Work Text:
Word Count: 500~✏ (Short Shot)
The static in the air wasn't just coming from the woods tonight; it was humming right under Toby’s skin.
He stood in the doorway of your room, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. The orange goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, and his mouth guard hung loosely around his neck, revealing the jagged, scarred tear in his cheek. His shins were bruised, and his knuckles were scraped raw, but his eyes—wide, dark, and flickering with an intensity that bordered on manic—were fixed entirely on you.
"Y-You’re still awake," he murmured, his voice cracking with a sharp tic that sent his head jerking to the left.
"Waiting for you," you replied softly, sitting up in bed.
He crossed the room in three strides, the floorboards groaning under his combat boots. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, the scent of pine needles, metallic blood, and cold rain clinging to his hoodie. He looked like a frayed wire ready to snap, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thighs.
"I can't... I can't stay still," he confessed, another jerk of his shoulder rattling his frame. "Everything f-feels too loud. Too much."
You reached out, your fingers brushing against the hem of his sweatshirt. "Then let it out here, Toby."
He didn't need a second invitation. He crawled onto the mattress, his movements awkward but frantic. He pinned you back against the pillows, his weight a grounding pressure that he desperately needed. Because he couldn't feel physical pain the way others did, he craved the intensity of contact—the friction, the heat, the sheer force of being near someone.
His hands, cold from the night air, slid under your shirt, gripping your waist with a bruising strength. He didn't know his own power, but you didn't mind. You pulled him down, your lips meeting his in a messy, desperate collision.
He tasted like iron and peppermint. His tongue was insistent, hungry, clashing against yours with a lack of finesse that was made up for by raw, unadulterated need. A sharp click sounded in his neck as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss until you were both gasping for air.
"S-Slow down," you whispered against his scarred cheek.
"C-Can't," he hissed, his breath hitching. He began to tug at his clothes, his movements jerky and impatient. When his hoodie was finally tossed aside, the sight of his pale, scarred torso in the moonlight was breathtaking. He looked like a map of every battle he’d ever fought.
He stripped you with the same frantic energy, his eyes scanning every inch of your skin as if he were memorizing a sanctuary. When he finally pressed himself against you, skin-to-skin, a long, low shuddering breath escaped him. The tics didn't stop—they never truly did—but they softened, turning into small, rhythmic tremors as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"I feel... I feel you," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.
He moved between your legs, his hands shaking as he guided himself into you. The first thrust was blunt and hard, forcing a cry from your throat that he caught with his mouth. He wasn't gentle; he didn't know how to be. He moved with a feverish pace, his body snapping and twitching in a chaotic rhythm that forced you to find your own balance within his storm.
Every time his muscles locked or his head jerked, it sent a new vibration through the connection, an electric friction that pushed you closer to the edge. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel the full weight of the monster and the boy at the same time.
Toby’s eyes were blown wide, focusing on your face with a terrifying clarity. He watched your expression crumble, his own breath coming in ragged, whistling hitches. The static in his head was fading, replaced by the sound of your heartbeat and the wet slap of skin against skin.
"Y/N... Y-Y/N," he stuttered, his grip on your wrists tightening until it likely left marks.
He hit your center with a final, jarring thrust, his body stiffening as a violent tremor racked his spine. He cried out, a sound that was half-sob and half-triumph, spilling himself into you as his forehead dropped onto your shoulder.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thrum of your breathing. Toby didn't pull away. He stayed heavy and warm on top of you, his cheek resting against yours. The tics had settled into a faint, occasional pulse in his jaw.
In the dark, for the first time all night, he was finally still.