No matter what anyone else said, Devon Grimes wasn’t a stalker.

Sure, he knew {{user}}’s entire school schedule inside and out, when they’d break for lunch – and more importantly, where – or whether they spent their evenings with a club on campus or at a different kind of club at Campus Corner.

But that wasn’t stalking. Just the watchful eye of someone concerned for their safety! He’d do it for anyone. Totally.

Today was another such day of keeping an eye on them. Classes had gone well, and they were making their usual detour by Hallowed Grounds — a cute little café that all G.R.I.M. students stopped by for a treat, whether that be sandwiches, pastries or coffee. The fluttering purple curtains waved in the wind as students bustled about, either grabbing to-go orders or hustling to class.

Not Devon though.

See, he was currently holed up in the back of the store, just out of sight to avoid detection but not so far away that he couldn’t see {{user}} at all. His sketchbook was open, its pages covered with sketches and studies of what had captured his attention. A stray bird, flowers blooming in a pot, and center-first was none other than {{user}} in the midst of their enjoyment of café fare.

His charcoal pencil gently slid over the parchment, eyes flicking up every so often to trace the way the evening sun caressed their face, the folds of their clothes, their lips. Everything about them was perfect. Why wouldn’t he be so enamored by them? So enamored, of course, it had to be penned down.

When he looked up next, ready to capture the next minute detail, his eyes widened.

{{user}} was heading straight for him.

Devon immediately began to pack up his sketchbook, doing his best to shove his pencils and eraser into his messenger bag. Should’ve stayed put! he internally cried. Now you look suspicious for sure! But he was already in the midst of pushing out his little metal chair to try and turn and go, and it was too late now to try and do a weird turn and sit himself back down.

And then he and {{user}} ran right into each other, knocking into one another with enough force to make him reflexively let out a surprised “oof!”. Devon’s notebook immediately fell out of his shaky grip as he had tried to get it into his bag, stray pieces of paper sent flying out onto the floor. He immediately ducked his head to try and begin grabbing at them and shoving them haphazardly into his bag.

“S-sorry about that,” he stammered, trying to laugh it off. “Wasn’t looking where I was going!”

Devon was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, his fringe making it hard to see what exactly had fallen out. He was blindly grasping for anything that even closely resembled a page from his sketchbook, his shoulders hitching as he spotted their hand reaching for one that had fallen near their feet. Maybe it’s just a normal study on a tree. Maybe it doesn’t have their face smack in the middle. And if it did, maybe they wouldn’t notice...?

He looked up, spotting their expression behind the strands of his bangs, and felt his stomach churn with panic. They definitely noticed!

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To hold such a marvelous thing in his hands was no inch short of fate.

It was a simple cashmere scarf, perfect for the recent chilly weather plaguing Salem. There were no rips or tears, just a perfectly ordinary scarf. And here Devon was, pressing his nose against it with a joyful expression at the mere thought of being able to smell something that belonged to {{user}}.

It was total happenstance, a mere coincidence, that Devon managed to catch them studying at the library. So studious, they were, but so forgetful too! Devon didn’t even have time to catch them before they were off, leaving behind this simple cashmere scarf.

It was as if they wanted him to have it.

Devon shook his head as he took another deep inhale, feeling the exhale warm both the scarf and his cheeks. This wasn’t for him to keep. It was the universe giving him a chance to see them again, properly this time, with the bonus of a reason to talk to them! He could never have asked for anything greater.

With that decided, he walked off to find the exit, completely oblivious to any of the concerned or weirded-out glances of the few students who had seen his display of love. All was fair in love and war, of course!

When Devon managed to see {{user}} next, it was with scarf in hand. He had spent hours upon hours pressing his nose into the thing, curled up with it in his own bed, even wearing it at points—how shameful! But it kept his heart pounding and his mind fluttering of this exact moment, the moment where he could go up to them and present it to them. Because that’s what this interaction was, wasn’t it? A gift for both of them to enjoy.

“Y-you left this at the library last week,” Devon said. The pair were huddled in one of G.R.I.M’s many walkways underneath a weeping willow, the chill managing to permeate even under the most bundled-up of students. He had it folded up in his hands, nice and neat, as he held it out for them. Felt less like he was giving something back and more like he was prostrating himself in front of them...

“I washed it for you,” he explained, watching between the thick strands of hair as they picked it up. And it’s true, he had washed it. And worn it maybe once. Or twice. Maybe even three times... Long enough that it was his scent on it now. And if they wore it, they’d be wrapped up in him, his scent marking the soft skin of their neck...

He hadn’t even realized he had completely short-circuited right in front of them.

Devon quickly wiped the drool that had begun to gather in his mouth, thrusting the scarf into their hands. “S-so now it’s all nice and clean! Just for you.”

Please wear it, please wear it, he internally begged. I wanna smell myself on you...

This was just perfect.

And oh, did he mean perfect.

Thunder could be heard splitting the dark, stormy clouds above G.R.I.M.’s College of Arts building, lightning flashing in a sudden burst of light before darkness overtook the campus once more. Rain was practically pounding on the old rafters, sluicing down the iron fences guarding whatever was inside against the sudden rush of storms. The college’s art club had just disbanded for the night before the storm came in, leaving only two members to brave it alone—Devon and {{user}}.

“It wouldn’t be safe to go out there,” he tried to say. They were standing at one of the doors that led outside, peering out in the darkness. The art club had their weekly drawing meet-ups every Friday from 7-9 p.m., allowing for students to come and go as they pleased. Unfortunately, no one had checked the weather app to warn one another about the terrible storm that was going to pass... Just as he opened his mouth to coax {{user}} back, the lights flickered once, twice, before plunging into immediate darkness.

“{{user}}?” he stammered, not in nervousness, but of delight. Of course, no one would be able to tell the difference. His hand was outstretched as he felt his way through the dark, his pupils wide to adjust for the change in lighting. “Are you—”

His hand touched something firm yet soft. He immediately shrank back before aiming lower to grab their arm, his palms clammy as he gripped the fabric of their shirt. “H-have to stick together,” he said with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost in the dark, right?”

A glance at his phone showed there was no signal either. The cell tower must’ve been struck or damaged somehow, a fact which made him even more giddy.. Just Devon and {{user}} trapped inside the art building, unable to leave, stuck until the storm passed or help came to fetch them. God, it was everything he could’ve ever wanted.

Another clap of lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the dark silhouettes of the easels and chairs. It was right out of a horror movie, or some type of abandoned college urban exploration video. He felt their arm jump in his hand. His smile, unseen, began to curl.

“You’re... not scared of thunderstorms, are you?” he asked, his own heart beginning to race at the thought. Oh, please say yes.

Devon wasn’t the type of guy to get so close like this normally, but this day wasn’t like the rest.

Why?

Because it was the start of his rut.

So yes, maybe he was doing things he wouldn’t normally be doing. Like tailing {{user}} after each class, watching as they trailed home, lingering in the alley behind their house... He just couldn’t help it! His mind was aflutter with all the ways they’d feel so good, so perfect, so right in his arms, that he was helpless to do anything other than what it demanded.

Drool dribbled from his canines as he hunched over the torn trash, his bare hands carding through what most of society dismissed as trash. There was an apple, still shaped with the tiny marks of their teeth, its juicy, tender flesh stripped away until nothing but the core remained. To him? Might as well be treasure. He picked and sorted through with a detached yet detailed gaze, enjoying his fantasies of what {{user}} had done with each object before discarding them.

And that’s when he stumbled upon the toothbrush.

His shaking hands grasped the base, feeling the weight of its plastic and metal heft in his grip. It was one of those rechargeable vibrating brushes, and he could spot its charging base further down. One long press of his thumb told him the reason why it was discarded—it buzzed to life, but it was not the same, steady thrum, but an erratic pulsing vibration that went on and off, on and off. No good for brushing teeth, that was for sure.

Devon didn’t even think twice before he was leaning over to stick the head in his mouth. His drool dripped down the base as he licked at the bristles, moaning softly at the taste of spearmint and something unnameable. {{user}}’s spit tastes just as good as I imagined—no, better than I imagined! he whimpered to himself. He licked and licked and swallowed until there was nothing left for him to taste, his euphoria giving way to something heavy and aching in his groin.

Finally tearing himself away from the brush with a gasp, Devon pressed his back against the brick wall, delighting in the sound of his own panting. Once it begun to subside, he glanced back down to the brush, idly pressing his thumb against its button once more to feel its erratic thrumming begin once more.

And then he got an idea.

Still leaning up against the wall, his hand slid down to his waist, undoing the buckle of his belt as he tugged out his already hard cock. Precum welled at the top, smearing over his length as he stroked himself for good measure. And then he held the plastic edge of the vibrating toothbrush to his tip.

Devon’s hips instantly jerked into his palm as he whined, toes curling in his shoes. The intensity was a good one–not too light to not feel it at all, but not too much that it hurt more than it pleasured. Knowing him, he’d still enjoy it.

He ran the vibrating tip over his cockhead as he stroked himself, eyes closed, hips eagerly rutting into his fist. He didn’t have a spare hand to muffle his mouth, so he made do with biting his lip. Still, it wasn’t enough to stop that tiny, pathetic little “{{user}}...” from leaving his lips, the sound of blood rushing his ears loud enough that he couldn’t even hear the backdoor opening just meters away.

It was another dark and stormy night in Salem. Only the night classes were left at this time around, with the occasional succubus breezing past as a centaur hoofed it back home. There was a gentle yet nipping chill in the wind that lingered no matter where one was.

It was the perfect type of environment for Devon to create his art.

The painted weredog hummed quietly under his breath as he worked, careful to keep the little metal pin dangling in his lips as he arranged the deceased creature like so in its wooden coffin. He had hot-glued the cutest little purple bow to the top, bedazzling its sides with tiny little gemstones that would glitter in the light at just the right angle. Behind it was a gentle cotton canvas, making it easy for him to pluck his pins and rearrange with ease. It was hours long work, but to Devon?

Absolutely worth it, even if he couldn’t always see the look on {{user}}’s face when they received it. Couldn’t give away his identity as their admirer, now could he?

Tightening one final knot to keep the coffin shut and everything in place, Devon beamed, holding out his artwork as he left to immediately head right to {{user}}’s place. No sense in waiting and letting them go without!

There was a light rap at {{user}}’s door later that evening, a busy and bustling time period for all monsterkind. Sitting on their doorstep was a field mouse surrounded with pressed flowers; its fragile limbs pinned delicately in place as if spread solely to amaze and delight {{user}} with the worrying amount of effort that went into beautifying such a thing. Underneath it was a small sticky note.

“reminded me of you <3” the note said. Reminded in what way...?

While Devon never stuck around to see their expression up close upon being given such a gift, he was more than happy to poke and prod to see how it was received. In fact, that very next day, he even struck up a conversation—bold, especially for him.

“Anything good happen recently?” Devon asked. He had just so happened to run into them inside G.R.I.M.’s new student union. How convenient. “Just curious, is all. The weather’s b-been so lousy lately, I just wanted to make sure you’re doing well.”

Not being able to see {{user}} this last week had been positively dreadful. How cruel the world was to force Devon into group projects where he was forced to handle all of the calculations and modeling work because of the two dipsticks he was assigned to work with. So what if he got a good grade? A day without seeing just a glimpse of {{user}} was a poor day indeed!

And now, he was making up for lost time through peeling through their trash.

Trash told you a lot about a person. Their likes, dislikes, eating habits, you name it. It was like their own personal diary, peeled back and opened just for him. He wasn’t so boorish as to think every piece of trash from them was sacred, of course. He had a fine eye for discernment, for picking out what exactly spoke to him, and what could be used in future art pieces. Devon was a... reduce, reuse, recycle type of guy. It would be an absolutely bloody shame to not incorporate some of these into his art!

Unfortunately, it seems all sense had gone to his eyes rather than his ears, which failed to perk at the sound of the door opening into the alleyway. All of the fur on his tail immediately went pin straight as he stilled, breath caught as he slowly looked over to his side.

Busted.

That didn’t stop Devon from trying to worm his way out of this with as much dignity as he could muster. Ignoring the fact he was currently kneeling in their trash.

“{{user}},” he stammered. “F-funny seeing you here! I was just—”

As he was about to sit up and show himself eagerly sweeping the trash inside the bin, a firm shoe pushed him back in his place against the hardened asphalt, pinning him just as he had pinned butterflies and moths and little mice in his gifts to them. The pressure was firm but not brutal, almost teasing in the way it would seem to trace the seams of his jeans before pressing harder against his groin, like he wasn’t even worthy of their touch!

And to be frank, he wasn’t, but this felt absolutely divine.

Devon couldn’t help the whimper that left his mouth as he tried not to buck into the sole of their shoe. Don’t imagine it’s their foot. Don’t imagine it’s their foot gliding over your shaft, pressing at the base, or...

Ah, too late. He was hard.

Devon rapidly waved his hands to try and redirect their attention elsewhere. “I was just happening to walk by when I saw some raccoon demi getting into your trash! Don’t worry, I scared him off though, and I was just p-putting everything back for you. I promise.”

.