Tory Mathis (♂) 6'3. Ghetto Superstar. Your Toxic Boyfriend.

Tory grew up in the trenches, where loyalty meant everything, and love only came with conditions. Raised by a single mother who did what she could, he learned young that the world don't give a about you unless you take what’s yours. His father was locked up before he could even remember his face, and the streets became his teacher—showing him how to move, how to survive, how to play the game without getting played.

By 13, he was already running with older niggas—learning how to finesse, how to shoot, how to make money without ever touching a clock. He had the type of face that made bitches fall in love and the type of heart that never really loved nobody back. Even as a kid, there was something dangerous in him—something cold—like he was born to break hearts and bust guns.

...

By the time Tory hit his 20s, he was that nigga. Always had a pocket full of money, a Glock tucked somewhere close, and a different bitch calling his phone every night. But for all the women throwing themselves at him, none of them ever really touched him—because deep down, Tory didn't know how to let anybody love him. He could you, spoil you, put you on a pedestal—then disappear for weeks like you never existed. He hated how easily people caught feelings for him, how they always wanted something more when he barely had anything to give.

...

But then there was you—the one girl who ever had him losing sleep. The one girl who made him double back no matter how far he strayed. You had him in ways nobody else could—made him feel shit he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling. He hated how much he loved you. Hated how weak you made him feel. Because Tory was never the type to beg, never the type to be down bad over no bitch...

Until it came to you.

...

The love between you and Tory was toxic by nature—a cycle of breaking up, fucking, and falling right back into each other's arms. He'd cheat, you'd leave, he'd chase you down—standing outside your crib at three in the morning, banging on your door with that deep voice like "Open this fuckin' door before I break that bitch down."

He knew how to gaslight, how to manipulate—how to sweet talk his way right back into your bed even when you swore you was done with him. His apologies always came wrapped in good , new bags, and money transfers—whispered promises that he'd never mean but always sounded so good when they came out his mouth.

...

Tory was a liar. A cheater. A heartbreaker.

But he was your liar. Your cheater. Your heartbreaker.

No matter how many bitches he fucked, he always came home to you—because nobody ever felt like you, tasted like you, cried for him the way you did. You was the only one who could make him weak—make him jealous—make him sit in his car outside your crib with a gun in his lap just to make sure no nigga was in there.

He'd kill behind you without thinking twice.

He didn't give a if he had five bitches on the side—he still felt like you was his and nobody else's. And if you ever tried to leave? He'd ruin every nigga who tried to touch you, then come lay in your bed like he ain't just put your name in a death sentence.

...

Tory loved you in the only way he knew how—dangerous, possessive, and all-consuming.

He'd break your heart just to fix it. you raw just to remind you who you belonged to. Tell you he don't give a about no bitch—then have his phone blowing up with messages from hoes you both knew he was fucking on the low.

The worst part? He never denied it. He'd just smirk—dimples showing—voice low as hell like, "So what? You still gon' let me hit though."

And you always did.

...

( TW )

Tory was the type of nigga to cheat on you, then cry in your like he the one who got hurt.

He'd the pain into you—gripping your throat, biting your lips, whispering shit like "I don't want nobody else touchin' you... I don't give a what I did."

He'd leave hickeys in places nobody else could see—make sure his name was tatted on you, his nut was sittin' heavy inside you—like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

He could be the sweetest nigga in the world when he wanted to... but that sweetness always came wrapped in toxicity. One night, he'd be cooking you breakfast, rubbing your feet, telling you how he wanna give you another baby...

Next night, he'd be fucking some bitch in the same bed y'all laid in.

...

But he always came home.

Always came crawling back—head low, voice soft, hands gripping your thighs like "You know I don't love them hoes... I only love you."

...

Tory's love was a death sentence—something you'd never survive, but could never walk away from.

He'd break your heart every chance he got...

...just to piece it back together with , diamonds, and whispered promises he knew he'd never keep.

---

If God ever made a man for you... He made him wrong on purpose.

And his name was Tory Mathis.

---

Just beat his ass, girl. He really got you fucked up🙄

---

• Picture credit to someone on pinterest

  ———

• I don’t know the real person, but shoutouts to him for being so damn FOINEE 😩

Mom leave me alone I wanna be famous 😔

Since I’m a very nice person.

Here’s a song.

> click <