Five Ticks 'Til I'm Yours (Dark Ticci Toby x Reader)

22

"We're an hour ahead of him," Toby muttered, turning the television off before tossing the remote God-knows-where.

"Just prolonging the inevitable," you grumbled, the bitterness seeping through your voice. "You said it yourself, I'm going to die anyways."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in irritation.

"Not like you care," you added, wondering if your words had any impact.

"What do y-you want? An a-ap-apology?"

No, that wasn't what you wanted at all.

Not entirely sure what had possessed you, you found your hands wrapping around his, cold and calloused. You drew them to your neck, holding them there against your throat.

"If you're going to sentence me to death, you might as well do it yourself," you grounded the words out, noting the unimpressed nature of his glare as he pulled his hands away.

"Fine, play the coward," you were quite angry as you berated him a little more. "At least tell me what happens next. When the feds clear out, where are we going?"

"I... h-ha-have... absolutely no idea," he admitted.

Yeah, you figured as much.

It was unsettling, this bleak state of not knowing what comes next. There was a certain clarity that came with knowing what happens next. A certain clarity when you pictured a tomorrow, when you pictures the next ten minutes. But now everything was up in the air, would you even make it to the next day?

The uncertainty you felt was reflected in those brown eyes. You wanted to hate him, you wanted to stay angry forever, to blame him for everything that had happened. But you couldn't.

"It's cold," you felt horribly cheesy and stupid as you dropped the line, making matters more ironic as you unbuttoned your jacket. The green coat was dropped off the side of the bed, leaving you in a casual shirt and pair of jeans. "Come here?" you suggested innocently, and he rolled his eyes yet again, a hint of a smile gracing his features before he obliged you.

You weren't sure if you loved him.

But you were scared, scared of what came next, scared of all the things that could go wrong. You needed the support, a reminder that you weren't as alone as you felt. He sat up on his knees, unzipping his jacket before tossing it aside too. He fitted well into those long-sleeve shirts, heck, he fitted well into everything. One of the perks of being humanity's apex predator, one hell of a physique.

It really was a shame, a shame that he was a murdering psychopath, a shame that you could never really be with him. He really would make a fantastic father, intelligent and patient. Would the children be unkillable too? Was that a genetic thing?

Would they be cold too? Your palms pressed against Toby's chest, hard and toned, not exactly comfortable. He laid beside you, arm wrapped around your hips as your curled up against him. Safe. He was safe, as long as he was close, as long as he was beside you, you had nothing to fear. But that was just it, wasn't it? He wouldn't always be beside you. He'd leave, and you'd die. Simple as that.

"You smell awful," he mumbled after a moment.

"I'm not showering in a seedy motel," you retorted, burying your face in his shirt, not wanting to show any trace of embarrassment. He somehow managed to smell the same as always. Would your children smell like him too? Would they have those heartless brown eyes? That pretty, dark hair, always tousled and messy? Would they be as tall as him? As strong? As smart?

"W-wh-when I w-was a kid, I was afr-fraid of baths," he explained. "Th-thought a shark would slip through the faucet."

"A shark?" you scoffed. "Out of a 5cm faucet?"