-shaped storm.

he didn’t speak at first.

he just stared at you.

you tightened your arms around bob.

this was the part where you were supposed to scream. or cry out for help. or do something logical—something human.

but you didn’t.

because even through the fear—even with bob trembling in your lap, gasping out ragged, nonsensical breaths—you felt it.

the void wasn’t angry.

not yet.

but he was hungry.

and so unbearably lonely.

the void crouched at the edge of the bed like a creature not used to being let in. his form shimmered with frustration—smoke fighting muscle, mist struggling to settle. he looked like he had been trying to form a body that wouldn’t scare you and failed halfway through. his presence soaked the room like a black tide pulled in from somewhere deeper than space, and all you could think was: he’s trying.

then—warped, slow, like it came through water:

why not me?

it wasn’t a question, not something sweet or fragile like bob.

it was a demand.

you stared at him, throat tight, and suddenly everything snapped into place. you remembered the way bob always came in you like it wasn’t about pleasure but release. the way he moaned your name like a prayer too full of guilt. the way his panic always lessened when he suckled at your breast—mouth pink and needy and trembling, voice murmuring “don’t leave” against your skin.

and the void had watched it all.

every second.

you took a breath that trembled at the edges.

“i didn’t know you wanted to be… held,” you whispered. “i didn’t know you could be.”

the void didn’t speak again.

but the air changed. the cold lessened—not gone, but quieter. like the difference between standing outside a locked door and being invited in.

bob whimpered softly. you turned back to him—his arms now limp around you, face pressed into your collarbone, breath hiccuping like a child coming down from a nightmare.

he wasn’t alone in that body. not anymore.

“you’re not hurting him,” you said gently, eyes shifting back to the shadow crouched at the bed’s edge. “but you’re scaring him. he doesn’t understand what you want.”

you paused.

“but i do.”

the void moved—slow, impossibly quiet. a crackle of static ran through the mattress, like electricity testing the space between bodies. he shifted closer. not aggressive. not violent. just present. needing.

you turned your body slightly, enough to cradle bob with one arm and open your chest with the other. the gesture was small. human. but it held weight.

“come here,” you said, not demanding our of pure fear of what would happen if he did become angry.

he didn’t so much crawl as unfold. like a shadow drawn forward by gravity. you didn’t flinch as the cold pressed against your side. as his not-hands touched your thigh, tentative and unsure.

bob whimpered again. you guided his mouth back to your breast, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “it’s okay,” you whispered. “i’ve got you.”

the void’s not a gentle creature. not an innocent one. he is a storm wrapped in bone and shadow, a rage too deep to untangle, and a loneliness that tastes like poison.

“go on,” you whispered. “if you want… hold on to me.”

the void’s form flickered uncertainly, then moved with a slow, trembling grace—no longer lurking at the edge, but bridging the divide.

and then you felt it.

the other mouth.

cooler. heavier. not flesh, but not entirely foreign. a mouth that had no business tasting but needed to. that suckled with a kind of starvation you had no name for. he latched onto your other breast with wet reverence, tongue colder than bob’s but just as desperate.

you gasped—soft and involuntary—as both mouths worked in tandem.

bob suckling on one side, warm and trembling, his fingers digging into your waist like a lifeline. the void on the other, pulling from you with slow, aching hunger. not rough. not cruel.

just possessive.

you were the center of something impossible—of one body split into two forms, held together by want and trauma and the unspoken promise that you would not run.

the rain let down slowly.

you moaned, head falling back, breath trembling.

bob whimpered around your nipple, soft and lost.

the void suckled like he had been waiting since before language.

and between them, you breathed.

held.

anchored.

loved.

and not one of them let go.

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mars-ipan · 2 years ago

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you guys really liked the WIP version of this so here's the final project composed entirely of letterforms (franklin gothic specifically love my gothic fonts)

oh and here's the article it was based on

#martzipan #illustrator #<- as in the program #i was given no notes for this one at final critique so i'm happy with it :)#i HAVE looked at it for way too long tho #this bad baby is gonna get me a wonderful grade #but yah only tools used in this project were select direct select and shape builder :)#no pen tool. all modified letters #i did apply some warp effects tho but that was within parameters so we're good #uhh enjoy i guess. idk imma stop talking before i feel like i'm gloating

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murdrdocs · 5 months ago

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kissing harry potter hesitantly, at least at first. tentative presses of your lips together, and then pulling apart. moments between each touch, the time between getting smaller and smaller until he's cupping your jaw with one hand and pulling you close with the other, and you're digging your nails into his chest. your bodies pushed together as the hesitance melts away completely. he knows what he's doing. or, he's doing the right thing, you don't know if he means to or not. he lets you set the parameters—it's you who introduces tongue at first and it's you who gently moans the first time—but then he takes the authorization in stride. he doubles it.

he runs his tongue along yours, he groans into your mouth when you accidentally knock your hips into his belt buckle and the, now extremely obvious, confined shape right beneath it. he gets really into it and uses the break that you politely ask for to bury his head in the crook of your neck and pant against your skin. when you run your nails through the short hairs at the back of his head, his breathing skips and he audibly shudders. he's greedy with it, taking whatever you can give and just a tiny bit more.

#harrysworld!#harry potter x reader

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clairewritesfanfics · 1 month ago

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Villain Creation System Chapter 2

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

CHAPTER 1: Don't Mix Red Bull with Coffee Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

444 Alternate Universes Ago…

The instant you agreed to sell your soul, or rather, save it, you were teleported away from the site of your death and into a pure white space.

[Scanning Host’s memories…]

[Re-calibrating for comfort…]

There was a ding and the whiteness shifted into a gorgeous lobby with expensive wallpaper and a wooden floor. The place was green with all sorts of hanging and standing plants. One wall was just a giant floor-to-ceiling window pane framed by sheer curtains in your ideal color, behind the glass were trees as far as the eyes can see. In the middle of the room was a singular sofa, the one you always wanted but could never afford in life.

[To minimize damage to the Host’s mental health, the Main System instructed me to shape the Soulscape into your ideal space. I looked into your memories and recreated all the repeating trends you saved on your Pinterest board.]

“... you read my mind?”

[You sound upset. Rest assured, after you agreed to become my Host, we are now intimately intertwined. I have access to the deepest recesses of your mind.]

You did not appreciate the way it said “intimately” and you certainly did not like how casually it treated breaching your privacy.

[If you are scared about my knowing the memories that your kind deems “shameful” or “embarrassing” then do not be afraid; we systems do not care about such unimportant things.]

“Just… stop.” You walked over to the window. You could see a mountain range from this point. It looked like you were in a mountain lodge.

[Ah, I might as well tell you, but we are in a pocket dimension that’s been limited to simulate your ideal space for working and thinking. If you were to leave this area, which you can’t, you will not find trees.]

“I get it.” You put your hand on the glass. “Outside of this room there’s only that white void.”

[Ding. Host is correct. You’re not as dumb as I thought.]

You ignored its unintentional jab and took a seat on the sofa. If you were alive you might have fallen straight to sleep with its welcoming softness, but because you didn’t have a physical form you felt awake, vigorous. You’ve never felt this… lack of fatigue when you were alive.

“Let’s get this over with.”

[You’re lucky, Host, compared to other systems the demands for our contract is easy.]

A holographic display flashed before you to reveal a few animated clips of Invincible.

You knew that the show was about a superhero named “Invincible” and his dad was a piece of crap who ran his face through a train full of civilians, and you did see a couple of short clips online, but that was it. Surface level stuff. The series skyrocketed into mainstream popularity during the pandemic but you didn’t get the chance to join the bandwagon before you died.

You had a lot of questions. Not just about the show or the system, but the whole “Is there a God?” and “Do our choices even matter?” package. But you were in no mood to be insulted again so you decided to keep such questions to yourself.

[For each mission world that you enter, you have but one simple task: break that universe’s Mark Grayson to the point of villainy.]

The screen paused and zoomed in on a bloodied Invincible, his right eye was swollen and his hero suit was torn.

The system then played a clapping noise. [Easy, no? Other systems usually have their contractors move into the body of pre-existing characters so those people need to maintain their character settings within 80% or risk getting too OOC and hurting the fabric of reality.]

“Wait a minute, what are the parameters for villainy?” You threw an accusing finger at the screen, not at Mark but at the system. “The task is too vague, how will I know that he is villainous enough for me to move on to the next world? Morality is relative.”

[Host is sharp. Are you perhaps afraid that we’re tricking you?]

Your eyebrow twitched.

The screen showed what appeared to be a health bar, but instead of red or green, it was black. Above it was the word “DARKENING.”

[This bar measures what we consider the corruption of one’s soul. No tricks or whatever.]

“How do I know what counts as corruption?”

[Unfortunately, detailing what constitutes as “corruption” itself is far beyond my capabilities, but luckily for you, you don’t need to know that. Just understand that as long as the bar reaches 100% the mission will be considered successful.]

“Fine,” you capitulated. “Do I get a cheat or a skill? A lot of isekai mangas and webnovels have that.”

[This is not fiction, Host.]

It paused.

[But yes, you do have access to cheat items.]

There was a ding and the screen showed you a digital store with a search bar and a shopping cart.

[You don’t have any currency at the moment, but a successful mission will give you reward points that you can spend.]

You browsed the products: “The Little Mermaid’s Voice in a Bottle. One sip and you can make any man, woman, or sea creature do your bidding!” for 25000 points.

“White Moonlight, Untainted. Look ethereal even as you wither away from a terminal illness and become a beautiful memory that haunts his dreams with this perfume!” for 22000 points.

“It’s Alive! Imbue sentience to anything, from a churro to a stuffed toy with this ray gun! (disclaimer: the system is not responsible for any vengeful, murderous object that you cursed with thought)” for 50000.

Every product felt like one sick joke after another.

“Is the amount of reward points constant for every mission?”

[No, your reward points will be proportional to your grade, which will be proportional to the difficulty of the mission world.]

You got it. Just because they were all Mark Grayson didn’t guarantee that they were the same. Not just them, the settings could be unlike your Earth but dystopian, the “stories” may not even take place on Earth.

“Does using system cheats affect my grade? How am I graded? And how many worlds before I can get my life back?”

[To answer the Host: no, using cheats is irrelevant so long as you do your job successfully.]

[As for the grading criteria, it all depends on the Host’s performance in each world. Please direct your attention to the screen.] The light monitor displayed the criteria.

[The grades you can achieve by doing your mission are listed from lowest to highest: C, B, A and S. You must achieve a hundred S-graded missions in order to return to your original world, or the equivalent of a hundred S grades, like a thousand A’s.]

“But you just said I only have one task, to darken Mark Grayson, with zero other requirements, shouldn’t I be on a pass or fail grading system?”

[Spoken like a true nerd–]

You wondered if it was possible to physically choke this thing.

[Ahem.]

[According to the Main System, a pass or fail grading scheme is too harsh.]

“Then what is the breakdown for my grades? What is the percentage–”

[Geez. I was bred for helping lost souls but you are loquacious for someone who just died.]

“Sorry, am I annoying you?” You crossed your arms. “My life is on the line here.”

The system sighed, actually sighed. You didn’t think you would ever be on the receiving end of a sigh from a night-omniscient, maybe-divine, maybe-demonic artificial intelligence.

[Don’t sweat the small stuff, Host.]

You swallowed the lump of irritation in your throat and inquired, “Do I get access to the plots of these worlds?”

[That’s a negative. Depending on the world, we may be able to provide a brief overview, but we can’t provide you minute details or predict the future.]

“But these universes aren’t even real, right? Surely–”

[Host, with each work of fiction, there will be fanfiction and fan arts made. For every piece of fan content that is created, a branch of the universe is created, and from each branch blooms a new world. Think of a copy of a copy of a copy, ad infinitum, some so close to each other that they’re almost impossible to tell apart, others so fantastically different from the original that you can tell immediately, but even those that differ from the original are bound to have produced branches of their own. Sorting these parallel dimensions would be too troublesome.]

You massaged your temples. “Okay, I think I understand.” Basically, knowing the future is useless because you wouldn’t know that it is the future, but a future.

“But why do you want to turn these Mark Graysons into villains? Shouldn’t they be evil already?”

[A lot of these Marks were created simultaneously by fans, some with care, some without thought about how they became the way that they are. These Marks had to come from somewhere. But they were created by humans, who are finite creatures, so the laws established within these realities are often arbitrary. The World Consciousness, that is, the force that keeps each alternative universe from collapsing, will compensate for the missing puzzle pieces. But its work is not without flaws. It’s a machine working on a set of preprogrammed commands, so it is bound to have missed something or encounter a situation that was not included in its original instructions, resulting in imperfect solutions. Your world does not have this problem, because it was created by an infinite, all-knowing being.]

“That… sounds like a lot of work.”

[It is.]

“So why bother?”

The system replied cheerfully: [Because it is our job.]

You groaned inwardly. Guess this was your life now.

“Okay.” You exhaled, patting your cheeks. “Okay, I can do this.”

[Does Host have any further questions?]

“Shouldn’t I at least know the main timeline’s plot?”

[Ding. Request denied.]

“What?!”

[Host, I told you, a lot of the parallel universes are eerily similar to each other, and these universes are almost exact replicas of the main one. There is a reason why humans are not given the ability to see the future. If you could then the fear of making the wrong choice can cripple you to the point of uselessness.]

“So you want me to go in blind? In a world of supers and villains that cut through normies like they’re veggies?”

[It is the will of the Main System. But I did receive authorization to provide minor details should they help.]

“...”

[...]

“Fine.”

[Does Host have any further questions?]

“None at the moment.”

[Ding. Then prepare for transmigration. Be not afraid for this system shall accompany you every step of the way.]

“Oh, goodie.”

[Communicating with World Consciousness…]

[Gestating…Creating Host’s backstory…]

[Synchronizing soul with puppet…]

[Initiating transfer ... 1%, 43% ... ]

You were lulled to unconsciousness. Your soul ebbed into the stream of time and space. For a while you felt… almost free. Weightless as you were carried by the Main System through various dimensions.

[... 98%, 99% ... Transfer complete.]

[Ding. Invincible Alternative Universe No. 1 welcomes you. World Difficulty: Tutorial Level.]

[Happy darkening, Host!]

When you came to, the feeling of weightlessness was gone, replaced by the familiar ache in your back and shoulders and heaviness under your eyes. You observed the environment. You were in a university. Even without the system providing you details, the giant, imposing buildings and wandering undead young adults were a dead give away.

You lifted your hands. They were exactly like the ones your old body–your real body–had. The fingernails cut too short, the calloused pads, the climbing veins too visible under the thin skin.

You touched your face. Same nose. Same contours.

“I’m actually here,” you muttered, still processing. It wasn’t just because you were in a new reality, it was because of the unfamiliar memories–

While you were being transferred to this body, memories of your life here poured into your mind seamlessly.

You were Mark Grayson’s next door neighbor and childhood friend, but when you turned twelve your family had to move countries. But now you were back in town and starting college.

It was scary how they fit so well into your head.

[Don’t worry, Host, in a way, you have achieved enlightenment. You are aware of the so-called fourth wall. You don’t have to fear losing yourself to these false memories.]

You stared at your hand, opening and closing it. “Let’s hope so.”

You turned your attention to your surroundings. “What now?”

[For now, may I suggest you start walking to class? You don’t want to be late.]

***

The good news was that the you of this universe was also pre-med. Even better news was that you had a philosophy elective, which wasn’t an option when you were in college.

Your professor was a stocky built middle-aged man who wore a tweed sweater and thick black spectacles.

He stood behind a podium and spoke in that unique way only intellectuals seemed to speak. For a fictional character, he was an excellent lecturer. You didn’t take notes. You couldn’t, you were too busy debating with him.

“You’re saying that you would choose to sacrifice five people for one person?” He asked.

“No, I’m saying that the choice is not that easy–”

“Of course not, that’s the entire dilemma.” The whole class laughed.

You didn’t back down. “What I mean is that we’re so intent on choosing between the needs of the many and that of the few that are presently in front of us, that we forget that the trolley problem was created to demonstrate that a utilitarian view is not applicable to mortals.”

“Explain.”

“Well, we are given the options with so little information. We are forced to make life or death decisions under the assumption that we know everything. What if the one person we decided to sacrifice was a super genius who could cure cancer? What if the five people we decided to save were terrorists or robbers or murderers? The problem shows that we cannot make a decision based purely on the outcome because as humans, we are incapable of knowing everything.”

The professor was grinning. “Excellent point.”

The bell rang.

He sighed. “Sadly, that’s it for today’s lectures. I hope the next class will have another enthusiastic debate, and not just with one person. I already uploaded the reading materials for the next session. Please do not neglect them.”

You packed your untouched notebook and unused pen.

“You still use actual paper for taking notes?”

That voice. No way–

[The target, Mark Grayson, is here.]

Your memories of him were foggy, as are most childhood memories.

He was taller than you remembered. His limbs were less lanky now, too. His shoulders were broad and his arms bulged against his quarter sleeves.

Gone was the graceless boy who used to cry when he tripped playing tag.

Standing before you now was a young man who exuded confidence.

[Ding. Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.]

[Ding. Affection: 5.1%. Darkening: 3%.]

You were so confused, until he chuckled and you realized that you’ve been staring, way more than what was socially acceptable.

Willing your attention back to your things, you explained, “Writing makes it easier, but I digitize my notes at home.”

[Affection: 5.2%. Darkening: 3%.]

“That so…” He purred, reaching over to play with the hamburger keychain hanging from your bag. “I’ve never seen anyone talk that passionately with Professor Harper. Did you just start attending classes?”

“Um. No?” You started the semester at the same time as everyone else.

“That’s weird, cause there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed a pretty thing like you.”

“...are you hitting on me?”

His smile hardened, surprised, then he snorted. Then he laughed. “Wow, you’re cute.”

[Affection: 5.3%. Darkening: 3%.]

Hold on.

“Wait. You don’t remember me, do you?”

This time his grin left his face completely. “Ah, crap. Did we already–”

“Mark, it’s me.”

“...”

Total blank.

He tilted his head, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. “Amber’s party?”

Silence.

“No? Was it at the freshman orientation? Was it prom? Jesus, that was so long ago–I mean, uh…”

[Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.]

You shouldn’t feel offended, after all, it’s not like he was your friend, and yet you could not stop the frustration that swarmed you.

You pressed a finger to his chest and told him your name.

For a second, you thought that jogged his memory, but no, he simply raised his palms in the air in surrender. “Sorry, I don’t usually remember a lot of my flings. Nothing personal, I swear.”

Your logic quickly overrode your petty feelings and you pulled back. “Right. Nevermind.”

[Affection: 4.9%. Darkening: 3%.]

Jerk.

[Host, an orifice he may be, he is still your ticket to a happy life.]

“You don’t have to remind me,” you huffed.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” You grabbed the straps of your bag and breathed. You then glanced back at him and asked, “Wanna grab an early lunch?”

Mark fell quiet. So did the system.

Through your mind, you directly communicated with the system, Did I do something wrong?

[You have the eyes of a dead fish.]

It stopped.

Then it added: [And you sounded like someone who crossed paths with an acquaintance and politely asked them how was their day even though you don’t care but you had to because they definitely saw you and it would be weird to just walk away.]

Well. Crap.

As you scrambled for a backup plan, Mark laughed again.

[Affection: 5.5%. Darkening: 3%.]

“Sure, I could eat.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know a good burger place.”

“Just so you know, I’m not paying.”

He chuckled.

The restaurant was called Burger Mart, and he wasn’t joking when he said the place served good burgers–actually, that adjective undermines how amazing they are.

The bun was soft and fluffy. There was no trace of the usual cheap American cheese that felt like plastic on your tongue but actual, melt-in-your mouth cheese. The lettuce was crispy and the tomato super tangy. And the meat patty? Thick and juicy and perfectly seasoned.

Mark watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as you chomped down your second ultra deluxe cheeseburger. He was barely done with his. He wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but the burger was comically huge. He didn’t expect you to finish half, let alone order another round.

“You sure like burgers…”

You dipped a fry in your sundae and then put it in the burger. “I always celebrate finishing an exam with lots of carbs.”

“Exams?”

Oh.

You cleared your throat. “I mean, a successful debate.”

“You were really cool back there.”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I mean it though.”

You snuck a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. For the first time since you two interacted, he looked serious.

“Eh.” It was a basic thing to discuss in a first year philosophy class, nothing worthy of compliments. That being said, you enjoyed when the professor praised you. Who doesn’t like praise?

“You still didn’t make it clear whether you would choose one person or five people, though.”

Your jaws worked overtime as you tried to argue.

He interrupted you, “Don’t tell me that ‘that’s not the point.’”

He then leaned on his elbows. “No omniscience, no extra information. If you were put in a scenario where you have to choose between one person’s life or five other lives, I wanna know which would you choose?”

You slowed your chewing and tilted your head.

You then answered, “I would choose the option that lets me save everyone.”

He snorted. “There is no third option.”

“Then I’ll make one.”

His eyes widened, then he grinned sardonically and reclined into the vinyl cushion. “That’s optimistic.”

You wish.

“Nah. It’s more like…” You didn’t want that blood on your hands and be blamed. “I’m a coward who hates confrontation.”

He glanced at the window, then his chin dipped with a chuckle.

[Affection: 7%. Darkening: 3%.]

You didn’t know what happened. But you were eating a burger and no one has attacked you so you were going to consider this a win.

After you finished the last of your fries, Mark offered to walk you to your dorm, which was sweet, you had to admit. However, his smart watch beeped.

His face scrunched up with irritation.

You saved him the trouble of coming up with a lie. “That looks important.” You then told him you’d be fine on your own and watched as he reluctantly left you alone in front of Burger Mart.

“Now that he’s gone, mind telling me what that affection meter is all about?”

[It’s exactly what you think it is. It measures the target’s affection for you, in this case, it’s specific to romantic affection.]

“You said there were no other requirements.”

[This is not a requirement, more like a … necessity, to ensure both your survival here and to improve your ability to increase his darkness.]

You stared at the two bars. One was pink, the other was black.

[Throughout history and fiction, humans have become victims and instigators for the name of love. And Mark Grayson may be a superman who can fly and survive the vacuum of space and punch through cement, but he is just a man.]

You hate to say it, but you understand.

author's note: gee, i wonder which mark is this?

@weponxwrites

CHAPTER 3: When In Doubt, Do Your Research Series Masterlist

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

#reader #y/n #invincible #imagines #mark grayson #angst #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #isekai #invincible x y/n #quick transmigration #world hopping #civilian reader #sort of #invincible variants #multi chapter #system #system cheats

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

Text

Awakening

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: You experience an awakening a few days into your arranged marriage with the Viscount.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, female masturbation, slightly dom/sub (use of little one/my lord), innocence, corruption kink, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f).

Word Count: 3.4k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Request fill for Anon, HERE, about Anthony being arranged married to an innocent reader. Sorry it's taken me so long to write this, Nonny, but I hope you still enjoy it, even though I changed the parameters of the request slightly. Enjoy <3

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is most perplexing.

He is all at once both the best and the worst person you know. A providing husband, but an absent one. A polite, undisputable gentleman, but one who has barely said more than a handful of words to you, his supposed wife. An arrangement was brokered with your father, and now, merely weeks later, you are walking the halls of Aubrey Hall as the new Viscountess Bridgerton but barely feel as if you know your husband.

The night before your wedding, you had received a very vague talk from your mother about how you should expect your new husband to enter your bedchamber and perform his “spousal rights” and that, as his wife, you must allow whatever he decides to do. You still have no earthly idea what that might mean; your room has never once yet seen his presence—on that night or, indeed, any of the four nights since. Part of you worries you have somehow failed to be the wife he needs; part of you is relieved he has not done anything to you that you must endure in some way.

There is one thing you are certain of, though. While Anthony may be distant, almost an absence from your life, always busy with some business or other, there is no doubt you find his countenance pleasing. He is so very dashing and handsome. Earlier today, he swept in from a hunt wearing very tight tan breeches, and the sight caused a funny, warm tingling low in your gut. Between your legs, really. He nodded politely as he swept past you in the hallway, continuing his discussion with his brother as he did so. You twist to watch his retreating figure, wishing you could have the opportunity to speak with him, but the view of his shapely bottom in those tight trousers is at least partial compensation.

So as you lay under the covers on your fifth night alone, your ladies' maids having brushed your hair and taken their leave, you sigh deeply and snuggle into the crispy white sheets. Your thoughts turn to your husband again and that outfit he was wearing. The way those trousers clung to him, the movement of muscle as he strode purposefully. And that sensation rears again—the pulsing between your legs. It seems like your body needs something, but you do not know what. Flushed for some reason, you push away the covers. Before you know it, curiosity has the better of you. While you replay the image of him walking in your mind, your legs fall apart, your hand reflexively falling between them to provide a remedy—almost like an itch you need to scratch.

Your fingers slide through folds of flesh there, and strangely, there is unfamiliar sticky dampness. When you pass your fingers over a particular spot where your two lips meet, you get a pleasurable spike that makes your mouth slack.

Oh.

Almost without meaning to, you keep touching that spot, a call and response that is impossible to resist. The more you rub right there, your body swelling slightly under your movements, the better you feel. A languid buzz in your brain that feels both stimulating and relaxing. When your husband's image pops into your head again, everything suddenly gets sharper and more urgent. And so you do. You think of him. His handsome face, the way his forearms flex when you sit across from him at dinner, and he eats with his sleeves rolled up and again those legs and bottom in those tight trousers. Tumbling images that speed up in your mind as your fingers do the same, powerless to resist.

You are soon gasping and writhing, yet you do not stop; it feels too good. Something almost violent happens in your body, your lungs restricting, your brain buzzing, and suddenly, with a crest of physical delight, you are experiencing something completely novel. There is a squeezing, rippling inside, and you cry out as a remarkable ecstasy takes your body. When eventually the feeling subsides, you collapse back down, panting and bewildered; your whole body flushed, your fingers, still resting between your legs, wettened with a slick substance that could only have come from within you.

Whatever just happened, it's nothing you have been told about before. Not fully understanding, all you know is you want to experience it again. It's addictive, powerful, and so very relaxing once over. You instantly fall into a deep, sated slumber and wake up the most refreshed you have felt in many months.

And so it becomes a habit.

Whenever you feel the need and have a private moment, you retire to your room and touch your body until you feel that pinnacle—often thinking upon the Viscount as you do so. His name even falls from your lips, breathy, almost a tasty morsel, as you find your peak. It is no longer something you only do when you retire to bed for the night. You find yourself doing so any time of day, whenever the mood strikes you, an addictive, fun, illicit thrill. You wonder idly if such a thing is taboo, but you struggle to believe something that feels so good could ever be unacceptable behaviour as long as you are in private, alone.

One week after your wedding, on an uneventful afternoon, you put down your needlework and huff a sigh, your eyes drawn by movement outside. There, riding towards the house at speed across the lawn is Anthony. It's a sunny summer day; he wears only a shirt billowing in the breeze with sleeves pushed up around his elbows. And again, those tan breeches flexing around his legs as the horse gallops, him moving with the beast in a rhythmic motion. Time seems to stand still as you are inexorably drawn to the window to watch the sight coming closer and closer. The whole time your breath becomes more rapid, that telltale throbbing between your legs flares. You decide there is only one course of action.

When he veers off to the left towards the stables to the side of the house, you turn heel and run up the stairs. Keen to have that incredible high. This new, enthralling image will be the star of your thoughts this time. You pass his valet on the stairs and politely nod before scurrying and closing your bedroom door behind you.

You drop your underwear onto the floor, hitching up your dress and chemise around your hips as you throw yourself onto your bed, not even bothering to pull back the bedspread, so very keen to touch yourself.

It doesn't take much, that familiar slick already there, painting your fingers as you slide them against your nub, one hand reaching behind to grasp the headboard as you writhe on your fingers, all thoughts of Anthony and that repetitive bouncing motion of him upon his steed. So wrapped up in pleasure, his name on your lips, you do not hear the knob turning and the door opening.

“My valet told me you were here….” his loud baritone voice rings out around the room but grinds to a halt mid-sentence.

You squeal in surprise; the star of your fantasies standing right before you, skin sunkissed and his hair tousled from his ride, a look of utter shock painting his face.

Instinctively, you clamp your knees together and attempt to push down your dress, but it’s too little, too late. He has seen exactly what you were doing, and now he looks distressed, hIs breathing uneven.

“Did you…. Did you say my name?” The tone is not one you have heard from him before, rough but straining.

You sit up slightly and avert your gaze downwards, abashed he has interrupted your private moment.

“Yes,” you confess quietly.

He takes a hesitant step forward towards the bed and swallows heavily.

“You were touching yourself? And... and saying my name?” he looks almost winded.

“Yes,” again, it's soft, and you chew your lower lip, thinking perhaps you are about to be chastised. He certainly looks very… agitated.

“Do you know what you are doing to yourself?” he blurts out, a vein in his forehead prominent as he locks his jaw.

“Not really,” you admit, “only that when I think of you, I get an ache between my legs, and it feels wonderful when I touch it.”

He makes a strangled noise and closes his eyes, his head tipping back slightly.

“I… I did not expect to consummate yet,” he mutters heavily, “I thought I had more time.” He seems to be talking to himself as much as you.

“What does that mean? Consummate?” you inquire, your mother's words coming to the forefront. Perhaps this is what she was referring to.

“As your husband, I have perhaps been neglectful of my spousal duties,” he says slowly, his head tipping back down to look at you, his eyes intense.

“Duties?” you frown.

“What you were doing to yourself…” he begins, moving closer now so he stands by the bed, “it is because you desire me. I had not considered that may be the case.” He twists his mouth into a thoughtful pout, but you do not miss how he seems to stare at your breasts as they rise and fall inside your stays. “But now that I know it is true… it… changes things.”

“How?” you look up at him, wanting to understand.

A smirk tugs at the left corner of his mouth. “It means there are things I can teach you, things you should know that can happen between a man and a woman. Things you will find pleasurable, just like when you touch yourself. It is my responsibility, as your husband, to show you such things now.” His hand reaches out, and you inhale sharply as it lands upon your raised knee.

“You make it sound more like an obligation than something you want to do,” you respond, voice wavering at the distraction his hand is causing, the viscous throbbing between your legs even heavier now.

“Oh, nothing could be further from the truth; I want to, now that I know you desire it too.” His voice is a soft thrum that makes your nipples peak and a shiver run down your spine.

“Why have you not come to me before, husband?” it sounds breathy even to your ears.

“I thought you disliked me. That this was an arrangement you were enduring. That I should be polite and respectful. Keep my distance, at the least, until you adjust to your new life as Viscountess. Until an heir is needed. But now I know that is not the case…”

His voice is a pleasant low rumble as his hand starts to move, slightly calloused fingertips skirting the soft skin of your inner thigh, your dress and chemise bunching around his toned forearm as he does so.

“What are you…?” your breath quickening now.

“Shhhh, Viscountess, let me help you,” he hushes, and you stare at him with wide eyes as his warm fingers reach your folds. He hisses at the heat and wetness he finds there. “Oh, you really do like me,” he purrs, and something in you makes you lean slowly back onto the padded plush headboard, unable to look away from his face.

“Yes…” you whimper as his thumb, much broader than yours, makes a sideways swipe over your swollen nub.

“How often?” he murmurs, shifting to take a seat on the bed next to you, his thumb never wavering in its slow, intoxicating rhythm,

“How often wh-what?” You stutter, rapidly losing the ability to form words as your body riots, grasping the bedspread on either side of you, scarcely believing how amazing it feels when someone else touches you, especially him.

“How often do you touch yourself and think of me?” his voice gravelly.

“Everyday… so-sometimes m-more than once,” you pant out, your lips tingling, holding his fiery gaze.

“Oh, you naughty little thing,” he growls, and it sets your face aflame. “Touching yourself multiple times a day and thinking of me. Do you reach a peak every time?”

“Y-yes, my lord….”

His eyes flash; he leans in closer so you can smell spiced cologne and traces of his natural body scent, heightened from his riding exertions.

“Please call me that when I'm touching you,” he asks, but it almost sounds like an order, one you are happy to obey.

“Yes, my lord,” you respond instantly.

“Good little one,” he compliments, and the praise makes something bloom inside you, an urgent want to please him.

He changes his thumb’s motion to a circular pattern and presses more insistently. You gasp loud, glancing down at the slight of his toned arm flexing as he moves, his fingers obscured by your dress rucked up around his wrist.

“Tell me, have you put your fingers inside yourself?” his tone still velvety.

“No? What do you mean? I just,” you pause to whimper, “do as you are right now.”

His face turns into a handsome smirk you can't look away from.

“Would you like to find out how it feels to have someone inside your body, little one?” The question is molten, and you swear your entire skin feels too heated and tight.

You just nod, snagging your lower lip with your tooth, and then your eyes bulge as a finger slips lower and presses into a fleshy barrier that resists his touch.

“I can feel you are still intact, a chaste maiden indeed,” he rumbles, and part of you wonders what that means, but you do not ask. “Luckily, there is just enough of an opening for me to do this…”

You moan as a single finger pushes a fraction into your body, something completely novel and profound. You stare at him open-mouthed

“Oh, my dear little thing, I have barely even put the tip of my finger inside and look at you. Wait until it's my cock,” he warns darkly.

“Your what?”

He grabs your hand off the bedding and guides it to the junction of his thighs. Something is hot and hard under there, and you cannot hide your shock even as your hand curls around it and squeezes instinctually.

He growls. “That’s it, feel it. My cock is going to go inside you, right here….” he lectures, and his finger that was teasing pushes deeper into your pussy, aided by the pool of wetness leaking from within.

Again you moan at the invasion, and he looks so proud, pumping the digit slowly as his thumb restarts its movements on your clit.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim in a harsh whisper, the feeling so utterly mindblowing.

“No, your lord,” he corrects, preening from what he can do to your body.

“My l-lord….” you amend stutteringly.

He nods his approval and leans over you, his breath warm on your face as he observes your expressions, gauging your response to each move he makes. It's so overwhelming that he is touching you inside and outside your body.

You are rapidly losing the ability to do anything besides make noises and chase sensation; your knees falling further apart, your hand still on his cock, pressing unconsciously with the same rhythm his fingers play your body. He glances down at his lap, his other hand moving from its grip on your wrist to cover yours, his hips tilting a fraction, pressing more insistently into your palm.

“Would you like to come right now?” his breath almost as ragged as yours.

“W-what is that?” you stumble.

He huffs a bemused sound. “When you reach your peak, little one. It is called coming.”

“Yes, please, my lord,” you answer the instant you understand, spiralling fast now, your lungs heaving, your slit hot and slippery, where he teases you.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and you obey instantly.

He gently removes your hand from his cock, and his fingers slip out of your body. You sense movement on the bed, and he manhandles your feet outwards and upwards towards your hips. Cotton brushing the back of your thighs, and a wave of warm air across your inner thighs, so open and exposed now. A few seconds later, you feel something entirely new— a wet, hot, thick mass sliding through your folds unlike anything else. Your eyes fly open, and you startle to see that Anthony has crawled between your legs and his head is now buried at the apex of your thighs. Then you cry out as he does the same thing again, realising he is using his tongue.

“What the….?” you can't even complete the sentence.

“It is not just my fingers I can use, little one,” he tutors, his tone dusky, his breath hot on the patch of hair between your legs as he pulls up slightly to talk, his eyes burning into yours.

You watch, mesmerised, as he flattens his tongue wide and lowers his face to lick a long strip through your entire slit, morphing into a spear as he maps your clit, swirling around all sides. It's so intense your channel flutters, wishing his fingers were still inside you.

“Yes, that is it, you like that, do you not? Come on,” he coaxes as he takes a deep breath, inhaling your body scent. The way he is handling you, so absorbed in you, a euphoric feeling burns behind your ribs at the idea he wants your pleasure.

He envelopes your clitoral hood and sucks hard. His eyes flashing with pride as he has to grab your hips and hold you down, your back arching off the bed, crying out without caring if anyone can hear. The way he growls as you do so tells you exactly how much he wants to hear it, his pride that he can do this to you.

Something primal washes over you as he bites gently on your swollen clit, holding it between his teeth as you feel two fingers at your entrance pushing in, making you cry as you stretch around him, your body accommodating them even as you feel so filled.

“Anthony… Anthony, my lord,” you chant repeatedly as he holds you down with one strong arm and rocks his fingers shallowly into your body, his tongue swirling. It’s a sight that you can’t look away from. His hips flex into the bed almost involuntarily, as if his cock needs friction, too.

You feel that tide rising somehow more potent when orchestrated by him, a white-hot burning where he plays you and a tension in all your muscles.

“Give it to me,” he snarls, muffled, feeling the ripples around your clit and pussy against his face and fingers.

He redoubles his efforts, almost mercilessly lashing you with his tongue, varying pressure and speed. Entirely without meaning to, your hands fly into his hair, loving the sensation of thick curls sinking between your fingers as you grasp his strands, making him cry out right into your body. And it’s precisely what you need.

Every fibre of your being held taut and shaking now snaps, the pressure inside you like a dam breaking, so much more intense than you have ever experienced from just your fingers. Something almost inexplicable, ephemeral, your body experiencing a hundred different things firing at once. Your world contracting and exploding. You can feel your own heartbeat in your extremities, a rush of blood in your ears, eyes screwed shut as you shudder under him, and yet he moves with you as your hips roll in waves, his mouth never leaving your body. You know you are leaking onto his face, your inside clenching powerfully around his fingers. Dimly, you are aware the noises you make are loud, but you find yourself unable to prevent it and don't even want to.

As you recover, he crawls over your prone body as you lay there panting, fundamentally changed in the sharing of this experience with him, of him to be the one to make your body reach its peak. A true awakening of your senses.

It’s then he kisses you for the first time since a cursory brush of lips at the altar on your wedding day. His face musky with your juices, his lips hot, soft and damp as they press to yours. This is so different to that kiss. It's lingering and hot, his lips plush on yours.

His handsome face breaks into a dazzling smile as he looms over you, the back of his hand gently brushing down your cheekbone as you stare up at him dazed, the taste of yourself seeping through your lips. “Rest for now, my dear wife.” His tone is softer now, the use of wife instead of little one making your breath catch. “I shall return tonight, and you shall become a woman,” his voice laden with untold promise.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #2k notes #3k notes

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carn4g3 · 4 months ago

Note

hear me out:

Yandere Toby being given a target who's in college and ends up fronting as a students

Meets reader, who's actually patient with Toby and doesn't fault him or make fun of his tics

Decides to prolong his "stay" and then finding out Reader had a partner

But he's just got to have them

(⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Journalistic Intent | Yandere Ticci Toby x GN Reader

Summary: A school reporting gone sideways. Toby is simply tasked to collect an impromptu Slenderman candid. Instead, he finds himself more interested in the photographer, you. Surely, it wouldn't hurt to take you with him instead, would it?

TWs: Descriptions of yandere behavior (manipulation and obsession), delusional thinking (by no means an accurate representation of real mental illness), explicit violence, verbal arguments, some details of gore and blood, & reader is a bit of a people pleaser

Word Count: 7.5k

A/N: I tend to write things from the reader's perspective a bit more, but I tried to go from Toby's instead. So, theres a little bit (who am I kidding, a lot bit) of unreliable narration here hehe.

The large sets of double doors at the back of the room screeched and groaned at infuriating intervals as students trickled into the echoing lecture hall. The seats creaked in an equally shrill manner as each of those students inevitably found a seat in the room. Though the people themselves were mostly silent, a few quiet conversations peaked out here and there and only further grated on Toby's ears.

"Fuckin' stupid..." He muttered under his breath.

This wasn't even supposed to be his assignment. Hoodie was usually the one who headed missions that went into the city like this given he had a little bit more charisma than any of the other proxies. But, apparently even that wouldn't be enough for him to pass under the radar as a generic college student. Inexplicably, in his opinion, that managed to fall on Toby. Adorned in a university branded pullover and a generic disposable mask, he found himself seated in the middle rows of some 100-person lecture.

Seated in the row before him was the target. Having gone on an adventure to the woods just a handful of miles away, you had managed to snag a photo of Slender. It wasn't the most damning evidence of the creature Toby had ever seen; its featureless white face peeking out between the branches of some background foliage, only a keen observer would be able to notice the dark shape that resembled the rest of its body. Nevertheless, you had stupidly chosen to hand the photo off to be published in some sort of school magazine. The article seemed to be hardly noteworthy beyond the handful of conspiracy theorists who managed to get their hands on it, but Slender was a creature of principle. It needed the original photo in order to properly wipe it from existence, so that was Toby's goal-- acquire that photo by any means.

Toby despised missions like these. The lack of clear parameters set his thoughts ablaze, and he was even worse at remaining below the radar. He could already feel the judgmental glares of the people beginning to crowd the room as his body jerked against his will. Tapping his nail against the desk space in front of him, his eyes wandered to those prying eyes. Heads turning to acknowledge the freak in the room, he swore he saw two girls begin to laugh about him from the front row. God, why couldn't he just gouge out their eyes-

"Alright folks, looks like it's 12 o'clock, so I'll go ahead and get started." A man spoke from the front of the room.

His voice abruptly cut through all the chatter and silenced it almost instantly. Given that the man was standing confidently at the front of the room, Toby could only guess that this was the teacher. He hardly cared to listen to what the man was droning on about as he clicked through the slides of some sort of introductory presentation. Casting his focus downwards, Toby took note of you once more. He could only see the back of your head from the seat he had chosen, but he had already studied your appearance carefully beforehand. You looked like what Toby imagined a college student would-- not to mention, you were undeniably attractive.

Toby's first task was to find a way into your apartment where the photo (likely) was hiding. Living in some sort of high-rise, he couldn't simply break in through the window. Your building also appeared to have slightly more security than average: cameras, alarm systems, and even actual security personnel at night. Without the usual means of easy escape, he would need to execute a break-in relatively undetected. Hoodie suggested he simply try to steal your keys and slip into your apartment while you're still away at class. It was certainly the easiest way, but Toby hated that he was even considering following the other man's suggestion.

"Why don't you all turn to someone around you and introduce yourself. Name, major, why you're taking this class, all the usual stuff," The teacher's voice surfaced once more, "Try to talk to someone you don't know, preferably."

With the instructions cutting through Toby’s pensive thoughts, he finally managed to look around the space he was occupying. No one had sat near him, though he wasn’t surprised. The closest student was about three seats away and already had their attention turned towards the person next to them. He scoffed, the situation reminding him too much of high school. Shifting towards you, he wondered who had managed to catch your interest, maybe even curious about gaining some additional information on you. Instead, your features were pointed at him, a gentle smile falling over your face as you said your name.

"My major is journalism, and I guess I'm really only taking this class for the university requirement." You went through the introduction pointers the teacher had given, "What about you?"

Toby's eyes widened as you kept speaking. Your gaze was soft and laced with curiosity, and you were talking to him. Unsure if the moment was even real, Toby had to blink a few times before he finally produced a response.

"I'm T-Toby-- shit!" Of course, reality came crashing back to him as his fist unwillingly pounded against his chest and an equally involuntary swear followed after.

The chatter around the two of you seemed to quiet at that. Soon enough, the hush conversation returned like a swarm. The words weren't clear, but Toby knew they must be talking about him. It was just like when he was a kid. People constantly laughed and pointed at him like they were subtle, but they weren't-- not in the slightest. Catching the sideways glance of someone else in the room, Toby had to clench his fists tight to stop himself from rushing over and punching that stupid look of superiority off their face.

"Hey, you're all good, take your time if you need to." Your words cut through his spiraling senses almost instantly.

Looking down at you, Toby expected to see the look of disgusted judgement or pity he always received. Instead, you looked just as you had before. Smile reaching your eyes, you seemed so understanding, so welcoming. He barely noticed the way his fists grew slack until he was speaking again.

"I um... don't h-have a major," He tried to echo the response you had given him, keeping details vague as he was taught to, "and I'm he-here for the same-- fuck-- same reason."

You nodded along to his words, "Is this your first year here or are you still just trying to figure all the major stuff out?"

"Uh... first year." He answered with uncertainty.

"Oh nice! I've been here for a few years now, so I'm almost at the end of my degree. I just have to get these annoying gen requirements out of the way," You replied, "Believe me, don't do what I did. Just get all of these your way your first few years."

Nodding as you gave your piece of advice, Toby's focus strayed to your lips as you spoke. Watching the way they moved as you spoke, you seemed very knowledgeable. Admittedly, he knew next to nothing about college and would never need to, but the way you talked to him and gave him advice regardless. Why wasn't everyone just like you?

To his disappointment, your attention was quickly drawn back to the professor as he called the class together once more. He wasn't all too happy that his only sight of you was the back of your head, but the quieting chatter around him finally let the thoughts flow through his brain evenly. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to linger around a bit longer.

The days Toby got to see you next were too few and far between. Only three days a week for 90 minutes, that was hardly enough time to spend with you. Especially as the teacher droned on and on at the front of the room, Toby could only wait anxiously in the seat behind you for the next time you would turn to him-- the room fading around you two fading into obscurity.

He was never the most punctual when he was last in a school setting: frequently showing up late or outright skipping classes he didn't want to be in. But here, he was always the first through those creaky double doors. Waiting anxiously, he could feel his heart pound against his chest as each new person entered the room. Some nights, Toby could hardly sleep with the way the anticipation killed him.

"How did you do on the quiz?" Your voice swelled melodically to his ears.

"Quiz..." Toby echoed.

He vaguely remembered the professor mentioning something about an online quiz. It had practically gone in one ear and out the other since he wasn't actually a student.

"Not g-great." He muttered, almost sadly.

A sympathetic look crossed your features at that response, "Aw, I'm sorry. It was definitely a bit of a rougher one."

Toby knew those words were just a lie to make him feel better about his supposed failure. You seemed to pay steadfast attention to the content of the class. He would watch as you took delicate notes on each concept-- keeping up with the teacher's fast talking pace far better than he could. You probably aced the test without a second thought about it.

"Do you have any good study strategies or anything like that?" You asked next.

Toby shrugged, "Just... not g-good at i-it."

You sighed once more, a look of pity crossing your features. Toby would have despised it from anyone else, but he almost felt a swell of pride seeing you direct such a feeling at him.

"It took me a while to get into some good study habits too," You added, "Hey, why don't we study together for the next quiz?"

The man perked up at the offer. Were you offering to spend time with him? You watched him expectantly, waiting for an answer to your question. He couldn't possibly say no.

"Ye- shit! Yeah, th-that'd be great." He hated the way he struggled out the response, but it hardly mattered when you appeared so unbothered by it.

You beamed at him, "Great! Here, let's exchange numbers so we can plan it when it gets closer."

Without another word, you turned around to grab your phone. Your thumbs moving swiftly across the pop-up keyboard, Toby had half a mind to remember that he didn't even know his own phone number.

"Can y-you just-- fuck-- write it?" Toby asked.

Your motions halted quickly at the request, "Oh yeah, sure."

Turning around once more, he had to lean forward slightly to watch as your pencil scrawled across the paper in the form of your phone number. Tearing off the small scrap, you swiveled back around and held it out towards Toby. He was almost nervous to reach out for it, hand jittery as he slowly extended it from his body. Trying to reign in his nerves, he did his best to repress any of the bubbling sensations of a tic looking to seize his arm. Finally grasping the small slip of paper, he simply couldn't stop himself from letting his fingers graze against your own slightly just to see what it was like.

"Just let me know it's you whenever you text." You chuckled.

"Yeah..." He trailed off, attention turned entirely to the tiny piece of paper.

Thumbs smoothing out the curling corners, Toby's eyes followed the soft trail your pencil had left, swooping and curling around each number. You had written down your name as well. He wanted to run his fingers over the graphite, as though he could feel your touch through it, but he knew the sweat beading at his hands would smear your perfect writing. Turning his gaze back to you, his words caught in his throat as he noticed your attention had turned back to the front of the room. The teacher had been talking for who knows how long now, completely stealing your attention.

The words of the man at the front of room had become a dull droning to his ears quickly. He could barely sit still as he waited for the teacher to finally shut up. Eyes darting between you, your number on the paper, and the clock, his leg bounced almost furiously as the seconds ticked closer and closer to the usual end time. It took far too long before the shuffling of backpacks hit his ears, other students beginning to stand and exit the room just as hastily as he would have if it weren't for you.

Standing abruptly, Toby took the opportunity to talk to you, "D-do you study a.. a lot?"

It took you a moment to turn to him as you gathered your things, "Oh um... I guess. Maybe not as much as I should."

"It pro-probably does-- doesn't matter for you-- shit! Anyways," He muttered, picking at his fingers absentmindedly, "You're real- really smart."

A smile spread over your face at the compliment, "You're sweet, Toby. Thank you."

Heat rushed to his ears like a wildfire, heart hammering against the inside of his chest once more. God, he could hear you say his name like a mantra, over and over and over...

"You should give yourself more credit, though," You continued speaking, "You're smart as well."

Toby's eyes widened as he quickly shook his head, "N-no-- fuck! I'm not... really."

"You are!" You insisted, "Doing good or bad on a test in just one subject-- hell, even several-- hardly says anything about what you actually know."

The words didn't particularly ring too important to Toby, his brain still lingering on the way you called him smart. If you said it to him, it must be true. It conjured memories of the things his fellow proxies would call him. How Hoodie spoke to him like he was an idiotic child, or the way Masky outright called him a dumbass. Everything he had called Toby over the years, he wondered what the other man would think if he heard the way you talked about him. He wished he could take you with him, present you to that bastard himself and show him how wrong he is.

"Tha-anks." Toby muttered bashfully.

"Of course." You smiled at him once more, the look sending shocks straight to his heart.

Toby hadn't even realized the two of you had left the classroom, too enraptured by your words. As a sudden cool air seeped through the fabric of his sweater, he took note that he was outside now. He normally didn't feel much about such changes in temperature, but the breeze felt pleasantly cool against his skin. That usually meant he was overheating without having noticed it. A bit of panic edged its way into his consciousness, he hoped you hadn't noticed.

"It's getting so cold out lately." You stuffed your hands into your pockets.

"Yeah, i-it's..." The words fizzled out in his throat as his eyes fell on a familiar figure.

Tan jacket and a coil of smoke, why was he here? He rarely ever saw Tim without a mask, but this was most obviously a situation that called for it. Eyes raising from the ground, they met Toby's. Tossing the cigarette on the pavement, he stubbed it out under his work boot and shoved his hands into his pockets. The gesture was clear, he wanted to talk.

"Everything alright?" Your voice piped up.

"I'm fine." He answered sharply.

"Ok..." You trailed off, "I'll see you next class."

Casting him an almost pitiful look, you walked away. Toby's gut twisted unpleasantly as he recognized that look. You were better than that. You didn't think of him like that, not until Masky showed up, at least. He just had to ruin everything for Toby, didn't he? Moving briskly towards the older man, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"What do yo-you want." Toby practically growled the words

"You're taking your time." Tim matched the other man's tone.

"It's not my j-j... job, I can take however-- shit-- long I'd like." Toby countered

"No, you can't," His words were stern, the no-nonsense tone that Toby hated, "You have your own assignments you need to take care of."

"Maybe you sh-- shouldn't have handed this... shit off to-- fuck! Me," He hissed, "Start d-doing your own sh... shit for once."

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Masky's face twisted in contempt.

He didn't give Toby a chance to reply before continuing, "Get your mind out of your dick and finish the job. I'm not gonna fuckin ask again."

"Is that all you ca-came to do?" Toby spat, "Bi-bitch about the job you-- fuck! couldn't fig-figu... figure out for yourself?"

"Shut the hell up," Tim muttered with barely concealed rage, "I'll kill that bitch myself if you don't get to it."

"Fuck you!" Toby's raised tone caught the gaze of some passing students.

He shot a glare of his own at the few eyes that accidentally met his. He had no patience for their judgmental stares, not when Masky grated on his nerves so much. Much to his further irritation, the older man simply shook his head at the threat, leaving after wordlessly having deemed the conversation complete. It took all of Toby's restraint to not follow after him, even if it would have been so easy to just cave his skull in from the back. He could do it with his own fists if he really wanted to. Eventually, he found himself calming down. Releasing the pressure from his hands, he had left crescent indents in his palms, but it wasn't like he could feel the sting of them anyways.

He would show Tim. You would show Tim.

Toby's eyes lingered over the text bubble on the screen, "Hey, this is Toby." The greeting was simplistic, but, after mulling over it for about 10 minutes, he finally gathered the courage to let his thumb fall onto the send button. He was almost getting impatient staring at the cracked screen, tapping it periodically so it wouldn't go dark. As expected, though, you pulled through-- those three dots popping up from the other side of the screen.

"Hey, Toby," Your text read, "How was your day?"

His heart fluttered at the question, "good," he resisted the urge to type that he missed you, "how was yours?"

"Not too bad, I wish all my classes were as easy as the one we have." You answered.

Toby read over the message a few times, lingering on one word repeatedly: we. He wished everything of yours could be shared. Too busy thinking, he must have taken long enough that you decided to send another text.

"Were you still interested in studying together?" The message asked.

"Yes." He wasted no time in typing and sending the response.

"I was looking at the next quiz and it's coming up way sooner than I thought," It took a moment for you to type the sentence, "I'm free after 10 next Thursday if that works?"

"I am." Toby remained just as eager.

"Ok great! Would the library work for you?" You asked

Toby's thumbs had readied another frantic response of approval, wishing nothing more than to just get to see you already, but they soon stopped short of the screen. He was willing to meet you anywhere for anything, but should he? Masky's words echoed in his head and sent another course of pure anger through his veins. The tree across from him had still yet to recover, wood spent and splintered from the way he had slammed his hatchet into it so viciously. As much as he hated it, the man didn't make his threats meaningless. He would intervene if Toby took too long, and the thought of Masky's disgusting hands on you made his own skin crawl.

"Not the library," He answered instead, "Too many people."

He worried his bottom lip as you took longer to respond than previous, but your message eventually appeared, "That's all good. How about we meet at my apartment instead."

"That's perfect." Toby hardly thought it through before sending the agreement.

You had to have known exactly what he wanted, giving him an answer so perfect like that. Not only would he get to spend time with you, (alone, at that) but he could also acquire that damn photo that brought him here in the first place.

"Ok great! How about we meet at 11, I'll send you the address when it gets closer." Your final text read.

He poured over your texts repeatedly, your address becoming a fixture in his memory once you sent it to him. Toby hardly noticed the way the time passed until he was there, sitting in the lobby space of your apartment building. Not really checking the time before he arrived here, he was undoubtedly early. People passed in and out quite frequently, entering through the door, exiting through the elevators, some checking their mailbox, others wandering to areas out of Toby's sight. It seemed like a nice place, probably expensive, but you had probably worked hard to acquire it.

Scrolling through your texts once more, Toby's eyes flitted upwards as he noticed someone new approach the exterior door. Pushing into the building's glass door, he immediately recognized you. Seeming focused on heading towards the elevators, Toby shot up out of his seat before you could miss him.

"Oh, Toby," You greeted, a bit of surprise in your voice, "You're early."

"Yeah..." He trailed off, sensing you didn't seem quite as thrilled to see him as he was you, "I ca-can wait if you-- shit! Need."

"No, no, it's fine, no point in going all the way up just to come back down, right?" You shook your head.

Continuing your previous path, you led Toby with you this time, "Here, I live on the 4th floor, so we'll take one of the elevators up."

"I-it's really nice," Toby commented, "The building."

"Compared to some of the other places around here, yeah," You nodded in agreement, "It's not cheap at all, though, but it's a lot better than the university apartments. What about you? Are you living in the dorms right now or somewhere else?"

"Somewhere e-else." He kept his reply short, hoping you would keep talking.

"Nice, like with your parents or are you renting around here?" You pressed.

Toby shifted uncomfortably at the mention of parents, your questions getting on his nerves a little more than he would like, "Just somewhere else."

"Oh ok," You trailed off, "Sorry for prying."

Just as the words of apology left your lips, the bell of the arriving elevator cut through the tense atmosphere. Doors sliding open, you stepped in wordlessly, pressed the button marked for floor 4, and settled into a spot in the small space. With no one else entering, Toby was left with you as the door slid shut. He felt unsettled for a moment in the small, enclosed space, but it quickly faded as his spiraling mind took note of you. Has he ever been able to linger this close to you before? The air felt warmed from your breaths, the pleasant smell of your clothes intermixing as he shifted closer to you. You looked too dejected standing there silently, watching the numbers count up on the screen above the door.

"It's f-fine," Toby responded to your earlier apology, "How l-l... long have you lived he-here?"

"This is only my 2nd year here, but I'll probably move out once I graduate." You answered, perking up once more.

"Where are you moving?" He asked quickly.

"We're still planning it a bit. I'm hoping to get into this internship program my mentor works with, so it would be a bit far from here and in a way bigger city." You continued to ramble on about the internship opportunity until the elevator reached your floor.

Doors sliding open, Toby was greeted by a long, carpeted hallways. Various doors staggered across each side with unit numbers fixated around the upper middle. He wasn't too focused on it all, following after you as he let his thoughts linger on your words. This town was already pretty far out of his usual scope, but it wasn't impossible to reach if he really wanted to see you again. If you left, though, he certainly wouldn't be able to locate you there. Especially with Masky's micromanaging, he would hardly make it to finding your new address before the other man stopped him.

"Toby?" His name on your lips catching his interest once more.

"Y-yeah?" He looked at you expectantly.

"I just asked if you brought anything to study with. You didn't leave anything in the lobby, right?" You asked.

"I didn't..." He trailed off, realizing his mistake, "I do bet- better without them."

"Ok, that's fine! We can just use my textbook and stuff," You nodded, "Anyways, welcome in! Sorry for the mess, I was hoping to clean a little bit beforehand, but it's alright."

A variety of decorations and other personal effects were strewn about the place in what seemed to be an intentional manner. It looked lived in, much cozier than anywhere Toby stayed. Only retiring to his allotted cabin in the woods to crash for a few hours, he never really thought of making it look nice. Toby wondered how you might decorate his cabin, where you would put your things. What would you do with the few items he did have? He felt a rise of anticipation thinking about your possessions intermixed.

"Why don't you just wait on the couch while I get a few things, ok?" You offered, tossing your bag onto the aforementioned couch.

"Can I see?" He asked.

"Like the rest of the apartment?" He nodded in confirmation, "Um... yeah, it's a bit messy as well, but as long as you don't mind."

"It's a lot-- shit! Cleaner than my pl-lace." Toby attempted to ease your apprehension.

You chuckled, "Yeah, well... we try our best."

Walking expertly through the apartment, you headed down a short hallway-- ending up in what looked to be an office space. As expected, it wasn't as messy as you claimed it to be. Decorations seemed to be in designated places with important work in the others. The last time Toby had any type of desk must have been in his childhood. Even though much time had passed, he hardly knew what the desk looked like then, using its surface as a glorified junk drawer. Looking over the items you chose to place in the space, he took note of a few photos. There were some with you as the focus, but they were mostly a mix of people that Toby didn't recognize-- those must be your friends. He wasn't surprised to see you had several. Trailing up further, he saw it: a digital camera.

"Do you t-take photos?" He snatched the device off the desk to observe it.

"Oh... Yeah, I do. Just um... be careful with that." You approached him as he powered it on.

Seeing the logo flash on the screen, it didn't take long for the screen to turn from a dark void to a recognizable interface. He managed to pick up on it quickly, despite the many years it had been since he so much as glanced at a modern digital camera. The photos weren't anything too interesting, none of them were of you. Depicting mostly the school buildings or the city outside it, he flicked through them quickly until he hit the important ones. Changing starkly from the prior pictures of outdoor art pieces, Toby recognized the trees instantly. He practically grew up in those woods you had merely visited for a few chance photos, yet you managed to capture it perfectly.

"Wh-what were-- fuck! These for?" Toby looked at you briefly.

"It's just some nature shots of the woods a few miles North," You answered, hovering close to him, "for a journalistic photography class. Why don't we head back to the living room now?"

Toby disregarded your words, briefly scanning photo after photo until he found the one. He didn't look at the target photo all too much when Hoodie had shown him initially. Looking at it from your view, he noted the way the light shone through the dew-covered leaves so beautifully that even he almost missed the stark white face of his boss peaking through them. Toby really had to wonder why he presented himself to you. No obsessions with the morbid aspects of life, you seemed a bit more normal than even the tamest individuals who received the privilege of spotting Slender. Not to mention, you hadn't even cemented yourself as worrisome enough to be deemed a target. As far as Toby was concerned, Slenderman didn't make mistakes. He didn't just let some random human snag a picture for the hell of it. Your ability to capture this photo alone was proof enough that you were special in some way, even Slender had to agree.

"Wh-what's this?" He asked, placing a finger on the screen just underneath Slender's face.

"Oh, it was probably a weird camera glitch or something. This thing is getting old." Slipping your hand around Toby's, he let you take the camera out of his hands.

Turning it off, you placed it back where he had found it, "Come on, let's try to get some studying done."

He didn't like your dismissal of his question, eager to pry you on it further. What if you did know about Slender's existence? If you were just a normal person, he wouldn't want you to get wrapped in the cruelty of his fellow proxies or the less restrained violence of the other members. But, you clearly knew something was going on. Were you trying to shield Toby from it? Did you care for him? With those thoughts swirling around his mind, he followed you silently to the living room.

Once he could focus on actually studying, it turned out to be a bit more satisfying than Toby last remembered it. It was frustrating at first as you asked question after question that he didn't know the answer to. He didn't actually care to listen to the professor, as you called the man at the front of the room. However, it was made up for by the way you gently explained each topic, the words sticking in his mind better than they ever had before. An almost euphoric joy would fill him every time you smiled at his correct answers and explanations-- no matter how much he stuttered through them.

"I think we've covered a lot today, right?" You asked.

Toby nodded eagerly, "Is there any...more?"

"Well, we've gone over pretty much all the content now for the upcoming quiz and the last one too," You answered, "I'm not sure there's anything else to work on."

"Can we g-go over it-- shit-- one more time?" Toby asked.

"You're doing pretty good, Toby. I think you'll do well on the quiz based on what we've done so far." You replied.

Toby felt a bit disappointed by your rejection, but he wasn't going to let it sour him too much, "Just a lit-- little bit more?"

Your lips pursed together as you thought over the request for a moment, but you eventually gave a desirable response, "Ok, we'll just go over the newest things a bit more. That sound good?'

"Yes," He answered, "That's perfect."

"Just a heads up, my--" You began to speak, but your words lost Toby's attention as he heard a sound from the front door behind him.

Shooting up from his seat, he stared at the barrier as a muffled clicking sound reverberated through it. Someone was unlocking the door, but who? Was it Masky? Toby's gut twisted at the thought. It had been about a week since he last saw the man. More importantly, since he had threatened to kill you. The time difference was a bit longer than the punctual bastard would usually like, but it wasn't like he had nothing to show for it. Was he here to follow through on that threat? Could the asshole really not handle someone liking-- no, loving-- Toby for once? As the door opened, he waited with bated breath for that black and white mask and the shimmer of a handgun.

However, none of that happened.

"Oh, hey there. You must be Toby, right?" The person greeted him.

"Sorry Toby, I didn't think we would still be working this late, but I was just about to let you know," You spoke up after them, "This is my partner..."

Toby didn't listen to the rest of the introduction, the words "partner" ringing through his head like a bout of tinnitus. The stranger standing before him was your partner. He couldn't help but critique them from just their stance alone. You hadn't even mentioned a partner before now, and you and Toby were close too. Did you not actually care about this person? Surely, if you did, you would be jumping to talk about them.

"Yeah... I'm just going to get out of your guys' way. It's nice to meet you, Toby." Your partner nodded at him before heading off.

"I'm just going to go plug my phone in real quick, so just wait here for a moment." You followed suit, leaving him alone in the living room.

He didn't like how quickly you had left him. You were fine sitting mere feet away from him just minutes ago. Now, you were practically running to keep your distance. Something had to be wrong. Still stunned, it took him a minute before he finally decided to creep down the hallway. The sound of hushed voices was clear, despite the clear attempts to keep the conversations hidden behind a closed door. Creeping closer, Toby managed to find a position where he could best make out the words.

"I can tell him to leave if you want." Your partner's words were first.

"No, you don't have to. I'm just worried about coming off as mean." Your response followed.

"Well you two were supposed to be done like hours ago. It's not unreasonable to kick this creep out of your own home." Those words caused a prickle of anger to hit Toby.

He had no doubt this supposed partner of yours was referring to himself. It was far from the first time he had been called a creep; he hardly flinched at the "insult" anymore. But to think you felt the same? He waited almost anxiously for your response.

"Don't call him that. He's just... a bit awkward" You sighed, "Look, it's partially my fault for not setting a clear time we needed to be done."

Of course, you wouldn't believe such things about him. You were perfect, a saint even, he doubted you even thought of him so negatively until this stranger suggested it.

"I can handle it myself, ok? You don't need to worry about it." You added after a moment.

"I trust you," They replied "but if you need my help, I'll be right here."

Silence fell over the room for a few moments. He listened closely, hoping to gather something-- the shuffle of clothes, the press of lips-- but he was hopeless to discern anything. With the way his blood was practically pounding in his ears, he couldn't even think. You liked him, didn't you? You didn't want to kick him out, right? It must have been your partner who convinced you that it was the right decision. The thought of that stranger being so close to you right now, touching you, grated his nerves further. You deserved better than that. You deserved him.

"Oh Toby! Is everything alright?" Your voice appeared much louder than before.

In fact, you were standing right in front of him. Eyes wide, you looked shocked-- maybe even scared to be looking at him. Realizing he was a bit too close to justify a casual run in, he thought quick on his feet.

"The bathroom," He answered, "Couldn't fi-find it."

"I'm sorry, I meant to show you earlier. It's just that room, right there." You pointed in it's direction.

"Thanks." He muttered.

Shuffling past you, he let his shoulder brush against your own. Would you like his touch more than that awful partner of yours? He might not be as warm or soft. His tics got in the way sometimes, but you clearly didn't mind. Entering the bathroom, he shut and locked the door behind him. Toby considered snooping around the room for a moment but quickly discovered it lacked any of the personal flair the other rooms did. This must be a guest bathroom of sorts, disappointingly.

Turning on the faucet to believably pass the time, he couldn't help but think of the look you had given him just moments ago. You were scared. He usually enjoyed that expression when it was directed at him, but he didn't like it on you. It wasn't possible you were scared of him. Toby was hardly covered in any of the intimidating accessories he normally wore to elicit such a response-- not even a speck of blood. Could you be scared of your partner? That had to be it. You were a strong and smart person as far as Toby had gathered, so they must have hit you somewhere weak to agree to drive him away. You wouldn't need to worry for long, Toby thought, he would save you.

Deciding he had spent enough time here, he shut the faucet off. Returning to the living room, he found you sitting almost rigidly on the couch. Your partner was nowhere to be seen, probably a norm for you. Looking towards him sharply, you gave him a false smile-- the joy not quite reaching your eyes like he normally preferred.

"Hey Toby, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot my partner and I have dinner reservations not too long from now," You said, "Is it alright if we call it today? I can totally study with you some other time if you need."

He knew it was a lie, but Toby wouldn't fault you for that. He knew it wasn't your decision.

"Yeah it's--fuck! Fine." He nodded, "I'll s-see you."

You stood from the couch, a real smile lighting up your features this time, "Yeah, let me know how the test goes for you to! Do you need me to walk you out or do you remember the way back?"

"I got it." Toby replied plainly, fists curling in his pockets.

Temperature didn't usually mean much to Toby, but the almost cold chill he felt when greeted with the exterior hallway was the closest he had come to it. Stepping out the door-- no-- Leaving you felt uninviting, like he would be entering a world he had never navigated before. As much as it pained him, he would have to wait to see you again. Letting his hand fall from his pocket, his fingers tips brushed against the back of your hand as he passed by the door. He relished in smoothness against his rough fingertips, the warmth of your hands. Toby would have you soon. He knew it.

"Goodbye." He spoke as he stepped out.

"Bye." The door was shut quick after your short response, leaving him alone.

Turning in the direction you two had come from not so long ago, Toby's hand returned to his pocket. Curling comfortably once more, he felt the cool, jagged metal press into the palm of his hand. He's sure you'd hardly notice the absence of your house keys.

It must have been a loud sound you weren't used to, despite your usually noisy neighbors. But, with your brain too wrapped in sleep, you could hardly remember what it was that had woken you up now. Rolling over, you were greeted with the freezing hug of the sheets your body heat hadn't touched in hours. Checking the clock, it was 3AM to your dismay. Far too early to be up, you wondered if you would even be able to go back to sleep before your classes tomorrow or if you would just toss and turn restlessly. Turning to see if your partner had been startled by the noise as well, you found the bedside to be empty-- sheets thrown back.

Your eyes begged to pull shut once more, but you resisted the urge in favor of locating your partner. Sitting up revealed that the bathroom connected to your shared bedroom was dark, they weren't in there. Turning to the bedroom door instead, you found it left slightly ajar. That must have been the way they went.

Waiting for a few moments, you failed to hear any of the usual sounds of the building: the shuffling of steps in your apartment, creaking of your upstairs neighbors, or especially loud traffic from the road. It was almost eerily quiet. Unsettled enough, you decided to investigate for yourself. Embracing the cold air, you tossed your blankets off of your form. Shifting to stand, it took you a moment longer than usual to adjust to the sensation of the floor under the soles of your feet. Nevertheless, you moved forward, gently pushing the door open to reveal your hallway.

It was dark, but never too dark as the city lights shined through the exterior windows in your living room. Following the path they illuminated, you headed towards your kitchen-- hoping to find your partner there. With a cursory glance of the open-concept space, they were nowhere to be found. Maybe they had chosen to go to your shared office for some reason? While the thought popped into your mind, you weren't quite done in the kitchen.

Stepping a bit further in, you noticed an out of place dark mark on the counter. Leaning close to it, you tried to discern the weird mess of thick lines that had befallen the granite's edge. It was too dark for you to properly tell the color, but you guessed it was just a small spot you had missed when cleaning up after dinner. Maybe your partner had accidentally left it when getting a midnight snack, or they were intending to return to clean it. Not too worried by it, you straightened up and readied to head to the office.

That was when you saw it.

Not just a mark of color, but a puddle of it like vomit on the sidewalk. It splattered on the fridge, some specks peaking onto the wall from behind the center island. In between it all sat a severed forearm, your partner's darkened and sticky hair splayed out not far behind it. The rest of their body was hidden from you, and the gore you could see was hardly something your brain could comprehend. You had seen human innards in biology and anatomy diagrams, not tangibly in front of you on your kitchen floor. Your blood ran cold, a sweat breaking out across your skin, and a guttural scream bubbled in your diaphragm. Before it could be released, something cupped your mouth harshly, pulling your body back into another clothed being.

"I'm s-sorry," The pressure of their hold tightened as they stuttered, "I di-didn't want... you to see that."

Your scream fell into a strangled sort of sound at the appearance of an unknown assailant. Hands darting up to fight the force restraining you, you wanted to scream louder and thrash like there was no tomorrow. You could feel your heart beating out of your chest as reality finally presented itself to you. You were going to die.

"Sh- sh... shut up!" They hissed.

The words cut through your thoughts like a hot knife. Despite your intuition, you managed to keep quiet with the exception of your muffled, gasping breaths. Seeming satisfied with that, the assailant easily turned your body so that you were no longer facing the bloody kitchen scene.

"I di-did what you-- fuck! Wanted." They spoke once more.

Even through the fog of disassociation, you didn't miss the striking details of the currently faceless murderer behind you. The swearing, the twitches, the tone of voice, it all pointed to one person.

"Toby..." The name on your mouth was muffled under his hold, but he recognized it regardless.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, "You kn-knew I was coming f-- fuck! For you, didn't you? That I was go-going to save you?"

The moment of clarity was quickly lost as he continued to speak. He must be delusional. His words certainly suggested as much, but it was something beyond that. Your partner was dead in the kitchen. No one with any standard mental illness would just do that. This was something beyond a socially awkward freshman taking a strange interest in you. The realization of it all crashing down upon you brought attention to the tears beginning to fall down your face.

"No, no, no, no, don't cr-cry." He cooed, his other hand coming up to sloppily wipe at your cheek.

"I kn-know you're-- shit! Happy, but w-we still got to get... get out of here." Toby continued, "Y-you'll be e-even happier where... where we're going."

Maybe you wouldn't die. But, you could only sob harder at what you were presented with instead.

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