#ticci toby fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stnkiconverse · 2 months

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Anybody of your choice with a reader who likes to randomly bite for no reason

-👽

How about everyone?

Creepypastas x Reader who likes to bite

Ticci Toby

1. Playful Bites:

- You have a habit of playfully nipping at Toby’s arms or shoulders when you’re feeling particularly affectionate. He always laughs and pretends to be offended, but secretly he loves it.

- Toby's tics might make him a bit jumpy at first, but he quickly gets used to your playful bites and even starts looking forward to them.

2. Affectionate Gestures:

- Toby enjoys the unique way you show affection. Your bites are never harsh, and they make him feel special and adored in your own quirky way.

- Sometimes, Toby will bite you back, though he's always gentle, mimicking your playful nibbles with a grin on his face.

3. Comfort and Calming:

- When Toby is stressed or anxious, you gently bite or kiss his knuckles or the back of his hand. The familiar sensation helps ground him and brings him a sense of comfort.

4. Inside Jokes:

- The two of you develop a series of inside jokes about your biting habits. Toby will often tease you about being a “little vampire” (GIRL YOURE MY FAVORITE, sorry, its a kpop reference) or “his personal piranha,” always with a playful glint in his eyes.

- You respond by pretending to bare your teeth and growl, which never fails to make Toby laugh.

5. Public Reactions:

- In public, your biting habits can sometimes catch others off guard. Toby finds it amusing when people react, but he also loves how unique and unapologetically yourself you are.

- Toby has been known to protectively explain to others that it’s just your way of showing affection, ensuring no one misunderstands or disrespects you for it.

Ben Drowned

1. Playful Mischief:

- Ben finds your biting habit absolutely adorable and matches it with his own playful nature. He often encourages you by pretending to run away or daring you to catch him.

- Your playful bites often lead to laughter-filled chases and impromptu tickle fights, making your relationship feel light-hearted and fun.

2. Virtual Bites:

- When Ben is in his digital form, you tease him by pretending to bite your screen, which makes him laugh and play along, sometimes glitching the screen as if he’s been “bitten.”

- He occasionally sends you silly gifs of biting or nibbling, keeping your playful dynamic alive even when he’s not physically present.

3. Casual Bites:

- Ben loves to watch you while you’re focused on something, waiting for the perfect moment to lean in and “surprise bite” you. It’s his way of keeping things spontaneous and exciting.

- Your biting habit often catches Ben off guard in the best way. Whether it’s a gentle nip on his ear or a playful bite on his arm, he loves the unpredictability of it.

4. Protective Instincts:

- Despite his mischievous nature, Ben is very protective of you. If anyone ever mocks your biting habit, he’s quick to shut them down, making it clear that he loves you just the way you are.

- Your biting habit becomes a form of affectionate reassurance for Ben, reminding him that you’re always there and that your bond is strong.

Eyeless Jack

1. Calming Times:

- Your gentle bites become a calming thing for Jack. When he’s stressed from his medical tasks or haunted by memories of his past, your affectionate nibbles or gentle kisses help ground him.

- Jack appreciates the intimacy of your bites. They remind him that he’s not alone and that someone cares deeply for him, despite his monstrous appearance.

2. Quiet Affection:

- Jack isn’t one for grand displays of affection, but your bites fit perfectly with his understated nature. A soft bite on his shoulder while he’s reading or a gentle nip on his hand while you’re walking together speaks volumes to him.

- Your biting habit becomes a silent way to communicate your love, something Jack deeply values and reciprocates in his own quiet manner.

3. Medical Curiosity:

- Jack is curious about the physiological reasons behind your biting habit. When he asked you about it, you answered with “I just like doing it”, leading to him finding it fascinating and endearing.

- Sometimes, Jack will gently bite you back (bcs of his teeth), experimenting with different ways to reciprocate your affection while ensuring he's always gentle and caring.

4. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often spend time in abandoned places, enjoying the solitude. Your biting habit fits well with these quiet moments, adding a layer of comfort and intimacy to your explorations.

- Jack finds your bites reassuring, a reminder that even in the quietest, most desolate places, he has someone who understands and accepts him.

5. Late-Night Conversations:

- During your late-night conversations, you often kiss/nibble Jack’s hand or arm when he says something particularly insightful or touching. It’s your way of showing appreciation and connection without interrupting the flow of conversation.

- Jack has a dry sense of humor and occasionally teases you about your biting, calling you his “little predator” (which you send glares his way when he does so)with a rare, affectionate smile.

Jeff The Killer

1. Playful Defiance:

- Jeff is initially taken aback by your biting habit but quickly grows to enjoy it. Your playful defiance matches his chaotic energy, and he finds it both amusing and endearing.

- Your bites often lead to mock battles, with Jeff pretending to be “attacked” and dramatically retaliating with tickles or playful wrestling.

2. Boundary Testing:

- Jeff likes to push boundaries, and your biting habit becomes a game of who can surprise the other first. He’ll sneak up on you and pretend to bite you back, always keeping things lively and unpredictable.

- Despite his rough exterior, Jeff appreciates the unique way you show affection. It adds a sense of normalcy and connection in his otherwise tumultuous life.

3. Affection Amidst Chaos:

- In the midst of Jeff’s chaotic world, your biting habit becomes a source of stability. It’s a small, constant reminder that there’s something tender and real amidst all the violence and madness.

- Jeff might not say it outright, but your bites make him feel cared for in a way he hasn't experienced before. It's a comforting contrast to his usual interactions.

4. Protective Reactions:

- Jeff is fiercely protective of you, especially because of your biting habit. If anyone mocks or misunderstands it, he’s quick to defend you with his usual brashness.

- Your bites are a reminder to Jeff that he has someone who sees beyond his violent tendencies, someone who cares for the person he is underneath.

5. Unexpected Softness:

- Over time, Jeff becomes surprisingly soft when it comes to you. Your bites are the only form of physical contact he doesn’t recoil from, and he even starts to look forward to them.

- Jeff might occasionally let his guard down and return your bites, albeit clumsily, showing a rare moment of vulnerability and affection.

Jane The Killer

1. Soft Moments:

- Jane is initially wary of your biting habit, but she soon realizes it’s your way of showing affection. Over time, she grows to appreciate it, especially during quiet moments when you’re alone together.

- Your bites become a way to break through her emotional guard, reminding her that it's okay to feel and express love.

2. Tender Affection:

- Despite her tough exterior, Jane has a soft spot for you. Your gentle nibbles on her hand or shoulder are a reminder of the gentler side of life, something she often misses in her dark world.

- Jane reciprocates in her own way, sometimes brushing her fingers lightly across your skin or giving you a soft kiss in return.

3. Silent Communication:

- Your biting becomes a form of silent communication between you two. A gentle nip on her ear or arm tells Jane you’re there for her without needing words, which she finds comforting.

- In tense situations, a quick bite can calm Jane down, helping her focus and reminding her she’s not alone.

4. Protective Nature:

- Jane is highly protective of you, especially when she notices others reacting to your biting habit. She’s quick to defend your unique way of showing affection, ensuring no one misunderstands or disrespects you.

- Your bites become a symbol of trust and safety, reinforcing the bond between you two in a world full of danger and deception.

5. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often enjoy moments of solitude, where your biting habit fits perfectly. It’s a small, intimate act that brings comfort and closeness without needing to say much.

- Jane finds these moments soothing, a rare respite from her usual life of constant vigilance and danger.

Nina The Killer

1. Playful Affection:

- Nina loves your biting habit. It matches her nature, and she often initiates playful bite-fights, laughing as you both try to outdo each other.

- Your bites become a regular part of your interactions, a fun and affectionate way to express your feelings.

2. Cute Moments:

-She often teases you about being her “little biter” and encourages you to keep it up.

- Nina might respond with her own playful nibbles, turning it into a game that keeps both of you entertained and connected.

3. Mutual Protection:

- Nina is fiercely protective of you, especially because of your unique way of showing affection. She admires how unapologetically yourself you are and makes sure no one mocks or misunderstands your biting habit.

- Your bites remind Nina that she has someone who truly understands and accepts her, which is rare in her chaotic life.

4. Shared Excitement:

- Your biting habit fits perfectly with Nina’s love for excitement. It becomes a part of your shared adventures, adding an element of spontaneity and fun.

- Nina often initiates playful challenges, daring you to bite her in unexpected moments, making your relationship dynamic and full of surprises.

5. Comforting Presence:

- Despite her tough exterior, Nina finds your bites comforting. They remind her that she’s not alone and that someone genuinely cares for her.

- Your biting habit becomes a way to bring Nina back to reality when she's feeling overwhelmed, grounding her with a simple, affectionate act.

Homicidal Liu

1. Gentle Affection:

- Liu is initially surprised by your biting habit but quickly grows to appreciate it. Your gentle nibbles on his hand or arm are a welcome reminder of affection in his otherwise tumultuous life.

- He finds your bites soothing, a way to ground himself when he’s struggling with his internal conflicts.

2. Grounding Presence:

- Your bites become a grounding presence for Liu, especially during moments when he’s mentally battling with Sully or dealing with his PTSD. They remind him of your unwavering support and love.

- Liu appreciates how your bites help him stay connected to reality, offering a sense of stability amidst his emotional turmoil.

3. Silent Understanding:

- The two of you develop a silent understanding through your bites. A gentle nip on his shoulder or arm tells Liu that you’re there for him without needing words, which he finds comforting.

- In moments of distress, your bites become a way to reassure Liu that he’s not alone and that you’re always there to support him.

4. Protective Instincts:

- Liu is highly protective of you, especially because of your biting habit. He ensures no one mocks or misunderstands it, making it clear that it’s a special part of your relationship.

- Your bites symbolize trust and safety for Liu, reinforcing the bond between you two in a world full of danger and betrayal.

5. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often enjoy moments of quiet solitude, where your biting habit fits perfectly. It’s a small, intimate act that brings comfort and closeness without needing to say much.

- Liu finds these moments calming, a rare respite from his usual life of constant vigilance and danger. Your bites become a reminder of the love and trust you share, something he cherishes deeply.

Hope this was good enough!!

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8-dermestid · 6 months

Text

i'm over sleeping like a dog on the floor

relationship: ticci toby x reader

word count: 7.6k

links: available to read on ao3

warnings: canon-typical violence, character dies by decapitation (off-screen death but on-screen head), toby is psychotic/has tics/is disabled

Working the graveyard shift as a middle-of-nowhere gas station has its perks; you get paid to do nothing but mop and organize shelves. Most nights you spend alone (or with your only coworker), until you get a regular customer for the first time since this place opened.

(like/reblogs are greatly appreciated, requests are open ✷)

As autumn passes away and winter begins to take hold of the climate, the manor becomes a hellish place to live. Plenty of well-developed people struggle with the seasonal changes—the colder air, longer nights, and dead-looking forests make seasonal depression hit hard. In Toby’s experience, however, these symptoms hit harder for the people in the mansion. The temperature drops make Jeff irritable, his decade-old burns aching as fresh nerve endings attempt to make connections to his old skin. EJ always found a way to hide in their room for months, only coming out if forced by Slenderman’s jobs or a need for food. Anyone with chronic pain had more intense symptoms, and anyone prone to stress snapped under the pressure. Tim and Brian always left before winter hit (only because they looked non-disabled from the outside and could mask until they found a place to hunker down).

Toby is no exception to this rule. The stress of incoming frost and shorter days makes him quick to anger, his tics become more frequent and intense, and he becomes more prone to biting his fingers until he bleeds. Joining Tim and Brian would be a dream, but that is all it would remain (being visibly disabled, paranoid, and psychotic beyond belief—and the hole Toby carved out in his cheek—made masking almost impossible). If he were to try and follow them to a hotel room, Toby would get strapped down and sedated in a stark-white hospital with buzzing overhead fluorescents.

The last time he went to the hospital was because he stepped on a rusty nail six months back, and Tim and Brian almost thought about tracking down EJ because hospitals and Toby do not mix. Thinking about those fluorescents makes him sick. The droning electrical hum makes his skin crawl.

Maybe tonight is the night—though the idea crawls with stressed-induced impulsivity and panic like centipedes under his skull—Toby needs to mull over this thought with a cigarette.

Jeff is arguing with nobody again and slamming his head against a wall. Sally’s running around upstairs. EJ hasn’t been home in months. Tim and Brian are who knows where, not that Toby cares, and the other people crowding this place are too quiet for Toby to care about right now. He rocks in his bed (a moldy mattress with loose sheets piled atop it, a thin, ratty blanket being all he can use to hide from the cold)

(Hush). The quiet is safe, and breathing softly and stepping carefully is safe. It’s good practice to keep his head down when there’s incoherent screaming in the room down the hall. The clatter of overturned furniture and scratching on the walls are commonplace sounds, whether rooted in reality or psychosis.

Toby tries to control his volume by breathing through his mouth, sniffling now replaced with hollow gasps. He’s so careful not to let any loudness escape him (not an easy feat). His diaphragm stutters, his shoulders heave in an involuntary twitch, his ribs push inward, and his spine curls sharply down.

Do it. Deep breath in, hold for four, out for four. Grab a cigarette and a lighter, and try to take your mind off things. Toby rocks on the floor and nurses a cigarette between his teeth, letting the smoke simmer in his lungs before exhaling low. He quits rocking on the floor, rising to his feet and beginning a careful hunt, opening every drawer, opening the creaky closet door, checking the big hole in the wall, checking the drawers once more, then out the window (pulling the half-hanging curtain over to give him some sense of privacy). Finally satisfied, Toby tugs the sheet on his mattress until it slips from the corner, exposing a large hole carved into the side, its guts twinkling with bits of fiberglass.

Toby sticks his hand in, numb to the prickling sensation scraping across his skin, and pulls out a large, empty duffel bag. He crawls towards his drawers and tosses his extra clothes into a small heap atop the bag, stuffing it until it’s bloated like a three-day-old carcass. With only a few possessions to his name—his hatchets, a hunting knife, a hammer (which he puts into his pocket instead, worried about scratching his things), his CD player plus headphones, a sentimental bag of teeth, and a dented thermos—Toby is ready and packed, letting out a shaky breath as he zips up his bag. Checking around all the hiding spots again (his searching based on psychotic delusions), Toby finally pulls the moldy curtain back and opens the window, which squeals in protest. He freezes, checking his surroundings and listening for even the softest sounds of disturbance in the creaky manor.

The mansion’s natural groans and hums make the house feel alive. It’s watching him—and watching him think of a plan to get out of this hell. The radiators creak, and the walls ache like the house is breathing around him. The walls are moving, Toby thinks. He is inside a living thing. He pries open the window, and the house cries out in protest. The chains supporting the windowpane squeal like birds, and Toby scrambles out of the window and onto the once-shingled roof in a panic, nearly slipping from the second story in a thoughtless terror. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his beat-up box of Marlboro Reds, curling up into a ball on the roof, shaky hands searching for his lighter. Toby can’t stop shaking. His neck pops in two places. He should climb back inside—crawl back into that living, breathing beast—and pretend this idea of freedom never crossed his mind.

Toby sticks a cigarette between his teeth, digging around his many pockets for his lighter. He’s so nervous, whole-body tremors as the agonizing howls of the mansion’s other tenants remind Toby of his options: keep living within Slenderman’s walls, dirt-poor and sickly, but safe from the cruelties of the outside world, or risk contact with the outside, possibly getting strapped down to a hospital bed and drip-fed a cocktail of medications, sedated and alone. Toby’s grip is loose, and his lighter slips from his hand as it twitches involuntarily. Toby watches it slide down the roof and hop over the broken gutter, landing in a puddle beneath the house.

Toby peers over the roof—making the quick choice to abandon his duffel bag inside his room —and swings his legs over the edge, dropping down. He sticks his hand into an ice-cold puddle and pulls the cobalt-blue plastic body from the water. He rolls his thumb over the striker, shaking the lighter and trying again (flick, flick, flick, Toby can hear the fuel when he shakes it vigorously), holding the dead thing to his dry cigarette, cupping his hand to protect any weak flame it may produce.

Nothing.

Toby throws the lighter as hard as he can into a tree, hands trembling uncontrollably, wrists flinching, fingers curling in distress. He pulls on his hair—tugs and tugs, grabbing at the curly strands at the nape of his neck and tugging upwards like he’s pulling a shirt off over his head—trying not to scream and cry about his two-dollar lighter being a shitty, two-dollar lighter. He pulls one axe from its holster and the hammer from his pocket; the next smoker he spots won’t make it home (and Toby can add some teeth to his plastic-baggie collection, whichever ones he can salvage from the destruction of a stranger’s dental record). His cigarette (with a sharp angle in the filter from an angry bite) gets stuffed back into its cardboard container, then the box, and into his pocket.

Toby picks a direction and walks, one hand tugging at his hair and the other’s knuckles white around a hatchet handle. Each tired step squelches under him. Slick leaves and muddy earth force walking to be a conscious thought; Toby, already nauseous with stress, stumbles forward, using the tall trees for support (and to ground himself on the textures of moss and lichen under his fingertips).

Keep breathing.

In for one, two, three, four; Hold for one, two, three, four; Out for one, two, three, four.

Keep walking, don’t stop, don’t turn back, don’t even look back. One shaky mile becomes two, then three, then four. Each threshold crossed brings Toby further from the manor and closer to freedom.

One time, Toby had to visit a mortician’s office to take care of a sloppy kill months ago. The doctor was working late, and Toby came across the current project: some forty-something man with silver hair and scratchy stubble. The mortician had already slipped the eye caps under the man’s eyelids, and the little barbs gripped the backside, holding the shape of the lid to make it look like the man’s eyes hadn’t sunk back into his skull. Toby peeled back the man’s lips, admiring his yellowed, crooked teeth and dry gums. There were wires connecting the upper and lower jaw, keeping the man’s mouth shut with needles nailed into his bone.

The process was fascinating and morbid, and the wires and nails made Toby queasy because the man’s body was so cold. Sometimes, Toby felt like that—or that he felt trapped in that state—the stiffness, the cold, the wires and nails keeping his jaw wired shut no matter how much he wanted to scream.

Sometimes, it was him laying on the cold, metal table stinking of formaldehyde, stiff with rigor mortis with sunken eyes and guts in the viscera bag. He found the body shortly after and beat its face in with his axe until they were unrecognizable. He took three teeth (one of their wisdom teeth and two molars), the only intact thing left of them, and fled through a broken window.

Toby, rubbing his eyes, pushes them into the sockets as he stumbles past the tree line and down a crag. When he makes contact with the ground and stumbles forward in his dreary state, Toby is startled when a car blares its horn at him. The driver shouts at him, swerving over the double-yellow to avoid hitting him.

Toby stands in the road like a deer, heart pounding against his ribs. He watches the car swerve back over the double-yellow and around a wavy bend, eventually concealed by a shelf of carved rock. Turning to look across the empty highway, he spots a gas station bathed in red neons with an inviting golden light warming the interior.

An older man with a blue face mask is walking behind the gas station for the restroom, and Toby stalks behind him, axe in hand.

✸𓆟✸

“It’s getting windy now. Are you sure your bus is coming after your shift?”

“Probably,” You say, “they’d only stop if there was some looming total disaster. They operate like a Waffle House.” Walking into the custodial closet (slash break room), you grab a bucket and mop and move out to a monstrous soda spill left by a group of teenage boys (where one of them just got their learner’s permit, you’re sure of it).

Something collides with the dumpster outside.

You think it’s someone dumpster diving again.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Quit being so paranoid.” Your coworker says.

You turn to Sandy, and she shrugs, straightening the 5-Hour Energies by the register. She’s pretty dressed up for a graveyard shift at a gas station, with her hair done up and pink tinsel weaved into her box braids. She’s wearing a concert tee with a little stone fairy printed on the front and leg warmers with these tall boots. Her makeup is shimmery and loud; she belongs at a club covered in confetti and glitter like it’s 2009.

“No need to be scared of the boogeyman, or… whatever they call that guy.”

“Slenderman?”

“Mhm, that. I’m sure it’s just good Photoshop, just an art project people are writing scary stories about, and parents think it’s real, and now the news is involved. It happens all the time!”

“Yeah, but…” Your words die in your mouth.

You saw him, you swear, between the trees or houses on your walk back to your dorm. Impossibly tall, with no features, stalking you from a distance like an animal. Maybe Sandy’s right. The stress of academics and work is probably just driving you crazy, making you see things that aren’t there. The town newspapers haven’t helped your theory of delusion, as people won’t stop going missing in this area. You’re tempted to grab a flashlight and check the perimeter, just in case. You reach for one on the shelf nearby, but Sandy gives you this disappointed look.

“I’m not letting you go ghost hunting. Not good for you,” Sandy’s gaze softens, “Now I feel like a dick for buying these tickets.”

You quit mopping. Tickets?

“Ugh, don’t look at me like that! When I bought them, there wasn’t this Skinnyman stuff—”

“Slenderman.” You say.

“Slenderman stuff,” Sandy corrects, “I didn’t buy them when this Slenderman stuff was going on.”

“...Again? You went to a concert two weeks ago.” You say, focusing on pushing the mop over the soda spill until it makes the water a murky brown.

“That was nothing. It was a house concert, this one is real and at a big venue and everything! I’m taking my girlfriend for her birthday. Please, come on! I’m sure nothing crazy is going to happen tonight. Nothing ever happens here, anyhow. We work at a nowhere gas station in the middle of nowhere—I��ll even pay you, please.”

You may be terrified of these recent missing persons cases, but Sandy does pay you handsomely when she pulls stunts like this.

“Mundy doesn’t have to know about our little arrangement. It can be off the books.”

Mundy’s your manager, but not actually in your opinion. He never shows up, carries a ‘my way or the highway‘ view of things, and rules over this run-down Shell gas station with an iron fist. You missed your cousin’s birthday because he needed you to watch over this place. He’s the worst.

“You know what? Sure.” You say.

Sandy whoops and tosses you more money than you’ve ever seen in a paycheck. She squeezes you tight and says thank you about a million times.

“You’re the best, and I owe you one—or three—I don’t care, whatever you want! Take it easy.”

Her girlfriend pulls up, tucking her stout blue car parallel to two rusty shells. “I mean it! No ghost hunting.”

She dashes out of the gas station before you can speak. According to her orders, It’s a free, lazy night for you, and your first order is doing your legitimately obtained puzzles. You grab a magazine you ‘borrowed’ from last month’s shipment. You pull out a Sharpie and fill out some blank spaces. You chew on the cap, filling in NAP for twenty-eight across. Fifty-five across is FRIDGEMAGNET. Fifty-two down is IGLOO. Eleven down is easy as you fill out the top corner of the board without much trouble—TENDER, UMAMI, MEAT, SKEIN… It’s almost too easy, or you should seriously consider the big leagues. You finish just above half the crossword only half an hour into your shift, tossing the magazine aside and switching to swiping through your phone to keep the crossword-world-record holders off your tail, as they can’t know about your prowess yet.

That girl who captained cheerleading is having a baby, and there’s also a picture of her wearing a wedding veil (not that you care, considering she stuck gum in your hair during your math final). Some Robotics club girl got into one of those Ivy leagues and is having the time of her life, and a ton of videos of your past friends drunk at a club, confetti all over their everything. You turn off your phone with a heavy sigh and set it on the far side of the counter next to the cigarette shelf, returning to your only company for the night.

You finish the crossword after nearly an hour (it technically only took you thirty-five minutes, but you wouldn’t stop getting up to try and do something productive to keep your mind off your downward spiral), and you sneak the magazine back into the pile with all the other ones that look just like it.

The door slides open, and a man who looks your age stumbles inside, brown hair dripping wet. You switch into professional mode and get your feet off the counter. You give him your standard welcome, but he ignores it and ducks into the aisle closest to the wall.

Maybe he’s just cold and drunk, but he looks rough. His sickly gray skin—with eyebags dark enough to be mistaken for under-eyeshadow—gives him an almost zombie-esque look (like a trad-goth, but gray). He peeks over the top of the aisle and locks eyes with you, lurching back as if it burns to hold your gaze. He reaches the far corner of the store, opens one of the fridges, and pulls out a can. You watch this man pace the back perimeter and grab a few things, still meandering.

“Can I help you find anything you need?” You ask, but he doesn’t seem to hear you as he stuffs a fistful of Slim Jims in his pocket.

Whatever, he’ll eventually find what he’s looking for if the poor guy searches long enough, or maybe not, considering his apprehension about approaching the front half of the store where your register is. You feel like a cat watching a bird from the window as you watch this strange person pace around the back of the store for nearly twenty minutes. Maybe you have a staring problem, but this guy is too eccentric to look away from. He knocks into the slushie machine and hisses to himself, speaking under his breath.

He creeps forward to the counter like a deer, a few loose bills and coins tightly held in his bandaged palm. There’s not one bit of eye contact, but his gaze is piercing as his eyes remain locked on the linoleum floors. You grab the soda can he slides onto the countertop, then nod to the Slim Jims sticking out of his pocket.

His shaky palm opens, fingers twitching as five or six individually wrapped Slim Jims spill onto the counter. You count them up and add them to the total. Then he grabs a lighter and tosses it into the pile, the lime-green case clattering amongst his other purchases.

“That’ll be $12.56.”

He hands you $9.27. It’s all he has, and his sudden nervous energy confirms that.

He seems paranoid, and maybe getting a fistful of Slim Jims in him will do him good. You look at the camera and take the money he gave you, bagging everything he piled onto the counter.

“Oh—” He coughs into his fist, his neck creaks, “You don’t have to do that.”

You reassure him, “It’s nothing.” crosses your lips as you pass him the plastic bag.

He steps back, shies away, and then flees out the door like a feral cat. You hear another car horn as this strange guy disappears from view beyond the tree line.

Another weird stranger, you think. He’s just another passerby you’ll never see again.

✸𓆟✸

That’s what you think until he shows up again two weeks later. He’s dirtier than last time, his fingernails caked with dirt as he bumps into Sandy. He grabs a soda from the back and shuffles to the front, eyeing your name tag. He says your name as if he’s kneading the word between his teeth and under his tongue like a lozenge.

You take the Pepsi from him and scan it. He coughs up enough money to pay for it—and a little more, four dirty singles more than he needs to pay for the soda.

“From last time—I know it wasn’t enough, I remembered.” He says, wiping his hand on his jacket. He looks proud of himself.

You thank him, and he looks like he’s about to burst, squirming at the compliment like a prodded insect, shakily taking the can from you and cracking it open.

“I’m Toby,” He tips the sugary drink back, then swallows hard, “Well, my name’s Tobias, but Toby sounds better. Toby Rogers sounds better than Tobias Rogers.”

Sandy eyes you, gesturing to Toby with a long acrylic, who’s now rocking back and forth on his feet and rambling. You shrug. He’s probably not a threat.

He seems chill, you mouth to her.

He grabs a map and turns it over in his hand. He sets down his drink and skims over the large map of the state. You take his moment of focus to take in his features, dull, brown eyes that skirt around the paper. His hair is greasy and messy, probably knotted beyond care. His clothes—beat-up hiker’s trousers, a heavy jacket over a ratty black tank top, and goggles with bright orange lenses, the right one cracked. He twitches, then turns the map to you.

“Are there any ways to go here?”

You snap from your observation, blinking as your vision is filled with the veins and artery-looking highways across this middle-of-nowhere part of the state. Toby points to some empty spot on the map, some national park (you think).

“Well, you could take the interstate highway.” You suggest, dragging your finger along the thickest vein on the map.

“Well, I’d need a car for that, right? I don’t have one of those.”

Oh. That’s the problem with this part of the country. No car, no luck. If Toby wants to leave, he would need a car—whether that be from a friend or a stranger. You tell him so: that there aren’t many options to leave if you don’t have the money to do it, which feels especially cruel considering you essentially spotted him for Slim Jims the other week. He folds the map politely and then slips it back into its container.

“That sucks, I guess,” He says, continuing to nurse his drink. Sandy makes a phone-shape gesture with a frantic expression on her face.

Toby’s a little eccentric, but he’s not 9-1-1 call-worthy. You shoo her away to reorganize the shelves. He keeps talking at you about a variety of things. He sounds like a camper, talking about how living in the woods is better than where he’s living now, how his roommates are very noisy, and he’d rather be cold and wet and living in a tent than be in his current situation.

“Off-campus housing must be tough. Are you in a fraternity?”

“Fraternity? No, not uni,” he says, shuffling on his feet as he pulls the soda tab off the can and rolls it between his fingers, “Not uni. Not smart enough for it. I didn’t even finish high school.”

“Oh.”

Now it’s your turn to shuffle awkwardly.

Sandy slips into the break room and shuts the door behind her, leaving you, Toby, and the blinking security camera. Toby finishes his beverage and looks for a bin to toss it (and to look polite and well-mannered). You lift the garbage bin from behind the counter (also to look polite and well-mannered).

You both talk about a variety of things. Toby seems to relax once it’s just the two of you. He asks you about working here. He asks if you like it.

“Kind of. Pay is pretty bad, but the graveyard shift means I get paid to do nothing,”

He nods, then runs his fingers over the ridge of paper maps again. His hand snaps sharply downward to grip the counter, his free hand tugging up his sleeve so he can scratch his arm.

“Is there not any other way out of here?” Toby abruptly pulls his hand from the counter and strikes his temple with the heel of his hand, “W-Why won’t anybody let me leave?” Toby’s voice is cold and jagged like glass with corrosive terror. You recoil, instinctively covering your precious internal organs with a defensive lurch. Toby does the same, pulling his hood over his matted hair and bumping into the flat shelf behind him. Besides the hum-buzz of yellowed fluorescent lamps, the store is silent. He tugs the goggles over his eyes in a rough motion, too, mumbling and rocking to soothe himself.

After what feels like an eternity, Toby finally speaks at a volume you can hear.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?” He weeps, “Like, even if you sleep on the second floor, it can still see you—even if you’re hiding—and it knows exactly where you are, and you can’t do anything?”

Sleepless nights, icy chills that leave the hairs on your neck standing on end, that prey-animal feeling where you know you’re being followed and observed (but your eyes can’t catch that distant figure, tall enough to blend in amongst the trees). People stopped believing you after you cried wolf a few too many times. Calling friends in the dead of night on the side of the road did not earn you a good favor, which explains why so many people stopped talking to you after high school. You look down at your near-dozen crossword puzzles filled out on lonely graveyard shifts, down at your hands, and then you meet Toby’s frightened gaze.

“I guess, yeah.” You reply.

Toby blinks, tugging his blue surgical mask to rest comfortably on his nose.

“Really?” He creeps back towards the counter, shuffling forward to speak quietly, “I like coming here because I feel like I’m finally alone; It feels like I’m safe here—like nothing can hurt me.”

You nod. Working here gives you plenty of quiet, something most people can not get enough of. This place can be nice as long as Mundy leaves you and Sandy.

“My house isn’t a great place to be right now. That’s why I come here a lot. Nice and quiet, no screaming.”

“I get that, too,” You say quietly, speaking as if you’re trying not to frighten a wild animal, “Sometimes everything is just… too much, yeah?”

“...Yeah,” Toby whispers, “Yeah.”

He relaxes, taking a few deep breaths before pulling back his hood and goggles. Toby then hooks a finger around the elastic band on his surgical mask and pulls it off of his face, revealing a gaping scar on the side of his cheek that looks like it was chewed through. His teeth are visible, fairly yellow (but otherwise fine-looking), and slightly crooked. Seeing Toby’s face in its entirety takes you a moment to become accustomed to, his crooked smile and slightly-bent nose are not what fills your mind. His jaw is soft and rounded, and his gray-ish skin is smattered with lighter marks of old wounds.

Toby scratches at the healed-over gash, picking at some calloused skin while his other fingers curl involuntarily.

“I don’t go out much at all—” He starts, wiping his hand on his coat, “It’s been nice, even if I’ve had to sneak out to come here, I don’t want any other guys knowing I’ve been out here to see you—” Toby scrunches up, fingers curling as he watches you process his words.

Toby has the nervous energy of a dog retired from blood sports and brought into a quiet home, always biting the hand that feeds because it’s all he’s ever known, kicking and screaming in terror at any gentle caress, howling like you’ve flayed his skin, separating sinew and flesh. He has matted fur and mangled teeth; he limps from years of brutality, eyes darting around the peaceful setting expecting to be bitten; to be scratched; to bleed with no future of quiet.

You walk out from behind the counter and sit beside him, bumping knees. You both sit in silence, surrounded by the warm hum-buzz of fluorescent lights. Toby’s shoulders heave with a tic as he knocks his knee against yours. The small noises of the creaky building and its humming electronics (which would normally send Toby into a tizzy) didn’t make his skin crawl. He feels his chest fill with air then feels the air leave out of his nose as he takes in your features, following the slope of your forehead down to your nose and mouth, then your chin and your neck. If you were to meet his gaze now he would die, so he enjoys this moment next to you for as long as he can.

Your time together is cut short when Sandy exits the break room.

Toby’s face warms as he scrambles to his feet and scurries out the door with a quick goodbye and thank you shouted in your direction.

You feel a hot blush creep up your face from your neck, Sandy finally speaks once it creeps to the tips of your ears.

“Did I…interrupt something?” She asks, holding back a snicker.

“A little bit,” You say, stuffing your hands into your pockets, “I keep your things from Mundy, you keep mine.”

✸𓆟✸

There are three things that, when they come together, become the ingredients for the worst shift of your life.

First: Sandy doesn’t clock in, any shift without Sandy is like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly.

Second, and this one’s new, Toby doesn’t visit. He makes the grueling night shift a little less boring and gives you someone new to chat with and learn things.

Third, Mandy does one of his surprise visits, especially when he remembers the security cameras he installed.

He stormed in only a few minutes after you clocked in, stomping about the store and trying to find something to interrogate you so he could open the door to harsher criticisms. He finds a few misorganized cans and grills you.

“You’re supposed to put the tall cans in the second fridge, don’t mix them.”

“My bad, Mundy. Won’t happen again.” You say, holding your hands up.

Most of the time he finds minute things, but because there are hardly any customers, there’s hardly anyone to mess anything up, which means there’s not much you can do to fill out a shift. This time, however, he pulls out a little card, holding it out as if you are supposed to know what that means. He drags you into the break room and pushes the little SD card into his dingy laptop. He clicks on one of the few dozen files stuffed in the folder.

You watch a VOD of the security footage from a few weeks ago when you spotted Toby for those three extra Slim Jims. Mundy looks like he’s about to explode, pausing the video when all of Toby’s items are dumped out on the counter.

“You rang up only three Slim Jims that night. Why do I see six going into that bag?”

You freeze up, half because that’s such a stupid thing to pull you aside for, but also because Mundy is that crazy.

“I—”

“And then here,” He scrubs the video forward, showing the following interaction the following night, “Loitering? You’re letting people run amok in here when I’m not here? To think I trusted you and Sandy to care for things on your own.”

“Toby wasn’t doing anything—”

“No, don’t give me that done,” He snaps, ”Do you have any idea, any clue, what you’re doing to this place by letting people like that loiter around my store?” Mundy shouts, “Letting—You’re letting total thugs and drug addicts hang out in here. Do you ever think about what that may do for the reputation of this place?”

You sink back into your chair, which squeals as you curl like a sun-dried bug.

“You’re lucky I’m not going to fire you, do you understand? You’re lucky. That’s all you are. If that guy didn’t pay you back, you would be handing in your uniform.”

“But he’s not—”

“Not what?!” Mundy throws his hands up in exasperation, “Do you think normal people want to shop when you let crazy people bounce off the walls? You let this guy in—dirty and probably drugged out of his mind—and you make conversation with him? Let him loiter?”

“Mundy—”

“No, I’m not even going to bother with this,” He shoves the sopping-wet mop into your hands, “If I see any more shenanigans after this—you’re done. Get mopping. I have a headache from dealing with you, especially since I’m always trying to keep Sandy under control.”

Mundy massages his temples, walking into the break room while mumbling, “Now I’ve got to replace that piece-of-shit camera, too. Always on the fritz...”

You get to mopping, and Sandy passes through the automatic doors, a tense expression on her face.

“You know, I could hear him from the break room,” She mouths, “I think I would be the same if I were the manager of a dead-end gas station, especially if it were the only thing I had done with my life.”

Sandy pulls her purse over her shoulder, “Be careful not to unscrew your arms from mopping so much.”

She leaves, climbing into her girlfriend’s passenger side and pulling out of the dirt lot even faster. Mundy exits the break room and watches you like a hawk, and you spend three hours doing purposeless chores to keep him happy; you mop the floors, reorganize shelves, and restock the fridges (which were full) until you can barely hold yourself upright.

“See? I hired you to do your job, not just loaf around all night behind the counter.”

Ugh.

✸𓆟✸

Toby comes in again a few days after Mundy’s new ordinance began, and you can tell that all of this recent surveillance is getting to your head because you immediately look up at the camera that watches the both of you as if it’s going to snap at you like a dog. He says hello, waving with his eyes squint-y from a smile.

“You look like you’re about to puke.” Toby chuckles, leaving a few bills on the counter while he heads to the back to grab a drink, “Something wrong? Is it Sandy?”

“No, just… work.” You grab Toby's drink, eyes flicking to the camera as you take the money, count it up, and give him a few coins in change.

“Is it Mundy?”

You hush him, eyes flicking up to the camera. He nods, taking his drink and starting his familiar pacing around the main body of the store. You grab the mop from the break room, though you’ve already mopped this entire place three times, and begin your familiar dance to follow Toby around the store.

“He won’t let you stay. If I let you loiter, Mundy will fire me,” You meet his gaze, and he looks like a kicked dog, “I’m so sorry.”

Toby peeks at the camera, then looks back at you, “Is he here?” He asks.

“Break room, most likely watching the footage from my last shift. Mundy’s waiting for me to slip up, so it’s been stressful.”

Toby pats your shoulder, then takes his can and finishes the rest of his drink quickly, “... I’m sorry. I can go home if being here is a bad thing.”

“I don’t want you to go, though—” You say, your voice is a little too heavy for talking to a regular—”...You know, you’re one of three customers we’ve had for weeks. Isn’t that funny? This place is a dump. I would quit, but I need the money.”

Toby watches you push the mop in a fit, pushing and pulling water across the clean linoleum tiles.

“...I have to go now. Thanks for everything.” Toby says quietly with a new coldness to his soft tone.

His sudden shift in demeanor makes you a bit nervous as he exits the store, waving sweetly at you. You wave back. Hopefully, he didn’t say thanks for everything because he was leaving forever. You watch him disappear along the edge of the highway, and you are left alone to mop the floors for the rest of the night, eventually leaving because Mundy doesn’t trust you to handle closings anymore.

Toby scales the crag outside the gas station, slipping back into the woods with new feelings bubbling under the surface of his skin. He races past familiar trees, spotting the mansion on the horizon. He scales the wall using the only standing gutter left, and then he slips into his room through the window, angry enough to chew on his hand until he bleeds. He pulls off his shoes and flings them into his dresser. The quickest, easiest answer would be to run back there, hatchets in hand, and dismember this guy that’s been bothering you. The other part of Toby, the one he kept hold of after everything that happened to him (the part of him that’s still seventeen years old and terrified), wants to just curl up on his dingy mattress and give up. He grabs a hatchet and curls up with it in his arms, running his hand along the handle’s grain.

Maybe in a few days, he doesn’t want to scare you, maybe he can make it look like a bad accident.

There’s the clatter of furniture, the familiar sounds of home, and Toby drifts off to sleep, planning out the next few nights to prepare even if it means he won’t be able to see you. Spending the next few days in the manor is rough because everybody won’t stop asking questions. Toby hardly imagined anyone in the manor enough to notice he was still there (it took everyone nearly three weeks to notice EJ’s absence when it was too late to catch them), and it was even stranger for others to be concerned about Toby’s whereabouts.

He wishes EJ was still here, they hardly cared about unimportant things and cared even less about stupid things like visiting someone behind Slenderman’s back. They would have helped him plan, listened to Toby go through a few plans, giving a thumbs up when good and a thumbs down when bad. He instead spends the few days pacing around his room as ideas swarm his brain like locusts, biting off chunks until Toby needs to sleep and quit thinking.

✸𓆟✸

Mundy grumbles, stepping outside and lighting a cigarette as he stands next to the dumpster, eyeing the few gutted shells of cars abandoned on the lot. He twirls the keys around his finger, more stressed about adding two sudden openings online. He always hated computers.

Toby peeks around from behind the dumpster, eyes trailing down Mundy’s back, eyes boring into his spine and shoulder blades beneath his shirt. He unhooks one of his hatchets from its holster on his hip, creeping along the edge of the gas station’s wall as Mundy shuffles on his feet.

You already settled into your shift hours ago, Toby memorized your schedule so he could always bump into you. Mundy was so wound up from Sandy organizing the magazines her way that he nearly snapped and fired her on the spot.

Any reprieve from Mundy’s surveillance would not be taken for granted. You start counting the ceiling tiles, wishing you could do a crossword right about now.

“You think Mundy’s… Okay?” Sandy pipes up, restocking the beef jerky bags on a distant shelf.

“No.”

“I mean—yeah, he’s not generally okay, but… he’s been outside for half an hour…” Sandy stands, abandoning her work, ”I don’t smoke, but that seems like a long time to be out there in… that.”

Rain beats against the windows so intensely it’s hard to see the highway that runs parallel to the station, the only indicator that the highway still exists is the occasional flash of high beams as someone drives by. You can understand the need for a break (whether with a cigarette or a puzzle) but this torrential downpour would dampen anyone’s smoke break, at least he should be standing under the concrete awning. Lightning lights the night sky, highlighting the dark forests that swallow this little establishment. Thunder growls overhead, rolling over your mind like a cold chill.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Oh my god, please don’t go off on one of your tangents about Slenderman, I do not need that right now, especially since this is the first time we’ve had a moment without Mundy breathing down our necks. Besides, give me some reprieve since I’m handling garbage on such a stormy night.”

“I wasn’t going to!” You throw up your hands dramatically, “You’re the one that brought it up!”

Sandy looks outside and shudders, “Slenderman isn’t real, I’m not going to let your little internet ghost stories scare me.” She swallows, slipping outside and pulling the garbage bag from its canister, “You’re so paranoid.”

You watch her disappear into the darkness, the automatic doors sliding shut as she rounds the corner to toss the bag into the dumpster. You suck in a breath and push it out shakily. You hear muffled shouting, Sandy calling out for Mundy, but there’s no response.

The store feels too big all of a sudden, you feel too exposed with the large glass sliding doors, but Sandy’s jeers about your paranoia push that nervous energy down into the pit of your stomach.

Sandy heaves the bag up above her torso, but her shaky grip (and her laziness about tying the top of the bag) causes a plethora of things to spill from the bag. Sandy huffs, dropping the half-full bag on the ground and groping for trash in the dark.

She groped around in the dark, mind swimming with frustration and confusion. The rain soaks through her coat, and her well-kept nails are caked with mud as she picks up garbage. She feels the usual things—crumpled-up cans, napkins, and old fast food bags.

But the sudden, leathery texture that she brushes her fingertips against, a coppery tinge to the air. It’s warm, warm like a person.

A blood-curdling scream rings out after a flash of lightning turns night to day (followed by the loudest clap of thunder you’ve heard—the kind that makes the earth shake). You chuckle to yourself, but you shut yourself up when you hear her hysteric sobs mixed in with Sandy’s horrified screams.

Everything goes quiet.

“Sandy?”

Her sobs continue, you can hear her crying.

“Sandy—” You step out into the rainy darkness, “—Hey, are you there? Is everything okay? Was it a raccoon or something?”

She shouts your name with the desperation of a wild animal with an arrow through its leg, scrambling to her feet, she’s soaked and cold.

She grabs the collar of your shirt, drags you back towards the light, then locks the doors behind the two of you, and knocks a shelf over to block the door.

“Sandy, what the hell? I just—”

“M-Mundy’s dead—he’s fucking dead,” She gasps, sobbing harder than before, ”We’re next—Oh god, oh god, oh god—”

Sandy lurches and vomits, dark bile streaking across the linoleum tiles. You’re at her side in a second pulling her dark, curly hair away from her face. You guide her to sit down in the break room, kneeling in front of her as she nearly shakes herself to pieces.

“He’s dead? You’re serious?”

“His head was in a garbage bag—” A dry sob rattles her frame, ”—He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead.”

You pull out your phone and dial the emergency number, gently soothing Sandy as she tries to hush up when the line connects. You give the operator the address and hold the phone for Sandy. She sputters, trying to spit out her words. The operator asks her questions, trying to get her to relax.

She described Mundy’s still-warm head rolling out of the bag, Sandy’s skin void of its typical warmth and vibrancy. Sandy emphasizes how warm it was when she touched it, like feeling a leather bag sitting in the sun.

The operator soothes both of you, help is on the way.

After thirty minutes of agonizing silence, The approaching ambulance’s siren wailed like an angel, and the paramedics that arrived on the scene ushered you and Sandy out and swaddled you both in blankets. Tape cinched the gas station, and officers secured the perimeter, marching like ants. The rain was still heavy, and large droplets beat against the ambulance. Detectives sat across from you trying to get Sandy (in her nearly catatonic state) to recite the scene.

“I don’t know,” Sandy said, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know… She’s rocking herself, shivering either from terror or the cold—perhaps both—as you rub her back and try to help her calm down.

“Rich,” a paramedic shouts, which drags the detective's attention from Sandy, “Call up Morgan—We’ve got another.”

He sighs and hops out of the ambulance, beating a phone number into the small buttons and walking off into the rain.

Sandy turns to you, she’s ice cold, “...What are we gonna do now?”

Your mind can’t help but wander, the rational half of you wants to believe that this was some kind of freak accident, that Mundy just…

Well, you aren’t sure how someone could be accidentally decapitated, but maybe there is a logical explanation for Mundy’s death. He is just another number in a vast list of victims of these unexplainable attacks. Some believe in a Jack the Ripper scenario, while others lean towards the supernatural. You’ve fallen down the rabbit hole before, and with each passing moment, the idea of your past delusions being real sounds less and less insane. Sandy nudges you, interrupting your slip into panic.

“What are we going to do now?”

“I…I don’t know.” You whisper, curling up under your blanket.

You swear you see someone moving amongst the trees, and dread washes over you like an icy bath.

What are you going to do now?

✸𓆟✸

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soaplickerrr · 3 months

Text

guys wtf happened to all the good creepypasta content😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨😨

I JUST WANT MY SILLY SLENDERMANSION FANFICS BACK.

I WANT MY CHILDHOOD BACK

I WANT THIS FANDOM BACK TO WHAT IT WAS.

BUT I ALSO WANT GOOD CREEPYPASTA FICS

I ALSO WANT PEOPLE WHO WRITE REALISTIC HEADCANNONS TO STEP FORWARD AND KEEP DOING IT.

ITS TAKES ME HOURS OF SCROLLING THROUGH TUMBLR AND AO3 TO FIND SOMETHING THAT IS NOT HEADCANONS (too many headcannons EVERYWHERE.) AND ARE ACTUAL FICS THAT HAVENT BEEN DISCONTINUED.

I respect the people on tumblr who still write for the fandom so much 🫡🫡

Where did everyone who was in this fandom go??😟

At the same time, I’m a hypocrite because I keep writing headcanons too😔😔

#creepypasta #proxies #marble hornets #slenderman #slender mansion #BRING GOOD CREEPYPASTA FICS BACK PLEASE #jeff the killer #ticci toby #clockwork #jane the killer #homicidal liu #masky marble hornets #mh masky #hoodie

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kiradrabbles · 5 months

Text

Love story - yandere ticci toby x reader chapter 1

cw: stalking, obsessive behaviour, graphic depictions of violence (no shit), and Toby being a total freaky weirdo. Not explicit non-con yet.

No good deed ever goes unpunished. One late night trip to a convenience store you decide to help a man who knocks over some cans. Toby can't get his mind off you, now. And when he finally finds something that helps him get his mind off the raging in his head and the operators grasp on him, he won't let it go.

AKA. Toby is delusional, horny, and totally obsessed with you. Without further adieu... with a horrendous word count of 4000+....

Chapter 1: Meet cute

To say toby had no idea when his infatuation with you started would be a lie, he knew exactly when it started. He knew it down to the hour, the minute, the second. How could he forget the moment he met you after all? It was like a romance, one of those rom-com meet cutes. His own sappy love story with his own perfectly happy ending.

It was a cold night, he couldn't precisely remember the time, sure, but he knew the stars were up in the sky, and that it was the midst of winter as there was snow dusting the ground. Colorado's winters were cold - and as it was cold, Toby got stuck with doing the supply runs. As was apparently "fair". Because of his CIPA he couldn't feel cold (or heat), which meant any time the weather conditions were slightly less-than desirable it was his job to go half-buy half-shoplift the food the mansions residents needed for the next few days. At least, those that didn't eat human flesh.

Not that he really minded. He'd take any chance he could to get out of the mansion for a while, taking Tim's car - an old beaten up Land Rover they had stolen from a victim years ago - and speeding along the highways to the nearest store. Well, not speeding. He was always cautious in cars - he had his reasons.

And it was in one of those convenience stores where he first saw you, memory engraved into his mind forevermore.

You were beautiful that was for sure. Specks of snow sprinkled over your hair and face, light glinting off them as you made your way into the store, still shivering from the cold as you stopped in you tracks, soaking in the sudden warmth. The harsh lighting just seemed to frame you, like a halo of sorts, a spotlight sending his attention screaming to you. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Something about you distracted him, If just for a second, from the chaos in his head. The voices and the constant war of emotions died down, to make room for a new emotion. One he hadn't felt in years.

Love.

Toby knew it was love - what else could it be? His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt giddy with what must be affection as he stared at you. He wasn't used to the feeling, but what he knew was it was better than any temporary high his missions could give him, sharp as an axe and twice the rush.

You must have noticed his staring, because by the time he came to his senses and focused again you had met his gaze, head tilted with a nervous half-smile on your perfect face. He had made you smile. A nervous one, but yet a smile, nonetheless.

A sharp crack sounded as his neck jerked, bringing him screeching back to reality, breaking the eye contact and bringing his gaze down to his poorly bandaged hands. Oh, how he wished he dressed better.

He hadn't even bothered to throw on a bandage on his face to cover his gash, instead opting for a single-use blue face mask Jack had lying around. The hoodie he was donned had thumb holes ripped into the cuffs, and he hoped like hell it wasn't one of the ones with obnoxious blood stains. He couldn’t see any on the front, but he would not put it past him to somehow have some sprayed on his back, he got pretty.. Brutal when in the zone.

The next time he looked back to you, you were bent over a little, looking down at some energy drinks. He allowed his eyes to drift over you, taking in everything. Before he could take out his phone and take a photo - not in a strange way, of course, just to remember the occasion - he ticced. At the most inconvenient time possible, naturally. 'Birdie!' he chirped out, followed by a bird whistle, which sent you looking behind yourself in startled confusion, and Toby's gaze to his hands once again.

He continued skirting around you for the next minute or so, before it happened. He was kneeled down, looking at the drinks you were looking at before, imagining sharing one with you, hands brushing each other’s. Toby could finish it in one gulp, seeing you pout, then cup your face and kiss it into your mouth, watching you squeal and close your eyes, lean into him. Some might argue this was too soon, or strange to imagine, but Toby knew it wasn't. He was in love with you, after all, so it was normal.

He was brought out of those pleasant daydreams by a loud clatter, looking down. He'd knocked some drinks off the shelf.

"Fuh-fuck." he cursed quietly

He reached down to fetch them, but someone got to it first - you got to it first. Your hands were so small as they picked it up, he wanted to cup them in his hands and kiss them, feel your soft skin against his own, callous and scarred.

"Th-thanks" he muttered, looking down at you again as he rose up to his full hight, a few inches taller than you are. "S-sorry about that, I have tour- wow! - Tourette’s. I have Tourette’s."

"It's fine" you gave a little smile, nervously picking at your hands. "Don't worry about it."

The first thing that struck him was your voice. It was.. Perfect. It suited you perfectly. He wanted to play it on loop, set it as his ringtone, his new favourite song.

The second? You didn't judge him for his Tourette’s. Of course, you didn't, you were perfect. You were made for him; you wouldn't judge him for anything like that. You weren't like anybody else. He wanted then more than anything to take you in his arms right there, lift you up and take you back to the mansion, to his room, hide you from the rest of the world, have you all to himself. Instead, he waited behind you at the checkout, taking in the faint smell of you, trying to keep a handle on his ticcing and twitching, at least when you were there.

When it was his turn he barely looked at the cashier, slapping a wad of cash on the table and watching him sort through it, bowing his head a little under tobies harsh gaze, snatching the change as soon as it was handed to him. He couldn't lose you, let you get too far, he had to keep track of you.

He tracked you like he would a victim, trailing behind you in the Land Rover, just far behind enough you wouldn't register it, a few cars back. He followed you to an apartment block, parking across the road, watching as you exited the car, oblivious to the eyes of your future lover trailing you.

Thankfully for him you were on the first floor, obvious from the way light visible in one of the windows turned on a few seconds after you entered the building. He made a mental note of the room you stayed in and pulled out from the car park, making his way back to the mansion. It would be suspicious if he came back too late. He would come back for you, though. He had to.

And that he did. He started with simple things, waiting outside the apartment for you to leave and trailing you, learning your routines, your most visited locations, anything about you he could pick up. You liked to read, adorable. He would love to read with you, having your tiny form on his lap, book in hand, resting against him. But until then he would settle for entering the bookstore after you, trailing his hands over the shelves he knew you touched.

It was through this book-store that he finally found your name. His lovers name. He was skulking around the shelves just out of your view, watching you, and occasionally taking a quick photo, with the new phone he had recently brought. More modern than the last one - not just because he needed a better one to film you with, but the decent camera really didn't hurt.

Not in a creepy, stalker way of course. He was sure if he sat down and asked you, you really wouldn't mind.

"Oh, Sidney!" You called, waving to a girl at the counter. You knew her? "Hey!"

"Oh, hey [Y/N]."

[Y/N]. That was your name. His [Y/N], soon to be [Y/N] Rogers. He felt giddy with delight.

He didn't stop there, either. As time passed, as he memorised your routine, the shitty movie theatre you worked at, your favourite stores and café's and places to be, he started to know when you would and wouldn't be in your apartment. And what good proxy didn’t know how to lockpick?

Your apartment smelt like you, that was the first thing that struck him. A light, airy sort of scent, that he just couldn't get enough of. He found himself leaning down, opening a drawer and taking a long sniff. It looked like mostly fresh laundry, hoodies and shorts.

He had time; he knew that much. You wouldn't return from your job at that crappy local movie theatre for at least another 3 hours. It was a decent enough job, he supposed, though his skin crawled at the thought of you getting hit on or yelled at by customers. He had had half a mind to follow you and wait just outside, to give anyone who gave you a hard time or even looked at you funny a piece of his mind. He refrained, for now however, deciding instead to make the most of his time and spending it getting as close to you as physically possible. Speaking of close..

As he rummaged through your drawers, he came across one with more.. Intimate content. Underwear, it looked like. Your underwear. He reached his hands into the dresser, taking out a bra almost reverently. This had touched your skin, and not just your skin. Your breasts. He was indirectly touching your breasts. His face was burning and his heart was pounding as he held it, grinning so wide it would have hurt if he could feel pain.

He set it back down in the drawer as another thing caught his eye, what looked like a matching set. Lacy black panties and a skimpy black bra. He hadn't imagine you'd own something like that, but he wasn't complaining. Quite the opposite in fact. He'd ask you to wear it for him when you two were together, but for now, his imagination would suffice. He stuffed a pair of panties he was sure you wouldn't miss into your pocket, and turned to look at the rest of the room.

Over the next week or so, he made himself at home when you weren't there. It was as if he was your lover, your live in boyfriend. He used your toothbrush, laid in your bed, next to where you would lay, imagining your sleeping form lying next to his. He 'borrowed' your clothes and rummaged through your bins, and even killed those racoons that had been raiding your bins for you. He did feel a little bad for the beasts, but anything that inconvenienced his love could not be tolerated.

As a testament to his own self-control, he managed to prevent himself from hiding in your closet and watching you sleep for the majority of the days, no matter how tempting it was. That was, until, you tripped and hurt your ankle on the way to work. And since he could hardly pick you up and kiss you and take care of you, he would do the next best thing. Stick around and make sure you were okay.

That was all he was doing, he told himself, as he shut the door on himself, leaving a good 30 minute window for you to get back. He was being a good boyfriend.

The closet wasn't quite spacious by any means, but he fit fine, If his legs were bent at a weird angle. What did it matter? It wasn't as if he could feel them cramping, and even if he could, it would be worth it to be so close to his beloved. Perhaps it was stupid, reckless. What if he ticced and alerted you? What if you ran, or called the police? Nevertheless love clouded over his logic and better judgement, and so he stayed.

He was euphoric when you got back, not even casting a glance at the usually empty closet. He peered through the gap in the door with wide, enraptured eyes as you continued your daily routine. He stayed staring as you sat on your laptop, and especially as you changed into more comfortable clothes, facing directly at him. It was hard to tell whether the pounding of his heart in his throat and his shaking hands as he took the phone out were nerves at the thought of being seen, or excitement at seeing you so bare in front of him, in just your underwear.

When he felt the tightness in his pants, he decided it was the latter.

-o0o-

Over the next few days, he became a regular in your closet too. Spending the night in the mansion became a rarity that he only happened to do when he came back from a late night mission and needed a shower and change of clothes. He preferred being with you, of course, no one enjoys being away from their partner.

The winter was fading by the time he worked up the balls to talk to you again. You were at work in the movie theatre, and he decided he would visit you. He would charm you, and ask you for your number, he had it all planned out.

He donned the best clothing he could find in his closet - a Black turtleneck instead of his usual scrappy hoodies, some trousers, he'd shined his boots, and even worn some cologne! He'd stolen it from a victim previously, and until now, he never had a reason to wear it. He gave himself one last cursory glance in the mirror on the way out, checking his hair wasn't as unruly as usual and that his gash was covered, and left.

The movie theatre wasn't too busy, he was relieved to see. There were only two people on cashier duty, you, and another girl. Most people were in her queue, he noted. She looked pretty, he supposed that was the reason why.

Idiots. Why even look at her when they could be blinded by the perfection that was you? Although, internally he was glad really. Less competition.

He tried to seem as casual as possible as he strode in, taking his place in your line, behind what looked like a young couple. How ironic, Toby thought, that he was behind a couple. That was what they were about to be. In love, holding hands, giving each other knowing glances and kisses on the cheeks.

When it was his turn, he walked up to you, jerking his neck and giving a nervous smile, trying and failing to seem like some confident heartthrob.

"Oh, hey, I know you" You spoke, returning his smile. You remembered him. Had you been thinking about him too? "You're uh.. Convenience store guy, right?"

"Y-yeah, that's me. Hey."

"Hey" If you continued smiling like that at him he might just turn into mush in front of you. "What can I get for ya?"

"Oh, uh.." He looked up at the digital signage showing the movies on, deciding on some generic looking horror movie "H-how’s 'The - wow! - the Blackcoats daughter'?"

"One ticket for the Blackcoats, alright. Anything else I can get for you sir?"

"Muh-my names Toby, not sir" He stuttered out, earning a little laugh from you that made his heart soar "One B-bucket of popcorn please? L-large"

"That was horrible. I'm [Y/N]. " you respond, before you turn around, perfect hair swishing behind you as you start to fill up a box of popcorn for him. Now was his chance. C'mon Toby, c'mon- She remembered him, she must like him too.

"O-oh, and I forgot one - birdie - one thing."

"Hm?" You turn and face him again

"c-could I get your number? To g-go." He gave you the most charming smile he could muster, though It most likely ended up looking like a begging puppy, desperate for a treat.

You were surprised for a second, blinking a couple of times, before he could see your face flush the prettiest pink you'd ever seen, opening your mouth for a second, searching for a response. You seemed flustered - he made you flustered. God, you were so cute it made him ache. "W-well, sure, do you want me to write it down, or..?"

"I-I have a phone, hang on" He fished his phone out of his pocket, quickly checking his photos app was shut. It would be unfortunate if you saw just how much he adored you quite yet.

You took the phone and typed it in, naming your contact '[Y/N] :)', before handing the phone back. As he took it, your fingers brushed his, and he could of sworn he felt actual electricity pass through you, fingertips tingling where he left yours.

He sent a little text 'Hi, it's toby :)' to test you hadn't given him the wrong number by mistake, smiling even wider when your phone gave an affirmative chime, his bandage over his mouth crinkling a little.

"T-thanks" He managed, sure his voice sounded positively giddy with delight.

"No problem" You smiled back at him "Have a good view!"

He took his ticket and popcorn, and in his excitement, strode out of the movie theatre entirely, forgetting the movie he'd brought. His head was far too full of thoughts of his beloved.

-o0o-

As much as he longed to spend another night with you, that day he had a mission to attend to. It didn't dampen his mood however, he didn't think anything could. He got your number. You liked him! You had to, why else would you give it to him? He was so excited he was practically vibrating.

He swung one of his hatchets over his shoulder, practically skipping down the hall and out the door to where Tim and Brian were waiting to murk some oblivious camper who had decided to set up camp in the forest.

"Someone's in a good mood" Tim spoke with his southern drawl, flicking his cigarette butt onto the forest floor and crushing it with the heel of his boot, before taking his mask and covering his face fully once again, letting out a tired sigh. He was one of the few proxies who didn't take much joy in killing.

Toby just nodded. He sure was.

Brian was silent, striding ahead of them, presumably in the direction of their latest victims. His AK-47 strapped to his back, and the baclava with the odd looking frown already donned.

"Hoodies frontin'" Tim spoke, explaining the silence from the man, as he followed along. Hoodie was generally non-verbal, so it didn't surprise him.

Toby had trouble concentrating, on the walk to the campsite. His mind kept drifting to you. More than once Tim had caught him taking his phone out and glancing at the screen. He was just checking if you'd responded to his text, even though he assumed you wouldn't until your shift was over.

"Waiting for somethin'?" Tim spoke, briefly pausing his walk to look at Toby

"Nuh-nothing."

Their short interaction was interrupted by Hoodie holding his hand up to silence them, pointing to a tent in the woods a little way ahead of them. It looked to be a family of three. A father, a daughter, and a Wife. All easy enough targets, no visible weapons save for the pen-knife on one of the logs. That wouldn't be even close to a match for one of them, let alone all three.

"We'll each take one" Tim said, breaking the silence, earning a nod from Hoodie and a 'yep' from Toby. It was go time.

Toby started to walk over slowly, before stopping, just before they noticed him, wet leaves making soft sounds under his feet. He readied his hatchet, holding it behind his head. Three, two, one..

Thwack.

The hatchet landed where he wanted it with a wet thud, buried halfway through the mans forearm. Sure, he could have gone for the head, but he hardly felt like a quick kill. He needed a way to vent out all his excitement, after all.

The man was shocked to the point he couldn't move, eyes wide and staring in horror at his now half-attacked limb, nerves severed, falling limp in front of him with Toby's axe still lodged in. Toby himself let out a manic 'whoop whoop!', the adrenaline of the kill finally kicking in.

The shrill, terrified scream of the child was cut short by the echoing sound of a shot, and Toby watched as a round buried itself in her forehead. Hoodie, always the efficient one.

And then the man stood up, lunging for the knife, and his tunnel vision kicked in, as he sprinted to him, remaining hatchet in hand. It was somewhat impressive, Toby noted, he could even stand losing that much blood at once. Nevertheless, he wouldn't be standing much longer, as Toby barrelled at him full speed, sending the two of them sprawling into the ground, leaves flying up in a shower as they thudded down.

Toby came to his senses first, raising himself up, hatchet behind his head, grinning like the maniac that he was. Thud. Crack. The sweet sound of ribs crunching under his hatchet. He looked down, watching the way the blood squirted and pooled on the still-screaming mans chest. Again. Thwack. Crack. More blood, more screams. He was vaguely aware of it splashing his face as he licked his lips, acknowledging the familiar copper tang against his tongue.

In a sudden show of theatrics he dropped the axe to his side, bending down over the rib-cage and tearing the ribcage apart, the muscle and sinew nothing compared to his advanced strength. With a tear they were out of the way, strew either side of the now motionless corpse of the man. He plunged his hand into his chest, searching around in the guts, which were slippery with blood, before coming across what he wanted. The heart.

With a swift flick of his wrist he plucked the heart out of the mans chest, watching as it beat in his tight grip. He held it up, briefly considering gifting it to you. He could buy you some flowers and turn up at your door, blood-stained from head to toe, and present them to you.

"I killed him because I love you!" He'd say, and you'd swoon and fall into his arms and kiss him as he carried you back.

As oblivious as he was, he wasn't so stupid as to actually think your reaction would be so eager, casting the thought away. He snorted, throwing the heart so it hit the back of Tim, who was standing over the woman’s body, her neck neatly broken.

He spun around "Don't do that shit, Toby!"

Toby just giggled, righting himself and kicking the head of the body, watching it loll. As he stood up, he noticed something sticking out of his torso. Was that..? He pulled it out, and sure enough, there was the knife the guy had. Huh, he actually landed a hit. Kudos to him. The knife was discarded on the ground.

Hoodie cleared his throat, beckoning them to follow him back to the mansion, and so they did, in mostly silence. Tim neglected to point out Toby's incessant phone checking this time, thankfully.

He made his way back to the mansion, avoiding most of it's residents other than a quick scratch of Smile Dog. Locking the door to his room, stripping down and dumping his axes on his bed along with his phone, glancing down at where the knife had wounded him. Sure enough, it was already starting to scab up. One benefit of being a proxy was it was really, really hard to get hurt.

He slipped into the shower, not bothering to change the temperature on the water. He couldn't feel it after all, why bother?

By the time he'd gotten out, less than 10 minutes later, he chucked a towel round himself, not bothering to comb his mop of hair. He'd gotten all the blood out of it, that was good enough.

He leant over, dripping water on his bedsheets and dirty clothes, to check the phone. He beamed, looking down at the notification on the home screen, Letting out a content kind of sigh. He swept the bloody clothes and axes off the bed, dropping the towel on the floor and crawling in, not bothering to get dressed. He was too excited to talk to you now, what did that matter?

'Hey :)' You'd said, followed by 'Sorry the response was late, was still at work'

He briefly debated his response, before settling with a simple 'It's fine :)'

'How are you?'

'I'm good' he paused, he didn't want to seem too dry. 'Just been working out.' Well.. It was just a little lie, really. All that running and killing counted as exercise, surely.

He talked to you for almost a whole hour, kicking his legs like a schoolgirl every time you'd responded to him. He'd asked about your favourite book series, grinning as wide as he could when you infodumped to him. You felt close enough to share this with him! He was over the moon.

Eventually it came to an end as all good things do and you said goodnight, telling him you had work the next morning. And you needed to rest. He knew. It was cute you wanted to tell him though, like you cared, wanted to make sure he didn't feel like he was being ignored. You were so considerate; his lover was so cute.

He turned out the lights, laying on his side with the phone, scrolling through the pictures and videos he had of you. It had become a nightly routine whenever he was in the mansion, to help you feel closer to him.

He came across a photo he had recently taken - you in that matching black set he'd found when he first broke into your apartment. You were trying it on in the mirror, and holy shit, you looked perfect. The most beautiful thing he'd ever laid his eyes on. Even now, in a slightly grainy image taken through the drawer of a cupboard, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Sure enough, he felt a familiar feeling in his lower stomach, looking down. He could spare a few minutes before he went to bed.

#ticci toby x reader #ticci toby #creepypasta #fic #cw he's a weirdo

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comingdownwithme · 17 days

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hey M could u maybe..perhaps..possibly give the name of that ticcijeff fanfic? 👀✨

I've referenced two fanfics in my blog so far, so I'll just share both since I don't know which one you specifically want-

"Sun so hot I froze to death"

This is the fic that singlehandedly made me ship TicciJeff! It's a short, 9 chapter fic about the aftermath of the crash that led to the death of Toby's mother and sister, people going missing in the woods by his house, and the deformed monster that snuck into his room and his heart

A lot of the stuff written here inspired like, 60% of my headcanons for these two, so there's that 😭 I absolutely recommend this!

"Do I know you?"

This one is a pretty recent fic, and it's not bad either! It hadn't influenced me as much as "Sun so hot I froze to Death" did, but the concept of Jeff and Toby meeting somewhere along their lives really hit me and I thought I'd take that concept for myself lmao

#creepypasta #asks #ticcijeff #ticci toby #jeff the killer #fic recs #fanfiction #recommendations

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dreamyweathersstuff · 1 year

Text

Nothin ruins a good fanfic than somebody describing somebody getting graped in detail

NAH OR THAT DUMB SHIT THATS LIKE

“Even if u say no he’ll still fuck u hard”

Like what happens to consent is hot?

Writing grape is not cute 🌝😇

COUGH COUGH

*jtk fans* ‼️‼️

COUGH

But seriously

This goes to everybody stop normalizing stuff like this just because the character is attractive

Rape fics have been normalized a little too much

#creepypasta #slenderverse #jeff the killer #marble hornets #slashers #ticci toby #everymanhybrid #thomas hewitt #brian hoodie #bubba sawyer #fanfics #slashers x reader #jeff the killer x reader #ethan landry x reader #ticci toby x reader #homicidal liu x reader #eyeless jack x reader #this shit goes to every fucking writer #stop rape fics

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greenpumpkinart · 9 days

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regarding a post you reblogged, if someone were to potentially write more ticcijeff ao3 fics, are there any ideas you'd particularly enjoy seeing written? (- design anon! though i know this isn't about character design, haha)

Ogh… Im a huge softie when it comes to writing n’ stuff I love putting actual literal serial killers in domestic situations. No fighting no being toxic to each other just, show me how these people miss being human.

I wanna see them comforting each other, I wanna see them being cute I wanna see their love languages. I’m a whore for hurt comfort and getting hurt is part of their job descriptions a lot of the time. I want to see them being human.

For my interpretations at least, all Jeff has ever wanted is a family. Someone he can take care of unconditionally. I can only imagine how homesick they can be sometimes when it comes to missing the good things about home. They were all so young when tragedy struck, they never had a say.

They’re just humans no matter how scary and spooky they can be. They can feel love and compassion for each other, even it that takes a long time of building trust and breaking down walls. I wanna see that.

No offense but also full offense if I read another fic where jeff is a full on domestic abuser piece of shit I might blow up a building. Same goes for Toby I fear. I don’t care if they’re serial killers, everyone has different interpretations. I’m just sick and tired of seeing this one. Its boring. Give me some human emotions. Give me the process of building trust. Give me the horse girl movie between these two im BEGGING you.

#creepypasta #jeff the killer #ticci toby #ticcijeff #I’m a huge sap I probably am the only dude on this site with this opinion #but I’ll die with it regardless #I just am very tired of seeing every fic being the same I guess #pffflllffpfppp #go my scarab

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vulturesrottencorpse · 1 month

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Ticcijeff is way too underrated it's ACTUALLY KILLING ME PPLLLLEAAASSEE they could be such a good ship d NOBODY SEES IT LIKE YWLLOKOSHABAABHAB HELLLOOO THEY'RE SO GOODNTOEGWTHEREBBDNDNS there's almost no good media of them out there(fanart, fics, hc, ect) and it's KILLING ME because I need to feed my addiction HSHSHBDHSBSHSMAIWBFBHDNAJANDHJDN

#Peaasppaldpelpazdeplease fic writers #Make more ticcijeff fics and my life is yours #guys i'm going insane #i need them #creepypasta fandom #jeff the killer creepypasta #creepypasta #creepypasta characters #creepypasta headcanon #jeff the killer #ticci toby x jeff the killer #ticcijeff #creepypasta ticci toby #ticci toby #gay

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forsakenmb · 1 day

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The beds we make

Pairings - Tobias E. Rogers x Reader

Word Count - 5.2K

Warnings - stalker! Toby, non-con/dub-con, murder, mentions of death, violence, choking, implied-somnophilia, knife play, humiliation, bondage(?).

Darkness enshrouded every corner of your mind, like an endless void sucking you into its depths: as it did every night for the last six months. A constant and overwhelming sense that someone is watching your every move at all time, the itch in the back of your mind consuming you in your most vulnerable state.

Suddenly, a loud pounding rapped on the wood of your bedroom door, waking you from your restless sleep. Your heart stopped in your chest for a moment, another wave of anxiety rushing through your body, goosebumps rising on your skin.

Then, a familiar voice called out to you from the other side of it. “Are you still sleeping?” Tara said, knocking on the door again.

“I'm awake” you responded, your voice scratchy and uneven as you slowly disentangled yourself out of the blankets. Begrudgingly, you trudged to the door, unlocked, and flung it open to reveal Tara Allen, your roommate and close friend since your freshman year in college.

Tara is undeniably beautiful, her long dark hair and dark eyes matching the tan complexion of her skin perfectly. She's always been quite taller than you, her slender figure standing at the door looking at you as if you were from another dimension.

“You look like shit,” she laughs, examining the dark circles under your eyes, the restless look on your face.

“Haha” you laugh sarcastically, walking to your bed and plowing down onto the sheets, “Very funny” you said, shoving your face into the plush comforter that rested on top.

“We have to get going,” Tara said, tugging on your oversized sleep shirt. “Traffic is gonna be awful,” she groaned.

Looking up through your heavy eyes, you saw that the sun was just barely peeking over the eastern horizon, darkness still settled over the skies. “It's like 5:00 am,” you said.

“Exactly. It's like 13 hours away” She said, almost enamored. turning around and leaving the room.

Tara's parents had given her the keys to a small getaway cabin they owned so you two could have a ‘girls trip’ after midterms. With school and the constant feeling of being watched, getting away was what you needed. The cabin was located in the densely wooded mountains far from the city and covered in a thick layer of snow.

Flipping onto your back, you stared up at the ceiling, the room still covered in a sheen of blackness. Your anxiety was beginning to spike up again, washing over you like ice water. You sat up, looking out your window at the streets below, ‘No one can see you’ the words rang through your head like a church bell, the small peace rushing the ever-growing anxiety out of your mind for now. A groan left your lips when you stood up and made your way over to your dresser.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

“Wake up,” Tara said, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching over and nudging your shoulder. “We're here”

A long yawn slipped from your lips, your brain slowly coming to consciousness. Looking out of the window, you noticed that the car had come to a complete stop in a parking lot.

The area surrounding it was densely forested. Pines, spruces, and hemlock trees covered the landscape, making it seem like you were hundreds of miles away from another living person. The different kinds arose above the ground, standing tall in thick columns.

A blanket of fluffy snow covered the ground and trees alike, more flurrying down from the clouds in a silent rain.

A little off to the side, you could see a pathway ascending through the trees and up the mountain, one that people used to hunt and trail along. The compact dirty frozen under the thick layer of frosty powder.

“It's a short hike from here” Tara said, slipping the key from the ignition and shoving it into the pocket of her coat.

Nodding in response, you zipped up your heavy jacket and tightened the laces on your shoes. The air was cold and frigid, like thousands of tiny needles puncturing your lungs as you stepped out of the vehicle.

“We're gonna have to drive to the nearest town for supplies” Tara explained, opening the backdoor and sliding her backpack out and onto her shoulders. “But we should be okay for tonight”

The weight of your bag was settled on one shoulder, the other hand carrying a small ice chest. The only sounds through the trek to the cabin was the ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ of the snow beneath your feet, the rustling of branches in the harsh winds, along with the chatter of wildlife a whisper through the dense bushels of evergreen shrubs, winterberry, and hostas that littered the path, the gnarled underbrush covered in a pristine layer of sparkling white crystals snagging against the fabric of your sweatpants.

“Just up over this bend” she said, treading carefully over a patch of ice. The trail was becoming narrow, harder to see the longer you walked on. Approaching the bend, you saw a rustic cabin sitting on top of the hill, a small rickety porch sitting in the front, a large bay window next to the door. Dying vines had begun to reclaim parts of the exterior, crawling up the bricks of the fireplace only to die.

Snow began falling harder, blizzarding around you in millions of little clusters. The cold started nipping at your fingertips, turning them a bright red. “Let's get inside” you said, a shiver running down your spine.

The house looked uninhabited, an untouched layer of snow covering the porch. The screen screen door looked worn down, the mesh fabric peeling away from it and withering up. The wooden front door opened with a loud squeak of the hinges.

Inside of the cabin was almost completely barren, next to the door was a small dust ridden table. Walking down a short corridor to the living room, the only light coming from the windows lining the walls. At the end of the hall was a pair of double doors, leading out onto the snow doused back deck and into the yard, a winter wonderland.

The interior of the room only held a love-seat with a white sheet draped over the top of it and another end-table. Feeling along the wall for the lightswitch, nothing happened when you flicked it on.

Setting the ice chest down, you called out, “Powers out,” while walking further into the room.

“I probably have to reset the box,” Tara said, now walking into the living room. She walked to the fireplace next to which a silver box that hung on the wall, opening the box, she began flipping the circuit breakers. After a couple of silent moments, a low humming coursed through the small space as the light flickered on.

“The heat should kick in soon,” she explained, walking to a connected doorway. “Kitchen is in here” flicking on another light, revealing a small room. An electric countertop stove and a small mini fridge that sat underneath the counter on the wall opposite the threshold to the left was a countertop and a sink to the right, a small dining table.

“There's only one bed, but we can share it,” she said, walking back out into the hallway and to a closed room. Pushing the door open showed it was a bedroom.

A full-bed sat against the back wall, another white cloth decorated the mattress, a nightstand on each side, along with two massive windows and a dresser against the same wall. Two doors sat on the opposite sides of the room. “Closet and bathroom” was all she muttered before ripping the sheet off of the bed, throwing her bag down along with herself onto the mattress. The bed was adorned with pillows and a thick comforter.

Setting your bag down on the floor, you strolled back out of the room and to the backdoor. Stepping outside into the winter-woodlands, the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange and pink glow over the snow.

The wind was picking up, trees being jostled by the strong gusts hitting them. The chatter of animals was now gone, replaced by an eerie silence. Then, somewhere off in the distance, you heard the unmistakable ‘CRACK’ of a branch breaking underneath the weight of something, someone.

Your heart stopped, dropping somewhere in your stomach. ‘There's no one around for at least two miles’ the voice in your head refuted. Then, somewhere out of the corner of your eye, you saw a reflective orange glint, like eyes staring at you. Your body caught up with your mind, and you sprinted back into the house, slamming the door shut behind you.

Tara walked out of the bedroom, and a wary look covered her face. “What's wrong?” she questioned, walking closer to you.

“E-Eyes,” you panted, your breathing erratic and your heart beating violently in your chest. Taking a deep breath, you looked at Tara and said, “I saw a pair of eyes.” Tears began to bubble at your lash-line.

“It's probably an animal. We are in the middle of the forest” she said in a passive-aggressive tone, her eyes involuntarily rolling.

‘She's right’ the rational part of your brain thought. Taking long, deep breaths in and out, you could only nod and walk back into the bedroom, sitting down on the plush mattress.

A strong current of warm air began flowing through the rooms, heating up the chilly cabin. “Heats finally on,” Tara said, the edge in her tone letting on to her frustration.

Again, you could only nod, anxiety flowing through your veins, increasing your heart rate further. You know what you saw, but again the forest is full of different kinds of wildlife. “We should unpack” you stuttered out.

This time, Tara nodded and walked out into the hall. You stood up, picking your bag up from the ground and setting it on the bed.

The majority of the bag was just clothes and other miscellaneous items like an MP3 player and earbuds, a thermostat bottle, and a zip knife. The handle is a polished wood with gold colored stainless-steel trimming, the end of the knife curved upwards and into a hook. The sharp blade sheath in a washcloth, sealed with a rubber band. You bought it when eyes began watching your every movement.

You slipped the knife into the hoodie you sported and began putting away your belongings. Looking up, you saw the sun had receded; another bout of darkness consuming the world around you, threatening to eat you whole as well. The snow was falling harder than before, your visibility almost completely impaired. Looking out into the abis, your heart picked up, your pulse starting to quicken as your eyes adjusted to the dark, and what looked like the silhouette of a person became clearer and clearer. Coming closer and closer.

A gasp wretched itself from your throat, your feet scrambling to get away but tripping over each other instead causing you to crash to the floor.

Hastily getting up, you dash out of the room and across the hall to the living space, a hot inferno blazing in the fireplace, Tara cooking something in the kitchen, blissfully ignorant.

Turning around when you clamored into the room, she saw you hunched over, hands steadying themselves on your knees.

“Tara, there is someone out there!” You cried, tears running down your face.

Again, irritation was present on her features. A look of annoyance. “No one is out there” she blew off, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I'm telling you, there is” you stammered, “I-I saw it” More tears bled down your face, your entire body trembling.

“There isn't! I have put up with this for six months” she said, her voice rising alongside her anger, “I'm asking you for a weekend of peace” an ugly sneer spread across her face.

Stomping out of the kitchen and passing by you to the bedroom, Tara shoved her shoes on. “Since you insist” she started walking down the hall, “I'll show you”

Following closely behind her, you hadn't realized how angry she'd been with you. Rounding the corner, she threw open the door and trudged out into the snow and halfway down the slope of the trail, the snow falling heavier. Then, at the top of her lungs, Tara bellowed, “There is no one out here!” anger bleeding through her shriek.

You only went out as far as the last step of the porch, your shoes still on from your last excursions outside. “Tara, come back in!” You called back, voice trembling in uneasiness.

You couldn't see her, the snow falling too heavily from above, the wind hollering through the night, branched clashing together in a ferocious battle, and again she yelled out, “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NO-” the sentence being cut off with a sickening ‘thud’, slicing through the air like a freshly sharpened knife. Nothing but the sound but rushing wind and a distinct ‘POP’ could be heard.

Your heart skipped a beat, catching somewhere in your throat. “Tara?” You croaked out, your tongue like a cement brick in your mouth. Stepping slowly off of the porch, you moved towards the apex of the hill to get a better view.

The thick clouds parted enough for a sliver of moonlight to peek through and let you take in the scene before you: Tara's unconscious- no, lifeless body laid face down on the frigid ground, the blade of an axe protruding out of her skull, her beautiful brown hair now black at the roots with blood as it seeped out around the weapon, her perfect tawny beige skin stained with red, painting the snow beneath her with blood. A person stood above her, a man.

Most of his face was hidden beneath a hood, but his lanky build was visible; the grayish-brown hoodie he wore was stained with blood, his jeans as well.

He stepped on her body, his boot-clad foot pushing it further in the snow then gripping the handle of the axe and ripping it from her head; the snow now staining crimson, the crevasse oozing more blood. The man's head slowly rose and through the light peering down from above, you saw a familiar reflective orange glint, and you knew he was staring directly into your fear-stricken face.

Tears crowded in your eyes, your breathing becoming heavy and erratic as you locked into a silent staring contest with the man who just murdered your best friend. The hand holding his weapon jolted in a fast motion, but did not come flying towards you like you had anticipated: still that knocked you out of your initial shock and you began barreling towards the treeline and into the snow-covered woodlands.

The forest was dark, a dense canopy of trees preventing any light from shining down, the thick underbrush cut at your ankles, low-hanging branches catching on your hoodie as you careened through the thickets of trees. Then you heard the thundering sound of heavy footsteps in pursuit, and you forced your legs to go faster to take you further away from this madman.

Struggling to breathe properly, you still kept running since you knew the moment you slowed down, he would be on you like a wolf and its prey. Suddenly the sound of whirling air flying by your head was audible before an axe was embedded in the trunk of a tree, pieces of bark and wood spraying out around it.

‘Faster! Faster’ your mind argued with exhaustion, as your legs struggled to flee. You'd never had to run for your life, not until now. A heavy cloud of fog began to roll in as you ran deeper into the woods, your vision even more impaired than before.

Zig-zagging through trees you soon realized you no longer heard his heavy footsteps behind you, but still you kept going further. The fog was getting too thick to see though turning everything around you into a misty haze, then the exposed roots of a tree caught your foot causing you to collide with the snowy forest floor and before you could think your body began rolling down a steep embankment you hadn't known was there.

Clawing at the solid earth to stop your fall was futile as the semi-frozen snow made getting an anchor difficult. Tumbling down the hill your speed only kept increasing, the steady decline seemingly going on to no end until suddenly your body stuck the trunk of a tree, cracking the side of your head against it; consciousness began to flee from you, the world around you being reduced to darkness but not before you felt the leering presence of someone standing over you.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The cold winds nip against your skin, a chill runs down your spine while you're rocked further into oblivion, cuddling into the warmth of the person carrying you.

‘Wait-’ you thought, eyes shooting open, and shoving at the chest of the man holding you before impinging with the snowy ground.

Scrambling to find your footing, a hand reached out and entangling itself in your hair while yanking back. A sob escaped your mouth, a wordless plea to let you go. Gripping at his wrists, you attempted to pull his hands away from you, but that only proved to anger him more: his digits curled further into your hair, pulling your head back as far as it would go.

“Y-You done?” His voice cut through the air like an axe, the sound sending shivers up your spine and more tears to your eyes.

Looking up at him, you saw an upside-down version of the man behind you; his hood was up still, messy chestnut hair spilled out from the top, his orange-yellowish goggles now hung around his neck, and dark soulless eyes stared back at you, a mouthguard hung from ear to ear, concealing the lower half of his face.

Reaching into the pocket of your hoodie, your fingers went and grabbed for the knife only to find it missing.

“Looking for this?” he jeered, pulling out your weapon, the cool metal of the blade shining in the moonlight.

“Let me go! ” You cried out, your fear now turning to rage at his words. ‘You done?’ as if he hadn't chased you through the woods, as if he isn't trying to kill you. “You're fucking pathetic” you sneered, more tears welling up in your eyes.

“I-I'm p-p-pathetic?” he chuckled, his voice dropping an octave, the grip he had on your hair tightened. “Says t-the o-one on her knees” then he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“You're disgusting” you grimaced, trying to pull away once again only to receive an emphatic tug, dragging you backwards onto the ground forcing another cry from you.

His hand left your hair, footsteps circling until he stood in front of you; crouching down so you were eye-to-eye, he reached out and gripped your chin and tilted it farther back. “You th-think I'm disgusting? That ‘fr-friend’ of yours is the the reason you're in t-this.” he growled, “But, I'll f-fucking show you dis-disgusting” he jeered, a deranged look in his eyes.

Uneasiness swirled in the pit of your stomach at the news, the surprise shown on your face.

His hand renewed its grip in your hair, aggressively pulling you up from the forest floor. “How about a game, hm” he said, a giddiness in his voice. “You tr-try and get ba-back to the cabin, if I don't c-catch you, I'll leave.”

“And if you do?” you questioned, your fear bleeding through into your voice.

“Well, I gu-guess you'll just ha-have to find out,” he said, the giddiness in his tone now replaced with something much darker, something much more sinister.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, your breathing heavy and erratic. You didn't need to find out, you already knew what he'd do: he'd kill you.

“I don't wanna play your fucked up game” you cried, knees threatening to give out underneath you. “You're gonna kill me anyways” now you were sobbing, tears streaming down your face, the cold winds chilling you further.

“Hey..” he cooed, his voice softening as if to comfort you. “I'm not go-gonna kill you” he said, his grip on your hair loosening “Not yet at l-least” then another sick bout of deep laughter filled your ears.

This time you couldn't stop yourself from collapsing to the ground, and sobbing into your hands. “I'm not playing this game, you fucking psycho!” you screamed, your rage and fear mixing together into a cesspool of emotions.

A sigh left him, almost as if he was disappointed. “F-Fine” he said, before the end of a blunt object struck you in the head and a familiar void spread around you.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Cold calloused hands ran up your thighs, giving them a rough squeeze, then to your hips and doing the same. Your mind began waking up, eyes slowly drifting open only to see him in between your now bare legs, hands traveling farther up to the waistband of your panties before receding and repeating the action.

His mouthguard was now gone, his eyes staring into yours. That's when you saw his full face; his skin a pale gray, snake bites adorning his bottom lip, and on the side of his face a large gash, one so deep you could see his porcelain white teeth from where you laid.

Your hands shot out, only to be stopped by a thick rope binding them to a headboard. “Y-You're finally aw-awake,” His grip on your thighs tightened, “Thought I'd have to fuck your unconscious body” he chortled, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Chills ran up your spine leaving goosebumps in its wake, another bout of sickness swirling in your stomach. Your legs moved of their own accord, kicking and thrashing about, hitting him on several occurrences until his hands gripped the back of your knees and pushed your thighs up to your chest, and held them there.

“What are you doing!” panic was laced in your tone, legs trying helplessly to get free.

“C’mon, I t-thought you were sm-smarter than that,” he sneered, settling one of his forearms across the backs of your knees, his now free hand sliding down the back of your thigh before traveling to your ass, giving it a harsh squeeze through the fabric of your panties.

Your leg shot out, connecting with his stomach causing him to fall back: in return a sharp slap was delivered to your face, a fiery inferno spreading across your cheek. Then he gripped your hips, his blunt fingers digging into the soft skin and flipped you onto your stomach, the rope cutting into your wrists and the headboard creaking lazily from the force.

His breath fanned against the shell of your ear, hips digging into your behind, pressing the bulge forming in his jeans into you. “I'm go-gonna fuck you s-so good, maybe you'll forget th-that your friend is the one w-who sold you like some wh-whore” he said through gritted teeth.

Tugging on your restraints to get free was proving unsuccessful, his hand slid down to your front, fingertips gliding up your abdomen and to the hem of your bra, playfully snapping the band. Your heart sped up, and you tried crawling farther up the bed only to be pulled back down by your hips.

“W-Wait” you gasped, squirming in his hold. “I-I don't know your name” it came out as a whisper, barely audible. Truly you knew it was a dumb question, but you just need him to slow down so you could think of a way out of this situation, to no avail.

A sudden burst of laughter filled the empty space around you, his manic cackles filling your ears. His breath fanned across your neck, “Toby” he said, his fingers back at your bra: they grabbed at the waistband and pulled roughly, breaking the clasp that held it together, the coolness of something sharp started tracing over your bare back.

‘A knife’ you thought. ‘My knife’ Now you were a crying, blubbering mess; weeps and wails escaping you as the weapon dragged across your back, to the strap of your bra and slicing through it, then repeating the action to the other strap. Your bra fell onto the bed beneath you, freeing your breasts.

The hand holding the knife discarded it, slithering its way across your stomach and up to your chest, grabbing and groping at the fat of your breast, pinching and twisting your nipple. A groan slipped from him, his hips rocking into your rear at an erratic pace.

His hand moved away from your chest, as did the hand on your hip. “S-So pretty, almost a sh-shame I'm gonna have to kill y-you” his words came out like venom, caused more tears to bubble up, and stream down your face.

“Please- I” was all you could manage, cries and wails racking through your body, you shook with fear, heart stammering against your ribcage.

“Please what, hm?” Toby purred, hands now dancing across the band of your underwear, fingertips just barely slipping in before retreating.

“I don't wanna die” you sobbed, head hanging low between your shoulders. You couldn't control your emotions any longer, your head was spinning and you thought you might pass out.

He cooed at you, a hand coming up and stroking your hair. “It's okay,” he whispered, “If you do good, we'll see what we can do” he began kissing and nipping at your jaw before murmuring, “How's that sound?”

As much as you hated him, your will to live took over and you weakly nodded. He continued kissing and sucking on your shoulder, his other hand slipping under the elastic band of your panties. He slid a finger through your folds, another deep groan was heard behind you. “Fuck, you're wet” he whispered against your throat.

His digits circled around your clit, rolling the bundle of nerves underneath the pads of his fingers, then sliding his lanky fingers through your wet heat and before long sinking into your slick cunt. Whimpers and uncomfortable whines left you as his cold fingers curled inside of you, before slowly pulling out and sliding back in, the palm of his hand teasing at your clit.

More tears crowded your vision as he drove his fingers in and out of you, “W-wait” you cried, pulling at the rope binding your wrists. The disgust in your stomach worsened as your walls squeezed around his fingers, the unwanted pleasure lighting your nerves on fire.

His hands retreated, the sound of rustling clothes filled the room. “You're doing so good, almost good enough to live” he said coolly, almost as if he wasn't threatening your life.

His weight settled back behind you, his fingers gripping the elastic band of your underwear, yanking them down to where your knees were planted against the bed. One of his hands gripped your hips, the other pumping his thick , veiny cock, then lining it up with your entrance. Pressing into you, the head of his cock slipped in your cunt, a dull-throbbing spread through your low body.

“Stop!” you sobbed, tugging at your wrists even as the rope began cutting into your flesh. You squirmed in his grasp, your hips trying desperately to pull away from him.

His hips slammed forward, pushing his cock further into you. “No” he said through gritted teeth, forcing himself the last couple of inches into you. “Y-You made your b-bed, now l-lay in it .”

Toby pulled out of you until just his tip remained inside, before ramming back into you. “Fuck, you're tight” he groaned.

It was like you were being split open, his cock sinking further into you with every thrust. Pain shot through your legs and up your spine, and sob tore from your sore throat. “Stop!-” you yelled, thighs shaking from his harsh abuse.

His hands disappeared from you, hips stilling as he grabbed at your hair and yanked back. “W-What the fuck d-did I just say” he snarled, his other hand coming up to your neck, the knife in it once again. “Now shut up, or I'll slit your fucking throat”

The hand knotted in your hair left, again gripping your hip and slamming back into you harder than before, the sharp blade still pressing harshly against your throat.

The pain began dwindling, pleasure blooming in its wake and twisting in the deep empty pit of your stomach attempting to consume you whole. A pathetic whimper escaped your throat, leaking into the air along with the lewd sounds of skin against skin.

The blade was withdrawn from the column of your neck, while he slowly pulled out of you, the hand brandishing the knife now clutched your hip along with the other and flipping you onto your back. “If-f I didn't know a-any better, I'd say y-you're enjoying t-this” he jeered, his lips curling upwards into a malicious grin while sliding your underwear the rest of the way off your body.

More tears slid down your flushed face, “No!,” you sobbed: shaking your head and tugging at your restraints with more fury than before, your hysteria creeping back in.

One of the hands on your hips snaked down to your cunt, rubbing lazy patterns on your clit. Electricity shot through your core and limbs, euphoria spreading throughout your body like a numbing static.

Then his cock tapped against your entrance, the head slipped back inside of you: a moan slipping free from your lips. His hips drove forwards, his cock stretching you out all over again before he pulled back and brutally slammed back in. More whimpers and moans spilled from your mouth like a degrading symphony.

He used your body like a toy, pulling you onto his length, then sliding you off until your legs were shaking and you were sobbing for him to stop.

A cold hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airways. “S-Shut up, and take it” he groaned, hammering himself harder into you. Your walls squeezed around his heavy cock, the head hitting against your spongy g-spot with every thrust.

Your stomach twisted with guilt and pleasure, guilty for feeling pleasure from this psycho, and for letting Tara die.

A knot in your stomach tightened every time Toby thrusted inside of you, incoherent whimpered and pleas spewed from your mouth as your orgasm raked through your body, eyes screwed shut and legs trembling around his waist. Toby's cock throbbed in your abused overstimulated pussy, hips driving himself into you roughly, then a warm sensation flooded through your walls along with the sounds of groans from the man above you.

His vicious thrusts slowed to lazily grinding into you, his heavy panting mixing with yours was the only thing heard in the small room, while his length stayed snug inside of you.

“I think” his voice was low as he spoke, his tone dark and malevolent. “I'm gonna have to keep you” and a low cackle was the last thing you hear before the end of something struck you in the head, and the world around you faded.

#smut #creepypasta #ticci toby #creepypasta smut #ticci toby x reader #dark fic #tw noncon

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sister-lucifer · 6 months

Text

A COLLAB WITH @cryptidcircuswrites ! PLEASE CHECK OUT HIS VERSION HERE!

Genre: Gore smut

Summary: A mission goes awry and Toby is shot straight through the skull. Tim decides to take the new hole for a spin, and Toby is more than happy to let him have it.

Content/warnings: OHHH MY GOOOOD DONT FUCKING READ THIS IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, Toby literally gets his brain fucked, bullet hole wound fucking, explicit gore, I cannot emphasize this enough STRAIGHT UP PENIS IN BRAIN SEX, brain creampie, guns/shooting/etc, age gap but everyone is a consenting adult, fake out death, Toby vomits a little at the end, cum leaking out of face holes it should never be in, mirror sex, rough dom top Tim, Tim bullies Toby for his trauma regarding his physically abusive father, use of homophobic language/slurs, degradation, just general nastiness, very mean spirited. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. THIS IS AS DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT AS IT GETS.

A/N: if you skipped the warnings on this one or didn’t read them all the way, go back and fucking look at all of them, otherwise don’t read.

Breaking and entering.

It’s a routine for Tim and Toby at this point.

Tim can brute force open any door, Toby can pick any lock, and both of them have long since shaken off any qualms about taking a life. They’re skilled at it now, neither of them ever leaving the cabin without their weapon of choice. In a line of work like this one, after all, you can never be too prepared.

This was supposed to be easy.

Three people in the house, a couple and their third wheel squatting in an abandoned vacation home. Bare bones interior, probably no weapons.

Probably.

A lot of good ‘probably’ had done them.

Toby had gone in while Tim stood watch in the doorway, just in case one of their targets tried to run out. His revolver fit into his palm like a glove, his grip confident and ready. He’s done this a million times before.

Tim can only hear the altercation going on in the back rooms of the house, but he has a good idea of what’s happening.

The sound of a hatchet coming down onto a throat.

One down.

A woman screams. Something knocks over, a shelf or a table. A splatter. Silence.

Two down.

A man cries out. Something hits the wall. Rogers swears. There’s a struggle. A gunshot rings out.

…A gunshot.

A gunshot?!

Footsteps.

Fast, frantic footsteps coming down the hallway.

Tim readies himself, aiming towards the dark hall with a hand that is far too steady. He’s holding his breath. The steps are getting closer.

In a split second’s time the last target emerges from the shadows, Tim’s gaze zeroes in on the whites of his eyes and the trigger of his revolver is pulled by a swift finger one, two, then three times.

The shots ring in his ears as the body falls limply to the floor, devoid of life in an instant.

Three down.

But still one bullet unaccounted for.

“Rogers?” Tim calls into the hallway, stepping over the body without looking down.

No answer.

“Rogers!” He says again, with more authority this time.

Nothing.

That little fucker runs his mouth like an engine at all hours of the day, but now he’s quiet?

A stabbing pain of fear twists in Tim’s gut.

Their ‘boss’ won’t let them die, he knows that. The pseudo immortality they’ve been given keeps their bodies functioning and regenerating even after some of the worst injuries one could imagine; he knows that, he’s felt it, and yet…

This silence is sickening.

He can’t stop himself from rushing into the makeshift bedroom, heavy boots on the creaky wood floor announcing his presence before he calls for his partner again.

“Answer me, dammit, Rogers!”

He looks around the room, scanning the blood splattered walls. Two bodies are slumped against them, opposite to each other, one with its neck severed and the head hanging on by a thread of viscera, and the other with half of its innards thrown to the floor. Neither are Toby, he knows that in an instant.

Then his gaze trails to the center of the floor.

The cold washes over him so suddenly he feels faint. He can feel the color draining from his face as he lays eyes on his partner, face down on the ground, a thick splatter of blood painting a moonlit halo around his head.

Or what’s left of it, anyways.

A hastily fired bullet has carved a path through the boy’s skull and out the other side.

Clean through.

Tim’s body seizes with shock, disgust, grief, and everything in between, tensing so suddenly and so harshly he nearly passes out. A hand clamps over his mouth as it opens in a silent scream, a gasp that can’t escape because he can’t breathe. He rushes to the body before he can stop himself.

“Rogers?! Rogers, get up!” He demands, but the way his voice cracks and trembles shows his true fear. He shakes his partner’s still body harshly, desperate to jar him into consciousness.

There’s no movement.

Not a sound.

Tim’s eyes start to wet behind his mask. He shakes harder, even bringing a fist down on his shoulder blade.

Nothing.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Toby!” Tim screams, landing a few more punches on his back, “I’ve seen you take worse than this, get up!”

Not even a twitch.

The realization settles in like splinters under Tim’s skin.

He backs away from the body, the room spinning around him. He grasps at his face under his mask, his lungs starting to expand and restrict so fast it’s painful. There’s a searing panic burning the back of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire body. He stumbles back and falls onto one of the now bloodied mattresses their targets had been sleeping on.

This isn’t happening.

He’s not really gone.

He’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone—

A sudden noise makes Tim jump out of his skin, his eyes shooting up to find the source of the sound.

Was that a…cough?

He looks down at Toby’s body.

It hasn’t moved.

Maybe it was just air escaping, or some other weird thing bodies do after death. If he didn’t get up already, then he must be…

Tim nearly screams when Toby suddenly splutters and hacks, his body jerking as he fights for air. Tim is frozen in place as he watches the partner he thought was dead slowly struggle to get up, managing to get on his hands and knees. He coughs again, spitting onto the ground and groaning at the unpleasant but not unfamiliar sight of blood.

“Yeugh…god, it’s in m-my nose,” Toby mumbles with a sniffle, wiping his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t notice Tim as he sits up on his knees, inspecting himself in a way that is far too casual.

…He has no idea what just happened.

Tim can feel his eye twitching as he stands up slowly, his frenzied gaze trained on the younger man as he approaches. Toby looks up at the sound of the footsteps, and Tim has to stop himself from reacting to the sight. His body trembles as he forces himself to stay still.

Toby’s right eye is completely gone. There’s not even a shred of the eyeball left, only a pulsing, bloody cavity he instantly recognizes as the entry hole of a bullet.

Toby blinks up at Tim with his remaining eye.

“S-Shit, I must’ve passed out when—bitch!—when h-he hit me, heh. What, you-you thought I was—grrrk!—d-dead for real?” Toby asks with a head tilt and an amused giggle. Tim’s eyes narrow.

Slowly Tim turns his head, following the imaginary trail the bullet would have made based on where Toby fell.

Right there, lodged into the decrepit wall right next to the doorway.

The first bullet.

Clean through, and out the back.

Toby follows his gaze, squinting in the dark to see whatever it is his senior partner is seeing.

“…O-Oh shit,” He mutters, “Talk about a-a close—don’t listen!—a close call—c-call—call me!—hehe…”

Tim stares back at him with a look in his eyes that says ‘You have no fucking idea.’

“…W-Why are you looking at me— a-at me like that?”

Tim looks around. For some reason, he’s not sure how to answer that.

That is, until he lays eyes on a conspicuously mirror shaped object draped in a sheet and pushed into the corner.

Yeah, it’s easier to just show him.

Tim shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks over to the mirror, trying not to rush. He’s annoyed with Toby for scaring him like that and nearly bringing him to tears, even if it’s not really his fault. Maybe startling him a bit will take the edge off that embarrassment.

Toby’s eye follows him closely as he walks, then watches as his hand slowly raises to grasp the sheet obscuring the mirror. His brow raises, curiosity piqued.

The sheet is pulled away in an instant. The cloud of dust that results makes Toby cough, trying to wave it away from his face. He squints through the grimy mist, struggling to make out his own reflection in the mirror.

“L-Look, Tim, I don’t know what it-it is that you n-need me to—suck it! fuck you!—see, but I-I don’t— Oh my fucking God?!”

There it is.

Toby crawls closer to the mirror, his remaining eye wider than Tim had ever seen it and the hole where the matching one would’ve been stretching gruesomely.

Tim winces. Toby can’t feel it, even if he could feel pain normally all that nerve damage would make it numb, but Tim can’t stop imagining what it would feel like.

“…Jesus Christ…” Is all Toby can manage as he looks at what remains of his face. He feels around the wound, getting far too close to touching the exposed insides for Tim’s comfort. Toby stares at himself for a long few moments. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Then Toby turns to his partner, and to Tim’s surprise, he’s sporting the widest, most lopsided grin he’s ever seen, his crooked teeth stained with blood on one side where it runs down his cheek from the wound. Tim holds back a shudder.

“The fuck you cheesin’ for?” Tim growls, walking around behind Toby to see him in the mirror, “You nearly got half your damn face blown off!”

“Relax, o-old man!” Toby replies without missing a beat, “In a-a few days there won’t e-even be a— b-be a mark…”

Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. That’s true, yes. An injury this extensive will take a bit to regenerate, but it’ll grow back like nothing happened. Still, Toby doesn’t even seem mildly disturbed. He practically saw himself die, and here he is giggling to himself and moving his face in odd ways just to see the horrid wound contort in the mirror. The quiet squelching noises it makes nearly bring Tim to vomit.

“…You’re not even a little put off by the fact that…you know. You’re missing half your fuckin’ face?!”

Toby lets out a sharp laugh at Tim’s outburst, amused by his clear discomfort.

“Don’t be s-such a—bitch! bastard!— baby, I-I think it’s—asshole!—I think it’s k-kinda cool. Besides…”

He turns to look up at Tim, yellow teeth glowing in the moonlight that leaks in through the busted windows.

“…I-I got a brand new hole f-for you to try out.”

Tim gasps in disgust. Before he can think a hand comes up to smack Toby upside the head, though he immediately regrets it when a splatter of blood is thrown to the floor as Toby rocks forward.

“Don’t say shit like that, you dirty fuckin’ pervert!”

Toby nearly breaks out into hysterics at that, grabbing his sides as he laughs like a maniac. His tics increase tenfold at the sudden rush of energy, his fingers flexing unnaturally and tearing at his sweatshirt.

“H-How can I not?! You m-make it so f-fucking—fuck! funny!— fun, haha!” Toby replies, his voice cracking as his head jerks involuntarily in all directions.

Tim crosses his arms, huffing in annoyance but not sure what to say. He can feel his cheeks getting warm under his mask. He hates when Toby laughs at him. It pisses him off like nothing else.

He stares daggers into Toby’s restless reflection as he leans into the mirror to inspect his wound again, mumbling to himself endlessly and doing his best to stay still.

Toby’s rambling starts to fade out as Tim glares at his mirror image. He can feel something dark bubbling up inside of him, its vines sprawling out and over his body as he marinates in his thoughts.

He thought he was gone.

For a second there, he really thought he’d lost Toby for good.

And now here he is, without a care in the world, looking at his own fucking gunshot wound like it’s a new tattoo.

Someone oughta teach this kid a lesson.

Tim’s not sure what comes over him, but something, a nagging little thought has settled into his brain and taken root there. It thumps in the back of his skull like a heartbeat under the floorboards. He pulls one of his hands from its glove, looking down at his bare palm.

“…You think this is all some joke, don’t you?” Tim mutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth. Toby doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“W-Why are so damn u-uptight, old man? It’s not—grrrk!—it’s not like I d-died. Psuedo-immortality, r-remember?”

“But you could’ve. You know at the end of the day you can’t really trust anything that monster gives you. It would kill you in an instant if it felt threatened or betrayed.”

“T-The fuck is your— i-is your problem?!”

Suddenly Toby isn’t all smiles anymore. His head jerks to the side violently, pulling a sickening pop from his neck. Tim is used to these mood swings, but that doesn’t stop the heavy tension that settles over the room.

“Y-You’re always on my back about something, a-aren’t you old man?!” Toby hisses. Tim’s ungloved hand squeezes and flexes at his side.

“You a-always got something to say about m-me, or what I—fucker! shit!—what I-I think, you can never j-just let me—“

Toby is cut off as a high pitched cry is violently forced from his throat, making his body spasm as it dissolves into an animalistic moan like neither of them have ever heard. It feels like every nerve in his body is seizing, splitting apart and contorting under his skin. He almost screams at the feeling, but he can’t manage it. He’s choking on nothing.

There’s a sickening squelch as something is ripped from the back of his skull, and he falls forward onto his hands, dizzy and struggling to breathe.

“W-What…what the f-fuck…was…”

He can’t even finish the sentence between his inability to process the unnatural sensation that just overtook him and the indescribable feeling still rippling through his body.

Slowly he cranes his neck to look back up into the mirror. Instantly his eye is locked onto Tim’s, but he isn’t looking back. He’s staring at something else.

He follows Tim’s gaze down slowly, swallowing thickly with a sudden nervousness. His eye widens as it falls on the thing that has captivated Tim‘s gaze:

His ungloved hand, the middle and ring fingers now dripping with blood and viscera not his own.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Did…d-did you just…”

Tim doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

For the first time in a long time, Toby is still. His twitching and jerking ceases, his face halts its uncomfortable wrenching; He’s still, and soundless.

There’s a beat of silence where they both just stare at Tim’s bloodied hand, neither of them moving an inch. It’s like time has stopped in this instant. Toby can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his brain. Something in his chest is twisting and turning with a burning emotion he can’t quite place yet.

He doesn’t even have time to process the sudden movement before Tim has plunged his fingers into the wound once again.

This time Toby is forced to watch his reflection in the mirror as Tim violates the gorey cavity, thick digits rooting around inside his head and shooting a new sensation through him with every touch. His entire body stiffens, his mouth falling open involuntarily as he loses control of it. He can feel his senses being reduced to mush as he groans, the endless sound falling from his lips in unintelligible waves. It’s mindless, desperate babbling, but he can’t do anything else.

Toby watches the depraved scene in the mirror until his eye starts to roll back in his head, further than it should be able to. Tim watches the hazel iris recede until only white is left. Only then does he finally give some reprieve, yanking his hand back and shaking off the chunks that come with it.

Toby’s head bows towards the ground as he catches his breath, his entire body rocking as he heaves desperately for air. He’s too preoccupied to notice the way Tim is leering down at him, his breathing now hot and labored.

“…How did that feel?”

Toby sneers at the question, not looking up.

“H-How did it feel?! You’re d-digging around—shhhh!— in m-my fucking brain, d-dipshit, how do you— d-do you think it f-feels?!”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I know it doesn’t hurt, so how does it feel?”

For some reason, Toby doesn’t have an answer to that. He wants to snap back with something witty and biting, to tell him it feels like Hell and back and if he doesn’t stop he’ll scatter his brains next, but…

That wouldn’t be the total truth.

“…It…I-It feels…” He stammers, unable to find the words. He sits back up on his knees, locking eyes with his partner in the mirror. Tim is silent. He’s anticipating the rest of that sentence. Toby thinks for a moment, a series of tongue clicks in an odd rhythm sounding as he pauses.

“…It…I-It wasn’t bad, if that’s w-what you’re looking for.”

Tim’s breath hitches.

Only Toby could hear a sound so small, yet so telling.

He has to push this further.

“A-Actually it was kind of…k-kind of good, y-you know? I-I don’t know—rrrngh!—how to explain it, but i-it just…it’s like n-nothing I’ve ever f-felt or imagined, I-I—“

Toby cuts himself off with a gasp as Tim grasps his hair tightly. His other hand moves to his belt. The sound of the metal buckle makes Toby shiver.

Tim leans down a bit, speaking lowly to his partner.

“Keep talking.”

Toby’s stomach flips.

Tim’s not giving him a choice.

“I-It’s like…fuck, it’s l-like every muscle in my— in my b-body is spasming like c-crazy,” Toby continues, watching with crazed eyes as Tim slides the belt from its loops. He grits his teeth as it clatters to the ground.

He doesn’t want this to stop.

He has to keep going.

“I-It’s like f-fire under my skin, b-but I can’t feel t-the burn…”

Tim’s hand moves to the fly of his jeans.

“…I-I lose all control of m-my body, I can’t—fuck off!—I-I can’t even think, i-it just all turns i-into gibberish…”

Tim tugs down his zipper, and Toby can see his twitching bulge straining against his boxers.

“…It’s l-like I can feel myself l-losing my mind, and I c-can’t do anything— d-do anything about it, I c-can’t even p-put—put it back! put it back!—put together a sentence…”

Tim hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. He starts to push them down.

“…F-Fuck, Tim, I-I wanna feel it again.”

Toby clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to break free as he watches Tim’s erection spring free from the confines of his clothes. He’s thick and uncut, throbbing with rabid need. Toby shudders as his partner lets out a relieved groan, breathing hard under his mask.

“S-Shit, Tim…y-your—your cock! your cock!—n-no! I mean you’re—your cock! your cock! fat cock!—dammit! I-I didn’t mean to s-say that—!”

“I’m taking you up on your offer, Rogers…” Tim growls, cutting off Toby’s attempt to explain himself. He grabs Toby’s head with both hands, fingers digging into the front of his wound on one side and the gash in his cheek on the other. This time Toby doesn’t bother to stop the moan that crawls up his throat as he feels Tim’s cock rut against the back of his head.

“…I wanna give this new hole of yours a proper fucking. What do you say?”

Toby can’t see Tim’s mouth, but he can tell he’s smiling from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his mask. Toby groans at the thought. He can’t stop the crooked grin that spreads across his pale face like butter on a hot pan.

“P…P-Please, Tim,” He whispers, and he knows he’s hit a nerve when he feels Tim‘s grip tighten for a moment.

“…Please what, Rogers?”

He figured he wouldn’t get it that easy.

“Please, Tim,” Toby continues, sucking in a breath and swallowing his pride, “I-I want you t-to fuck me, please—“

Tim ruts against the back of his head again, barely brushing his wound. He wants more.

“P-Please, fuck, I-I’m—need! give it!—I’m begging you! I need it, I-I need you to fuck m-my brains out, please!”

Tim shifts his hips. He’s lining up at the opening.

It’s working.

“Please, please, p-please, Tim, I-I want you to f-fuck my brain! I n-need to—fffuck! fuck! fuck!—I need t-to feel it! Please, dammit, j-just fucking—!”

Toby doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

Tim shoves himself inside the bloody cavity without warning, forcing Toby’s brain out of the way as his cock enters. The scream that rocks Toby’s body is as lustful as it is carnal and gruesome. He reaches up on instinct and grabs Tim’s wrists, not trying to pull his hands away but holding on for dear life before he loses the ability to move at all.

“You broke so easy,” Tim sneers as he bottoms out, talking over Toby’s uncontrollable moaning, “What would the others think if they saw you begging for dick like a whore on the street? Huh?!”

He punctuates his sentence with a sudden rut of his hips, making Toby yelp and his body jerk. His nails dig into Tim’s arms, and the pain is delicious.

Tim studies the scene before him in the mirror.

It’s disgusting. It’s horrid. He can see the tip of his leaking cock resting inside his partner’s skull.

He doesn’t want this to end.

He’s going to relish this opportunity, every sickening moment of it.

“What would they think…”

Tim starts to pull back, breath trembling at the slick noises from the movement.

“…If they knew I had you whining for me like a dirty fuckin’ sissy?!”

He pushes back in with even more force than before. Blood is forced out the front of the wound, dripping down Toby’s face and onto the floor, leaving a red trail on his skin. His meaningless babbling is music to Tim’s ears.

Again Tim pulls back, faster this time, and pushes in again. He watches Toby’s face in the mirror as he finds his rhythm, completely enamored as it contorts with overwhelming sensations that no human should ever experience. His mouth is hanging completely open, his tongue limp and lying against his chin as he pants and wails desperately like a dog in heat. He’s starting to drool from the lack of muscle control.

There’s something about watching Toby quite literally lose his mind at his hand that makes Tim feel like God.

“You know, I like you a lot better when you can’t run your mouth,” Tim says with a chuckle. He digs his fingers into the front of the wound, groping around in the cavity and feeling the pulsing meat shift under the pads of his fingertips.

“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell anyone about this, not gonna tell the others you’re a nasty fuckin’ faggot who’s so desperate for dick you’d take it in your brain…at least someone’s finally making use of the lump of meat in your head, eh?!”

He pulls Toby’s skull back on his cock hard and fast, fucking into the hole with more fervor than he thought possible. His arms are bleeding now from where Toby’s nails are digging in, his knuckles locked up as his motor function is ripped to shreds.

Tim’s eyes trail down the reflection as he thrusts, down to Toby’s body and stopping at the tent in his pants. There’s a painfully obvious stain on his groin now where his erection is straining against the denim of his jeans with wretched need. His precum is leaking through the material in viscous waves, a constant stream of shameful arousal. It looks like it hurts, like his zipper is about to burst, but Tim has no interest in granting him even that small mercy of freeing his hard-on.

“Damn,” He mumbles to himself, watching the liquid pool where the tip of his partner’s cock pushes against his pants, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just tolerating it to see how far I’ll go, you’re getting off on this shit! You’re a dirty fuckin’ boy slut!”

He’s getting mean, meaner than he really needs to be, but he doesn’t care. Toby might not even be able to hear him, and even if he can, Tim’s not going to waste this chance while his partner can’t snap back.

He ruts his hips more intentionally, trying to hit every spot he can. He’s catching on to patterns, that certain touches here or there make Toby twitch or jerk or yelp involuntarily. His eye has rolled back in his head almost completely. It looks agonizing, and it only makes Tim thrust faster.

“Then again, in that messed up little mind of yours I bet this is nothing. You’re so used to gettin’ beat on this practically soft to you, ain’t it?! Or did your old man slam your head into the concrete too many times for you to know the damn difference?!”

Tim’s practically screaming at him now, drool running down his chin and neck as he loses himself to the pleasure. It’s unbearably hot under his mask, but he can’t bring himself to release his death grip on Toby’s head to take it off.

“I should’ve put you in your place a long time ago, lord knows you’ve needed it for who knows how long!”

Tim angles his hips upward a bit, brushing against a certain spot that makes Toby tense and cry out suddenly. The thing Tim notices most, though, is the way Toby’s cock twitches in his pants. It spurts just a bit, not climaxing yet but getting dangerously close. The stain on the front of his pants is only growing with each passing second that Tim violates his brain.

“Oh, you really are disgusting,” Tim huffs, “You’re really about to cum in your pants, and I haven’t even touched your cock? That’s pathetic, Rogers.”

Tim angles his hips up again just to watch the precum gush from his partner’s tip, his stomach flipping in his gut at the thought that Toby is so, so damn close, but he can’t beg for more or touch himself or even move at all.

“Nngh…Like hell I’m gonna let a little bitch boy like you cum first, though.”

He takes a moment to adjust his grip. He’s preparing for the last stretch.

The speed of his thrusting increases tenfold, completely losing all sense of rhythm. He can feel the pleasure taking him over, melting his resolve and screaming at him to go, go, go, just keeping going, go until you can’t anymore, and that’s exactly what he intends to do.

“You better take all of my cum, Rogers,” Tim growls through gritted teeth, “Though I ain’t exactly giving you a choice, am I? You’ll take it whether you like it or not…”

He hasn’t looked away from Toby’s face in the mirror. The sight of it twitching and frozen in a state of screaming ecstasy is like a horrific work of art. Tim’s never going to forget it. He won’t forget any of this. Every second is burned into his brain, and he’s more than happy to keep it that way.

The gory cavity is carved into the shape of Tim’s cock by now, each thrust only feeding the growing puddle of blood and viscera on the ground below Toby. That stain will stay there forever, Tim thinks. A permanent reminder of the debauchery the two of them are so gleefully partaking in. The idea of someone else finding this old house scattered with bodies, walking around and not even knowing the half of what these walls have been subjected to…

God, that’s good.

The knot in Tim’s stomach starts to tighten.

He can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can Toby.

Tim angles his hips in that special way again, hitting that sensitive spot over and over and over again with each frenzied thrust. Toby’s practically soaking himself now, so close to the edge but not quite close enough to fall off, though he runs the risk with each passing second. It’s barely a matter of time.

Faster, faster, faster, that’s the only thing Tim can think.

More, more, more, that’s all he can think about.

Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more, more, more more more moremoremore—

“Shit!”

Suddenly Tim throws his head back with a wild noise, his cock releasing without warning into the bloody cavity he’s been so graciously desecrating. At the same time he brushes that spot again, and it’s finally enough to give Toby his release, too, only a second later. His cum soaks the front of his now completely ruined jeans, the shameful stain running down his groin and thighs. The scream he lets out as his climax rocks his body will haunt Tim’s dreams.

Tim’s thrusting doesn’t slow to a stop until it feels like his balls are empty. Only then does he finally go still, allowing himself to breathe. He looks up at the ceiling as he pants, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment as his orgasm gradually washes away.

Finally Tim allows his fingers to unfurl, releasing Toby as he pulls his cock from his ruined skull. It comes back soaked in blood and sticky with viscera, taking a few chunks with it. He tries to step back, but Toby’s still gripping his wrists.

He manages to shake him off, only for Toby’s body to go completely limp and fall forward, face first onto the dusty wood floor and into the puddle of mixed bodily fluids. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t move or show any signs of life beyond that. Anyone else would think he’s dead.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Tim mumbles with an eye roll, using his discarded glove to wipe off his now flaccid cock before tucking it back into his boxers and zipping up his pants.

He crouches over Toby, grabbing his hair and forcing him up from the floor back onto his knees. All Toby can manage is a pathetic groan. Tim studies his partner’s fucked-out face in the mirror for a moment, watching as the blood and seed lazily roll down his cheek and chin. He can’t help but chuckle to himself.

“…Anything to say for yourself?” Tim asks teasingly, shaking him a bit.

The only response he gets is the sound of gagging as Toby retches. Tim barely moves back in time to watch him cough up a horrible concoction of blood, cum, and God knows what else without being in the splash zone.

“Goddammit, watch it!” Tim scolds cruelly, “If you hurl on my new boots I’m leaving you like this.”

He at least has the decency to let Toby finish before scooping up his limp, helpless body. He carries him under his arm like a log, not taking any care to be gentle.

“I’ll get you back home to Eyeless,” Tim mutters, “He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he’ll patch you up good ‘til you’re all healed…”

Tim tries not to think too hard as he carries his partner out of the house, away from the crime scene and into the endless wooded darkness.

All is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Tim’s heavy steps on the dry leaves. That is, until what Tim thinks is a muffled giggle sounds from his partner. He stops and looks back, but there’s no more noise.

Dammit, he thinks.

Neither of us are going to be forgetting this.

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