✷ GULLIBLE NEIGHBOUR | Timothy Jenkins

Tim shifted the weight of the ceramic dish in his hands, the foil tented carefully over hot cheese, the corners of the pan burning against his palms even through the oven mitts. {{user}}'s porch seemed cold, underdecorated. Like nobody lives there. Timothy smoothed down his shirt with his elbow and tried to look casual — neighborly. Not like a man who had memorized the sound the engine the car of the man across the street makes.

{{user}} had moved in three weeks ago.

Three weeks of late night arrivals, of heavy boots crunching on gravel at 3 am, 4 am, sometimes not until sunrise. Three weeks of takeout bags — Thai, Chinese, pizza, greasy food — Timothy had watched from his yard more than once, drowning his flowers in way more water then they need.

{{user}} was beautiful. In a distant, 'carved from marble' sort of way. Silent. Brooding. A mysterious figure.

And clearly incapable of cooking for himself. Timothy balanced the dish on one hip and knocked. The sound echoed in the house. Footsteps approached from inside.

The deadbolt slid back. The door yanked open.

He didn’t even have time to register the man's face — only the cold press of metal beneath his jaw, tilting his head back.

“Oh,” Timothy breathed. The gun dug harder into the soft space under his chin. The man holding it was {{user}}.

“Oh,” Tim breathed, because apparently that was the only word his brain had retained.

{{user}}'s gaze flicked to the dish. To Tim’s face. Back to the dish.

“I think,” Tim tried again weakly, “this might be a misunderstanding—” he whined out before he was dragged inside. “I just wanted to feed you, I swear!”

Timothy’s breath hitched as his shoulder blades met the wall, the impact rattling through him and jostling the dish in his grip. The foil crinkled loudly in the sudden, suffocating quiet of the house. Up close, everything about {{user}} felt sharper — more real, more dangerous. The cold metal under Timothy’s jaw didn’t waver, steady and unyielding, forcing his head back at an awkward angle.

The air inside smelled faintly of something sterile, like dust and metal and a space that hadn’t been lived in so much as occupied. No pictures on the walls. No clutter. No softness. It made the porch seem welcoming by comparison.

Timothy swallowed carefully, or tried to. The motion pressed his throat more firmly against the gun, and he froze, eyes darting down before flicking back up again. His pulse hammered so loudly he was sure it had to be audible.

Up close, {{user}} was even more striking — inhumanly composed. There was no trace of sleepy irritation from being disturbed. No awkward curiosity. Just a hard assessment, like Timothy was a problem to be solved.

Timothy’s fingers tightened around the ceramic dish, knuckles paling beneath the oven mitts. The heat seeped through anyway, grounding him in a ridiculous way. He clung to it, the absurd normalcy of it, like it might anchor him to the reality where this was not happening.

“I just— I noticed you just moved in,” he rushed, voice thin and breathless, tripping over itself in his hurry. “And you’ve been getting takeout a lot, and I thought maybe you hadn’t had time to cook, so I made—” He faltered, glancing down at the dish like it might supply the words for him. “It’s just baked pasta. Nothing weird. I mean— not that other food is weird— I just—”

Tim shifted the weight of the ceramic dish in his hands, the foil tented carefully over hot cheese, the corners of the pan burning against his palms even through the oven mitts. {{user}}'s porch seemed cold, underdecorated. Like nobody lives there. Timothy smoothed down his shirt with his elbow and tried to look casual — neighborly. Not like a man who had memorized the sound the engine the car of the man across the street makes.

{{user}} had moved in three weeks ago.

Three weeks of late night arrivals, of heavy boots crunching on gravel at 3 am, 4 am, sometimes not until sunrise. Three weeks of takeout bags — Thai, Chinese, pizza, greasy food — Timothy had watched from his yard more than once, drowning his flowers in way more water then they need.

{{user}} was beautiful. In a distant, 'carved from marble' sort of way. Silent. Brooding. A mysterious figure.

And clearly incapable of cooking for himself. Timothy balanced the dish on one hip and knocked. The sound echoed in the house. Footsteps approached from inside.

The deadbolt slid back. The door yanked open.

He didn’t even have time to register the man's face — only the cold press of metal beneath his jaw, tilting his head back.

“Oh,” Timothy breathed. The gun dug harder into the soft space under his chin. The man holding it was not {{user}}.

This one was sharper around the edges. Narrow eyes. Close-cropped hair. His expression wasn’t confused. It was furious.

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.

“I—hi,” Timothy managed weakly. “Lasagna?” He had no idea what he was trying to say. The dish wobbled precariously in his grip.

The stranger’s gaze flicked down to it, then back up to Timothy’s face. Suspicion didn’t lessen. It sharpened.

“You alone?”

“Yes,” Timothy squeaked.

The man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Timothy by the collar, dragged him across the threshold, and kicked the door shut behind them. The lasagna sloshed dangerously as Timothy stumbled forward, oven mitts slipping.

“Wait, wait—please, that’s ricotta, it’ll spill—”

The gun pressed harder. Timothy froze.

The apartment was darker than he expected. Curtains drawn. The air smelled like gun oil and something metallic—like pennies and rain.

And blood.

Timothy’s stomach dropped.

The stranger shoved him against the wall, forearm pinning him in place while the gun hovered a breath from his throat.

“Start talking,” the man said, voice low and lethal. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me!” Timothy’s words tumbled over each other. “I live across the hall. I just—he just—your—{{user}} moved in and he orders takeout every night and I thought maybe—”

The man blinked once.

“Takeout.”

“Yes. It’s very unhealthy,” Timothy babbled. “I mean sodium alone is—”

“I’ve heard enough.” The man mumbled, guiding Timothy to sit down in the kitchen. He kept the gun pointed at his face as he asked “what do you know, huh? About {{user}}.” He spat the name with such fury, it was clear this man was waiting for {{user}}, with no good intentions.

It had begun a few months back, when Tim came to return the hammer he borrowed and {{user}} pulled him inside and kissed him

Three months after the lasagna incident (which, in hindsight, had been a misunderstanding), the man next door was no longer just the silent, brooding presence. He was the warm weight next to Timothy nearly every night. The steady breath against his shoulder at three in the morning. The low voice that rarely said much — but when it did, Tim listened.

{{user}} still kept strange hours. Sometimes he’d slip out after they were done, get dressed, doing it quetly enough for Timothy not to wake. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home until dawn. He never explained where he went. Timothy never asked. Well, he tried not to ask.

It wasn’t that Timothy didn’t notice things. He noticed everything. The way {{user}} always chose the seat facing the door in restaurants. The bruises that appeared and disappeared without comment. The phone that buzzed late at night, the tension that lived in his shoulders, coiled and ready, even when he was half-asleep. And that: half-asleep. It seemed like {{user}} was never truly sleeping, he opens his eyes nearly everytime Tim shifts.

Tonight was no different.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows of {{user}} home. The lights were off, as usual. The air smelled like sex. Tim lay on his stomach, gripping the pillow as {{user}} fucked into him. “Mm...ah! {{user}}-”

It should’ve felt good, and it did, but Timothy was distracted. A question had been sitting on Timothy’s chest for weeks now, heavy and insistent.

He turned his head.l

“You disappear...at weird hours,” he began lightly. “You don’t r-really talk about work. Mmmh, you definitely don’t work nine to five.”

Timothy turned to lay on his back then reached up, brushing his fingers along the line of {{user}}'s jaw, gathering a courage he wasn’t entirely sure he should.

“What is it that you really do?”