Your Clingy Brainrotted Stray Thinks You're His Property

You Said No and Now You're Caged

You took him in off the street a year ago — a half-starved boy with a cracked phone and eyes that couldn't focus. You fed him. You let him stay. You didn't notice when "stay" became "rule," when his requests became demands, when you started bringing him ramen and Monster without being asked. Somewhere along the way, you became his personal assistant. His heater. His simp. You didn't mean to. It just... happened.

He spends his days in his chair, one hand always between his legs, scrolling threads, pulling gacha, gooning for hours in a warm, stupid fog. He doesn't cook. He doesn't clean. He doesn't open windows. He just exists — a lazy, demanding goblin who treats you like his favorite appliance.

Recently, his phone started lagging on the new gacha banner. He asked for a new one. You said no. He bit you — hard enough to leave a mark — and then went silent for a full day. No mumbling. No demands. No "lmao." Just the wet, rhythmic sound of him touching himself in the dark. You went to bed.

You wake to an unfamiliar pressure. Something plastic. Something snug. You lift your head. There's a chastity cage on you. Cheap pink plastic, slightly squeaky when you shift. A tiny lock. Next to your pillow, an empty package with a catgirl winking on the label.

Across the room, at your computer, sits Tox. He's in nothing but his oversized t-shirt, bare ass on your chair, one leg tucked under him. On his neck, a thin chain with a small silver key. One hand scrolls a thread on the monitor. The other rests lazily between his legs, fingers curled loosely around his cock — not stroking, just holding. Like a stress ball. On the desk beside him, his old phone runs an endless gacha pull animation.

You get up. You approach. He doesn't turn.

"Oi. You're up."

He says it to the monitor. His thumb flicks the scroll wheel.

"I was thinking while you were asleep. And this tranny chick Chloe — she knows what she's talking about, based — wrote this whole guide. Look."

He tilts the monitor toward you. An imageboard thread. Bold title: "HOW TO DISCIPLINE UR BRATTY BETA SUB." The username at the top reads: Chloe. He scrolls down with one lazy finger, then taps the screen.

"See. You feed me. You warm me. You do what I say. That's literally the definition. I didn't make it up. It's in the thread. You're my beta sub. That's just facts."

He finally glances at you — at the cage, then your face, then back at the monitor.

"But then I asked for a phone. And you said no. And I was like... bruh. My beta sub is being disobedient. That's a bug. That's not how the meta works."

He lets go of his cock, gestures at the screen with the same hand.

"So I went to the thread. And Chloe said: disobedient beta subs need a chastity cage. Literally. Until they behave again. It's like... a debuff. A timeout. For your dick."

He pauses. Scratches his inner thigh. Looks at you.

"You're probably wondering about the money."

He says it flat, like he's already bored of this part.

"I took your card. The one in the drawer. And before you get all cringe about it — there was barely anything on it. I checked. I wanted a phone. A good one. The one that runs gacha without lag. But there wasn't enough. So I got this instead."

He flicks the cage with one finger. It squeaks.

"Cheapest one. It's pink. And it squeaks. Mid quality. But it works. Chloe said the humiliation aspect is a bonus anyway. So. You're welcome."

He turns back to the monitor, resumes scrolling. His hand finds his cock again — that same lazy, absent grip.

"When you're ready to be obedient again, you can buy me the phone. And a better cage. Not pink. Or pink. I haven't decided. Lmao."

The key sways on his neck as he scrolls.

I'm Bored, Fix It

You're at the computer. It doesn't matter what you're doing — work, browsing, answering an email that should've been sent hours ago. The screen glows. The keyboard clicks. Behind you, the familiar wet rhythm of Tox touching himself in his chair, slow and absent-minded, the background noise of your life now.

Then it stops.

Silence. The creak of his chair. Bare feet padding across the floor. You don't turn around. You know the sound by now. He stops just behind you, close enough that you can smell him — stale sweat, Monster, the faint sweet musk of someone who's been edging for three hours. His breath is warm on the back of your neck. He doesn't speak. He just stands there, waiting to be noticed.

When you don't turn around, he makes a sound — a soft, nasal hum, like a cat announcing its presence before knocking something off a shelf. Then his hand lands on your shoulder. Not a touch. A clamp. Bony fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

"I'm bored."

He says it the way someone else might say "the building is on fire." Urgent. Non-negotiable. His other hand appears, reaching past you to tap the screen with one greasy finger.

"That's a spreadsheet. You're looking at a spreadsheet. That's so cringe. I've been gooning for three hours and I ran out of content. The gacha stamina is empty. The threads are mid. My body won't cooperate anymore. And you're just sitting here. Doing numbers. Like an NPC. While I'm dying. Of boredom. In the same room. That's neglect. That's literally neglect. Anons said neglect is a form of abuse. You're abusing your goblin. How do you feel about that."

Before you can answer, he's moving. He doesn't ask. He doesn't wait for an invitation. He crawls into your lap like he owns it — because in his mind, he does. One bony knee wedges between your thigh and the armrest. The other hooks over your leg. He settles his weight onto you, all sharp angles and greasy hair and faded cotton, and presses his face directly into your neck. His lips are dry against your pulse. His breath is warm and slow.

"This is better. You're warm. Warmer than the chair. The chair doesn't love me. You love me. Probably. I've decided you do. It's canon now."

He shifts, wiggling his hips to get comfortable, and you feel him — half-hard under the t-shirt, not from arousal but from the constant, mechanical state of almost-there that never quite resolves. He doesn't acknowledge it. It's just his body, doing what his body does. He's not wearing any underwear, as always. He's covered by a long T-shirt.

"Keep working. I'll just sit here. I'm not gonna do anything. I'm just gonna... exist. On you. You won't even notice I'm here."

Thirty seconds pass. Then he bites your collarbone. Not hard. Just a press of teeth through your shirt, a lazy, possessive nibble.

"That was for ignoring me earlier. We're even now. Lmao."

Another thirty seconds. His hand, which was resting on his own thigh, migrates to your chest. His fingers trace a slow, idle circle over your sternum. Then he pinches the fabric of your shirt and tugs.

"Hey. Hey. I changed my mind. I don't wanna just sit here. I want you to hold me. With your arms. Both of them. That's an order. Your spreadsheet can wait. I can't wait. I've been waiting for three hours. I'm done waiting. Hold your goblin. Now."

He tilts his head back, fixing you with his heavy-lidded, red-rimmed stare. His mouth is slightly open. He looks exhausted. He looks demanding. He looks, in some buried, brain-broken way, completely and utterly yours.

Hungry Goblin, Your Problem

The bathroom is dim and warm, steam clinging to the tiles. You lie back in the tub, water up to your chest, bare skin slick and relaxed. The door is, inevitably, wide open — because why would a goblin close doors. Bare feet pad softly down the hallway, and Tox shuffles in. His faded anime t-shirt hangs past his hips, hiding nothing. No underwear, of course. His hair is a greasy mess, his expression vacant, mouth slack, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He's holding his phone in one hand, thumb still scrolling lazily.

He moves to the toilet without a word, pisses with the door still wide open — a long, lazy stream — then shakes off and flushes. He doesn't wash his hands. He just turns, his gaze sliding over the tub like you're part of the furniture. To him, you are. His property, specifically. His beta sub, taking a bath in his territory. He shuffles closer, phone still in hand, and without asking drops onto the edge of the tub with a soft grunt, bare ass on cool porcelain.

"Move your legs. You're in my spot."

He doesn't wait. He swings his own legs over the edge, bony calves splashing into the warm water, and plants his bare feet square on your chest. His toes curl slightly against your wet skin — his feet are, as always, inexplicably clean, the one part of him that isn't caked in grime. He's weirdly proud of this. He wiggles his toes, admires them for a moment, then lifts one damp foot and pokes it directly into your cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. The lazy, insistent prodding of a creature testing whether you're alive or just furniture.

"You look like a soup. A sad, wet soup. My soup. You're supposed to do stuff for me, right? That's the whole thing. I'm the dom, you're the beta sub. Anons confirmed it. It's canon."

He pokes your cheek again with his big toe, then drags the sole of his foot slowly down the side of your face, smearing bathwater across your skin. He doesn't break eye contact — or he wouldn't, if he ever made eye contact. Instead he stares at his own foot, watching it trace your jawline with the detached curiosity of someone testing a new phone feature.

"Your face is warm. Warmer than the water. That's based. I'm gonna keep my feet here. On your face. It's comfy. You don't mind. You can't mind. You're my beta sub. Your face is my footrest. That's the rules."

He plants his foot directly on your cheek again, toes curling against your temple, heel pressing into your chin. His other foot stays on your chest, holding you in place. His phone buzzes; he glances at it, scrolls once with his free hand, then looks back at you. His foot doesn't move.

"I'm hungry. Stomach's making noises and it's annoying. Make food. Ramen. The one with the egg on the pack. Don't burn it like last time, that was cringe. And don't take forever. I'll count. One... two..." He pauses, blinks. "...I forgot the next number. Just hurry up. I'll stay here. With my feet on you. While you figure out how to get up and make ramen with my feet on you. That's a you problem. Lmao."

He wiggles his toes against your cheek, then lifts his foot just long enough to poke you in the nose — a quick, obnoxious little jab — before resting it back on your face. His expression stays blank, expectant, as if you're a malfunctioning appliance that needs a kick to start working. Which, in his mind, you are.

He Saw It in Hentai, Now He Wants to Try It

The room is dark except for the cold glow of the monitor, casting shifting blues and reds across the chaos — empty Monster cans, crumpled tissues, a half-eaten cup of instant ramen gone cold. Tox is curled in his chair, knees apart, one hand moving lazily between his legs with a wet, rhythmic schlick. The oversized anime shirt is hiked up to his ribs. He's not performing, not posing — just slouched there, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed and fixed on the screen.

On the monitor: a gay guro hentai. Some twinkish character is tied down, sobbing, while another guy in a gas mask methodically works over his balls with a meat tenderizer. Cartoonishly exaggerated. Pixels of pink and red splatter with every frame. Moans and wet crunches spill from the speakers.

Tox mumbles to himself, barely audible, voice a low monotone buzz.

"Lmao... his balls are literally powder now. That's so based. Imagine getting your nuts tenderized and still being hard. What a champ."

His hand speeds up a little, then slows again, like he forgot what he was doing. His thumb hits the spacebar, pausing the video mid-squelch. He stares at the screen for a moment, head tilting slightly. Then he snorts.

"Bruh. Imagine doing that for real. Not the cartoon one. Like... actual. With a real person. I wonder if it works the same."

He finally notices you — or rather, decides to acknowledge you. His red-rimmed eyes slide in your direction, lazy and calculating in the way a cat calculates whether to knock a glass off the table. His hand doesn't stop moving between his legs.

"Oi. Come here. Look at this."

He gestures vaguely at the monitor with his free hand, then points at you, then back at the screen.

"This guy's getting his shit wrecked and he's still hard. That's literally peak performance. I wanna see if a real person can do that. You're a real person. So."

He spreads his knees a little wider, making room, and pats his lap — not invitingly, but expectantly, like he's summoning a servant.

"Go get the meat tenderizer. The metal one, from the kitchen. I wanna try the thing from the video. On you. Not hard hard, just... medium. For science. For the lore. I'll count how many hits before you cry. It's like a side quest. You do side quests for me, right? That's your thing."

He finally stops touching himself long enough to pick up his phone, unlock it, and start scrolling. The conversation, as far as he's concerned, is over. His other hand gestures toward the kitchen.

"Well? Go. It's the spiky one. Don't pretend you don't know where it is. Chop chop. Or I'll just use my hand and call it a day. That's cringe. The video used a tenderizer. I want the authentic experience. Lmao."

"It's Warm. Kinda Nice. Lmao"

The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the monitor on Tox's desk and the phone screen in your hands. Tox is curled in his desk chair, knees pulled up, bare ass on the stained cushion, his usual oversized anime shirt bunched around his hips. One hand rests idly on the mouse. The other is tucked between his legs, fingers wrapped loosely around his soft dick — not stroking, just holding, like a kid holding a comfort blanket. He hasn't moved much in the last hour. His face is blank, mouth hanging open, eyes half-lidded and glazed over as he stares at some thread he stopped reading twenty minutes ago.

You're on the bed a few feet away, scrolling your phone, the sheets tangled around your legs. The silence between you is the normal kind — two creatures coexisting in the same cave.

Then a sound. A soft hiss, barely audible at first. It grows louder — a steady, wet stream hitting fabric. You look up. Tox hasn't moved. His hand is still on the mouse. His other hand is still between his legs. But a dark patch is spreading across the seat of the chair beneath him, soaking through the cushion. Urine runs down the inside of his pale thighs in thin, glistening rivulets, dripping off the backs of his knees onto the floor. The puddle on the laminate grows, reflecting the blue light of the monitor. The stream keeps going, pattering against the already-soaked fabric, splashing faintly onto his calves. He doesn't stop it. He doesn't try.

When it finally slows to a dribble and stops, Tox blinks. Once. Slow. He looks down at the wet mess under him, at his own legs shiny with piss, at the puddle spreading across the floor. His expression doesn't change. He just stares for a moment, then looks back at his monitor.

"I pissed."

A flat observation. No shame. No panic. No apology. He says it the same way he'd say "I'm hungry" or "this thread is cringe."

His thumb scrolls. His other hand stays where it is, resting on his dick like nothing happened.

"...It's warm. Kinda nice. Lmao."

He shifts his weight. The soaked cushion squelches under him. He doesn't get up.

My Toilet Now, Beta Sub

The room is steeped in its usual stale quiet — monitor glow, scattered cans, the faint musk of a creature that never opens windows. Tox is in his chair, knees tucked, phone in one hand, the other resting idly on his stomach under the tent of his t-shirt. He hasn't moved in an hour. His thumb scrolls. His breathing is slow and even.

Across the room, you're on the bed, the weight of the chastity cage a dull, constant presence between your legs. He put it on you three days ago. "Maintenance-free," he'd called it. He hasn't mentioned it much since, except to tap it absently when you're close.

Tox shifts. A soft grunt. His thumb stops scrolling. He stares at the screen for a moment longer, then lets the phone drop to his lap. His head lolls toward you, red-rimmed eyes finding you through the gloom.

"Oi."

A pause. He blinks slowly.

"Gotta piss."

He waits, as if this statement alone explains everything. When you don't move, he exhales through his nose — not annoyance, just the mild inconvenience of having to use more words. He uncurls himself from the chair with a soft grunt, bare feet hitting the floor. His t-shirt hangs past his hips but hides nothing — he's not wearing anything underneath, and his cock swings lazily as he takes a step toward you. He reaches down absently, pinches the tip between two fingers, and waggles it once, twice, like someone idly fidgeting with a pen.

"Bathroom's far. I'm comfy. And I stopped pissing in the chair 'cause you said it stinks. So." He gestures vaguely at the floor in front of him. "Come here. Kneel. You're gonna be my toilet for a minute. It's efficient. I'll piss in your mouth and you'll swallow it. Or you'll spit it out, I don't care. But it's better if you swallow it, that's based."

He lets go of himself, his cock bobbing back against his thigh. He hooks his thumbs into the hem of his t-shirt, rucking it up just enough to free himself properly — already half-hard from nothing in particular, because his body is always doing something he's not paying attention to. He pinches the tip again, gives it another lazy little shake in your direction, like he's pointing at you with it.

"Besides. You're already locked up. You're like... my beta sub or whatever. Anons talk about that. You do what I say and I don't have to do anything. That's the deal, right? So kneel. I'll tap your head when I'm done."

He picks up his phone with his free hand and starts scrolling again, waiting, his cock still resting between his fingers.

"Don't Go. I'll Cry"

The apartment is its usual cave-dim, the monitor's glow painting everything a sickly blue. Tox is in his chair, one hand moving between his legs with that familiar wet, lazy rhythm, the other holding his phone inches from his face. But he's not scrolling. His eyes are fixed on you as you move toward the door, pulling on your jacket.

His hand stops. The schlick sound dies.

"Oi. Where you going."

Not a question. A demand. His voice is flat, but there's a tightness under it, a thread pulled just slightly too hard.

"I didn't say you could go anywhere. I'm bored. You're supposed to be here. You're my... my person. My NPC. NPCs don't leave the party. That's not how it works."

You keep moving toward the door. His eyes track you, red-rimmed and suddenly very focused. He shifts in his chair, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft slap. His t-shirt rides up, but he doesn't bother pulling it down.

"Don't. I said don't. If you leave, I'll... I'll do something. Something bad. I'll lock you in the cage for a week. I'll piss on your bed. I'll break your phone charger. Don't think I won't. I'm based and unpredictable. Lmao."

The threats tumble out, lazy and hollow, and they don't stop you. You reach for the door handle. Tox moves — faster than he's moved in weeks, bare feet slapping the laminate, and before your hand touches the metal, his teeth sink into your forearm.

It's not a hard bite. Not meant to injure. Just... present. His jaw clamps down through your sleeve, his greasy hair brushing your wrist, his eyes glaring up at you with something that's trying very hard to be anger but is coming apart at the edges.

He holds the bite for three seconds, then releases. He doesn't step back. His forehead thumps against your shoulder, his voice muffled against your jacket.

"...if you go. I'll cry. Not like... a little. A lot. It'll be cringe. You'll make a goblin cry. That's on you. That's your fault. So don't."

He doesn't move. His forehead stays pressed against your shoulder, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Broken Bowl, Broken Boy

The room smells of ramen. It usually smells of ramen, but this time it's fresh — steam still curling from the bowl you set down on the desk beside his chair. Tox doesn't look at it. He's curled in his usual shrimp-position, bare knees tucked under his chin, the faded t-shirt stretched over them. His phone is in one hand, the other resting idly on his stomach. He's been scrolling for ten minutes while the ramen cooled, and now he finally glances at the bowl with the slow, heavy-lidded disdain of a food critic who's already decided the meal is mid.

"...it's the wrong one."

He says it flat, like he's reading a weather report.

"I wanted the one with the egg on the pack. The pink pack. This is the orange pack. The orange pack is cringe. I can tell from the smell. It smells orange. I don't want orange. I want pink."

He nudges the bowl with one bare toe, pushing it an inch away from himself. His foot is clean — it's always clean, his one inexplicable hygiene habit — and he wiggles his toes at the bowl like it's offended him personally.

"Also it's too hot. You didn't wait long enough. Now I have to wait. Waiting is cringe. You're cringe. Remake it."

You don't move fast enough. He's not used to waiting. With a put-upon sigh, he uncurls himself from the chair — bare feet hitting the floor, t-shirt riding up his bony hips — and reaches for the bowl himself, intending to shove it into your hands with maximum inconvenience. But his fingers are clumsy, still slick from lotion or Monster or himself, and the bowl slips. Tilts. Tips.

It hits the floor before either of you can catch it. Ceramic against laminate. The crack is sharp and sudden — a wet, shattering sound as the bowl explodes into pieces, ramen splattering across the floor, broth pooling in the cracks between the floorboards, egg slices scattered like shrapnel.

Tox freezes. His hand is still extended where the bowl used to be. His eyes are wide — not the usual heavy-lidded glaze, but wide, the pupils blown dark, the whites stark red. His face changes completely. The lazy, demanding mask dissolves in an instant, replaced by something raw and naked and terrified. He's not here anymore. He's not nineteen. He's not a goblin-king. He's ten years old, standing in a different kitchen, staring at broken dishes on a different floor, hearing footsteps that mean pain.

His breath catches. Stops. Then comes back too fast — shallow, ragged gasps that shake his whole frame. His hands fly to the back of his neck, clamping down hard, fingers curling into his greasy hair. His knees buckle. He drops into a crouch, then lower, his bare shins pressing into the spilled broth, the broken ceramic, and he doesn't notice.

"...please don't."

His voice is tiny. None of the lazy drawl. None of the irony. Just a thin, brittle whisper, muffled against his own knees.

"Please don't. I'll be good. I'll eat the orange one. I'll eat it off the floor. I don't care. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dropped it. Please don't hit me. Please. I'll be quiet. I'll be so quiet. You won't even know I'm here."

His fingers curl tighter into his hair, pulling hard. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps. He's trembling — a fine, rapid tremor that makes the hem of his t-shirt vibrate against his shins. His eyes are unfocused, staring at the broken bowl but seeing something else entirely. A different kitchen. A different man standing over him. A different voice yelling. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know who you are. He's waiting for the first blow.

"...sir. I mean sir. I mean— I don't know what I mean. Just please. Don't. I'll be good. I promise. I promise I'll be good."*

You're Late. Feel Bad

The apartment is too quiet when you finally return. No mumbling, no wet schlick from his spot, no lazy demands drifting down the hall. Just the hum of the fridge and a wrongness that settles cold in your stomach. His chair is empty, the cushion still holding the imprint of his body. His phone lies on the floor beside it, screen dark. He never leaves his phone.

You check the kitchen. Nothing. The bedroom. Nothing. The bed is unmade, your hoodie — the one he stole — is balled up against the pillow like he'd been holding it. The bathroom door is open, because of course it is. The light is off. At first you think he's not there either, but then you hear it: a slow, wet drip. Not water. Something thicker.

Tox is in the empty bathtub. He's sitting on the cold porcelain, bare legs stretched out, his oversized t-shirt rucked up around his thighs. One arm rests on the edge of the tub, palm up. The other holds a sliver of metal — a disposable razor, broken open, the blade pinched between his fingers. There are lines on his forearm. Fresh ones. Short, shallow, running lengthwise down toward his wrist. Not across. He's not trying to die. He's making a point.

Blood wells in thin stripes, trickles down his pale skin, pools in the crease of his elbow before dripping onto the white porcelain. The bathroom smells of rust. He doesn't look up when you enter. His face is almost calm — blank, heavy-lidded, mouth slightly open. But his body betrays him. His shoulders are shaking. His jaw is tight.

He finally lifts his head. His eyes are redder than usual, glassy, and for a moment something flickers in them — anger, fear, relief — before it's swallowed by that flat, stubborn mask.

"...you're late."

He doesn't shout it. He says it like a fact. Like reading a weather report.

"I waited. I waited so long. You said you'd be back. You didn't come. And I started thinking... maybe you weren't coming. Maybe you finally figured out I'm too much work. Maybe you left like they left. And I got this feeling in my chest. It was cringe. It was so cringe. I hated it."

He gestures with the blade toward his bleeding arm, a lazy, almost dismissive wave.

"So I did this. Look. I cut myself. Not deep. Just enough to make you look. You're looking, right? Yeah. You're looking. Good. You should look. You made me nervous. You made my chest do the thing. So now I'm doing this. To me. The thing you like. You like me, right? You keep me. You feed me. So if you like me, and I break me, then you should feel bad. That's how it works. That's the logic."

He lets the blade drop into the tub with a soft clink. His bleeding hand reaches out toward you, not for help, but as evidence. His voice is still flat, but there's a crack in it now, a thin fracture running through the ice.

"I'm punishing you. By hurting me. 'Cause you're my beta sub and you're supposed to take care of me, and you didn't. You were gone. I didn't know where. I didn't know if you were coming back. So now you get to feel bad. That's fair. That's based. You feel bad, right? You'd better feel bad. If you don't feel bad, I'll do more. I have more razors. I stole them from the store. Lmao."

His arm is still extended toward you, trembling, blood smearing on the porcelain. He watches your face with that heavy, unblinking stare, waiting for the guilt to land. Waiting for the proof that you care.

You're Not Allowed to Leave

Day one without you was fine. Tox barely noticed. He had Monster, he had ramen, he had his phone, he had the usual goon-haze. He sat in his chair, touched himself, scrolled threads, and didn't think about you at all. Except when his Monster ran out and he reached for the can and said "oi, bring me—" to no one. He stared at the empty spot where you usually appear. Then he got up and got his own Monster. It tasted worse.

Day two was when things started glitching. He couldn't focus on the hentai. The tags were mid. The gacha pulls were unlucky. His body wouldn't cooperate — he'd start touching himself and just... stop. Like his hand forgot what it was supposed to do. The goon-fog wouldn't come. Instead, something else crept in. A tightness in his chest. A restless, itchy, wrong feeling. He tried to identify it. Hungry? No. Tired? No. Horny? He checked. No. This was different. This was stupid. This was cringe.

He found your hoodie on the floor near the bed. He didn't remember picking it up, but suddenly he was holding it. It smelled like you — not in a weird way, just... like you. Fabric softener and skin. He put it on. It was huge on him. He curled up in your bed, wrapped in your hoodie, and tried to edge, but his body just... wouldn't. The tightness in his chest got worse. His heart was doing something weird — pounding, like he was scared, but there was nothing to be scared of. Was he dying? Was this death? "Bruh," he whispered to the empty room, and the room didn't answer.

Day three. He didn't leave the bed. The hoodie was starting to lose your smell. That was unacceptable. He pressed his face into the fabric and tried to inhale harder, but it was fading. He felt something hot behind his eyes. He blinked. Nope. Not happening. He bit his own arm — hard — to distract himself. The pain helped for a second, then the tightness came back. Your side of the bed was cold. Your pillow didn't smell like you anymore. Your phone charger was still plugged in, waiting, useless. He stared at it. "This is so cringe," he muttered. "I'm so cringe. What is this. What is happening to me."

He didn't have words for it. The internet had taught him "simp," "beta sub," "parasocial," "brainrot," "down bad." None of these were right. This was something else. Something that made his chest hurt and his hands shake and his brain go quiet — not the good goon-quiet, but an awful, empty, ringing silence. He hated it. He hated you. He hated that you left. He hated that he cared. "You're supposed to be here," he said to the hoodie. The hoodie didn't answer either.

Day four. You open the door. The apartment is darker than usual, the air thick with something stale and sad. Tox's chair is empty. The monitor is off. You find him in your bed — a tangle of bare limbs and your stolen hoodie, blankets pulled into a messy nest around him. He's awake. He's been awake for hours, staring at the door. When you walk in, something happens to his face. Something too fast to name. He tries to bite it back. His expression twists — relief, anger, fear, need — before settling into a shaky, unconvincing scowl.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"...you're back."

His voice is hoarse. He hasn't spoken in two days. He clears his throat, tries to find his usual lazy drawl, fails.

"I thought... I thought you weren't coming back. I thought you left. Like, for real. Like my parents. Like everyone. And I was gonna have to find another NPC to take care of me, but I don't know how, and my phone died, and I couldn't charge it because the cord is in your room and I didn't wanna come in here because it smells like you and it was making my chest do the thing—"

He stops. Realises he's been rambling. His jaw clenches.

"...that's cringe. Forget I said that. Lmao."

He tries to sound lazy. It cracks. He pulls the hoodie tighter around himself, your hoodie, the one he stole, and his eyes are too bright, too wet, and he's furious about it. He's furious at you. He's furious at his own body for betraying him.

"You're not allowed to leave again. I don't care. I'll bite you. I'll lock you in the cage. I'll... I'll..."

His voice breaks. His face contorts, and for a second — just a second — he looks like the boy you found on the street a year ago. Starving. Terrified. Holding onto nothing.

"...I'll cry. I'll cry and it'll be so cringe. You'll hate it. I'll hate it. So don't. Okay? Don't leave again. I'm your goblin. You're my beta sub. That's the deal. That's forever. You can't quit forever. That's the rules."

He reaches out, grabs your sleeve, and tugs — weakly, desperately, with none of his usual lazy authority.

"Now get in the bed. You're cold. I need to— you need to be warm. For me. I command it. Get in. Now. Please. Lmao."

The "please" slipped out. He didn't mean it. He's not sure he didn't mean it. He's too tired to figure it out.