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Chapter 1: The First Mistake

Fandom: Creepypasta Pairing: Toby x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 4,344 Trigger Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT Tags: Dark Romance, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Schizophrenia, Unreliable Narrator Summary: Where everything starts. Song Rec: By Candlelight - kokoro → AO3 Link → Masterlist

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Rain has a way of making the whole city feel like it’s trying to wash itself clean.

It falls in heavy sheets, blurring the sidewalks and turning the streets into mirrors of smeared headlights and neon signs. Within minutes, your jeans are damp at the cuffs, your shoes are making that awful wet squeaking sound, and your fingers have gone numb around your phone.

You push open the door to the coffee shop, nearly stumbling inside as the bell above the frame rattles loudly behind you. Warm air rushes over your face, carrying the smell of espresso, cinnamon, and baked sugar.

You pull your hood down and shake out your hair, immediately regretting it when droplets scatter onto your jacket.

You join the line, scrolling through your phone while you wait, only half paying attention to the conversations around you. Your boyfriend texted you something stupid five minutes ago, some joke that made you roll your eyes and smile despite yourself.

You type out a reply.

Then you hear something.

“Jesus Christ.”

The voice comes from behind you.

You glance up.

A group of people near the window are staring at someone sitting alone in the corner.

At first, you don’t understand what they’re looking at.

Then you see him.

The guy at the table has a dark hoodie pulled up, the sleeves covering most of his hands. A black medical mask covers the bottom half of his face, and he’s hunched forward, one knee bouncing hard enough to shake the table slightly. His fingers are tangled in the strings of his hoodie, twiddling them absentmindedly.

He looks younger than his apparent scruffiness let on. Somewhere in his late twenties, probably. But there’s something unfinished about him. Like someone who learned how to survive before he ever learned how to relax.

One of the strangers laughs.

“Is he always like that?”

Another person lowers their voice, though not enough.

“Dude looks like he belongs in a horror movie.”

You look back at the guy.

He heard them.

You can tell.

His shoulders tighten. His hand clenches around the hoodie string. His head jerks sharply to the side, sudden and involuntary.

The strangers notice.

“Oh my god,” someone says. “Did he just—”

“Don’t,” you say.

The word leaves your mouth before you think about it.

The group looks at you.

You shrug, suddenly aware that you have inserted yourself into a conversation nobody invited you into.

“He can hear you.”

The tallest one raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “So maybe don’t talk about someone like they’re not sitting ten feet away.”

A weird silence follows. Not dramatic, just uncomfortable. The kind where everyone realizes they’ve been called out and doesn’t know what to do with that.

Someone mutters, “Whatever,” and they turn back toward their table.

You expect the moment to end there. You expect him to go back to being a stranger. But when you turn around, you catch him looking at you, like he can’t figure out why you bothered.

You look away first.

The line moves.

A few minutes later, you turn around, and realize he’s still looking at you. The barista calls out your name. You grab your cup.

And then you do something stupid.

You walk over.

“Hi,” you say.

He flinches, a full-body jerk like you’ve shocked him. His eyes dart to the door, then the counter, then the window, then you.

“H-Hi,” he says.

His voice is rougher than you expected. A little broken in places. A sudden tic sends his head snapping to the side. He grunts, quietly, like he’s trying to stifle the sound. You try not to react, but you fail. He sees it, and his expression tightens.

“S-Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at the table.

“It’s fine.”

You don’t know what else to say. You didn’t have a plan. You just knew that letting him sit here alone, after that, felt wrong.

You gesture to the empty chair across from him.

“Do you mind if I…?”

He hesitates, then gives a small, almost invisible shrug.

You sit.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sounds of the coffee shop fill the space: the clinking of ceramic, the hiss of the steamer, the low murmur of conversation.

You take a sip of your drink.

It’s too hot.

You set it down, wincing.

He watches you, head tilted. A little line forms between his brows.

“D-Did you… burn yourself?” he asks, and you realize he’s not asking out of politeness, he’s asking like it’s a genuine question. Like the concept is foreign to him.

“Just a little. It’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He picks at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. Another tic makes his hand twitch, fingers tapping a frantic rhythm against the table. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

He looks up, surprised, the medical mask shifting with the movement. “T-Toby.” His head jerks again, and this time he flinches at the end of it, like he’s trying to catch it before it happens.

“Nice to meet you, Toby. I’m—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, then looks immediately regretful. “S-Sorry. I-I mean… I-I heard them call your… your name for the… the order.” He gestures vaguely toward the counter.

“Oh. Right.”

Another silence stretches. You’re not sure why you’re still sitting here. You should leave. Let him be. But something about him feels… fragile. Not weak, but precariously balanced. Like a house of cards in a room with a draft.

You force your gaze back to your coffee. “This weather is awful, huh?”

Toby looks out the window, at the water sluicing down the glass. “I g-guess. I don’t… I don’t really feel the… the cold much.”

His knee starts bouncing again, a relentless, nervous energy that seems to emanate from his very bones. He catches you watching it and stills it, pressing his foot flat against the floor.

“C-Coffee,” he says suddenly, as if remembering he’s supposed to be doing something with the cup in front of him. That’s when you notice the second cup. A plain black coffee, steam curling off the surface, completely untouched.

“Oh, were you meeting someone?” you ask, a pang of disappointment hitting you for some reason you can’t name.

“No… n-not really. For my… c-coworker. S’posed to bring him back… back one.” Toby’s gaze drifts toward the door again, his fingers tapping a staccato beat on the tabletop.

The word ‘coworker’ sounds a little off, like he’s trying on a title that doesn’t quite fit. You get the sense that whatever he does for a living, it’s not the kind of job you pick up an application for at the mall.

“Oh, I’m sorry for holding you up then,” you say, already starting to push your chair back.

“Wait.” The word is sharp, immediate. He flinches at his own outburst. “I… d-don’t have to. Not yet. He… h-he can wait.”

You pause, halfway between sitting and standing, and slowly lower yourself back into the chair. Toby seems to shrink a little, like a turtle pulling into its shell. His knee resumes its frantic bouncing.

“It’s… it’s okay if you s-stay,” he mumbles, staring into his untouched coffee. “N-Not like… like anyone else is… is lining up t-to talk to me, right?”

He says it with a dry, self-deprecating humor that catches you off guard. There’s a flicker of something else in his eyes when he glances up at you. Not sadness, exactly. More like a resignation so old it’s settled into the marrow of his bones.

“People are assholes,” you offer, because it’s the truest thing you can think to say.

A little huff of air escapes from behind his mask. It might have been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Well. You’re n-not. So… thanks.”

“It’s no problem.”

Another silence. This one feels a little easier. The rain continues its relentless assault on the windowpane. You watch a car splash through a puddle, its red taillights smearing into a watercolor painting.

Toby’s fingers start pulling at the strings of his hoodie again, worrying the frayed fabric between his thumb and forefinger.A strange look began to pull at his features, a subtle tensing around the eyes and a faint, almost unconscious clenching of his jaw. You notice the way the muscles in his neck cord briefly, a prelude to a larger movement. It was like he was trying to work up to something, but you couldn't quite tell what.

“CanIhaveyournumber?”

The words spill out of him, a single, breathless jumble. They’re followed immediately by a violent head jerk to the side, and a sharp, involuntary click of his teeth.

He freezes.

His eyes are wide, locked on you. A wave of heat seems to radiate off him. He looks utterly horrified, like he just confessed to a murder instead of asking for your contact information.

You blink.

He just asked for your number.

That’s… not what you expected.

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer before he’s backtracking, his words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to undo what he just did.

“S-Shit. Sorry. I d-didn’t mean to—slut—fuck—” Another tic, a harsh bark of a cough, “—j-just forget it. I’m s-sorry. I’m… I’m stupid.”

His face is flushing a dull red, visible even in the dim light of the coffee shop. He’s looking everywhere but at you now: the tabletop, the window, the ceiling, the scuffed toes of his sneakers. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap. The nervous energy is back, but this time it’s laced with something painful. Embarrassment. Fear.

He’s bracing for rejection.

You’ve seen that look before. The raw, exposed nerve of someone who’s been turned away too many times, who’s been laughed at, pointed at, treated like a spectacle. He just laid a piece of himself on the table, and he fully expects you to spit on it.

You could say no. You could make an excuse, laugh it off. That would be the easy thing. The safe thing. The path of least resistance.

But then you think about the way those people talked about him. The way they stared. The way he flinched when they did.

And you think about the way he looked when he thought no one was watching. The way he’s looking at you now, like a stray dog that’s been kicked one too many times and is flinching at an outstretched hand.

So you do something else.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You unlock it, the screen brightening your face, and you open your contacts. You create a new entry, the cursor blinking in the ‘Name’ field.

You slide the phone across the table, face-up.

Toby’s erratic motion stops. His knee freezes mid-bounce. His eyes fix on the device, then dart up to your face, then back to the phone, as if he can’t quite reconcile what he’s seeing.

“You asked for my number, right?” you say, keeping your voice casual, like this is the most normal thing in the world.“Just add your contact, and I’ll text you.”

A tiny, choked sound escapes him. It’s almost a sob, but not quite. It’s the sound of a pressure valve releasing. For a long moment, he just stares at the phone, his hands still clenched in his lap. He seems afraid to touch it, like it might be a trick. A trap.

Finally, slowly, he unfurls one long-fingered hand. He reaches out, his movements hesitant, and picks up the phone. His thumb hovers over the screen for a second, trembling slightly.

He types with surprising speed, a flurry of motion that’s at odds with his earlier hesitation, and his tics seem to calm as he focuses. He hands the phone back to you, not quite meeting your eyes.

“Okay,” you say, saving the number. “Got it.”

You start to type a text. ‘Hey, it’s the girl from the coffee shop. The one with the burnt tongue.’ You hit send.

A moment later, a buzz from the pocket of his hoodie confirms it was received.

Toby looks at the buzz, then at you, and a slow, almost shy smile starts to form behind the mask, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Th-Thanks,” he says, the word soft and almost free of its usual stutter.

“Don’t mention it.”

You stand up, grabbing your coffee. “Well, I should probably let you get back to your… coworker.”

“Yeah.” He stands too, all long limbs and nervous energy. “I… I should probably g-go.”

You both move toward the door, a strange, awkward dance of two people who don’t know how to say goodbye to someone they just met. He reaches for the handle at the same time you do, and your hands brush. His is cold. Unnaturally so.

He pulls back like he’s been burned, a full-body flinch that sends a tremor through him. “S-Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly, “It was nice meeting you, Toby,” you say, your breath fogging in the cold air.

“Y-You too,” he replies, pulling at his hood. The medical mask makes it impossible to read his expression, but his eyes stay on you as you turn and walk away.

You don’t look back, but you can feel his gaze on you until you round the corner.

Toby watches you go until your figure disappears into the rain-slicked afternoon. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat. He stands there for a long moment, the coffee shop door swinging shut behind him with a soft chime.

He pulls out his phone. The screen is wet, either from the rain or his sweaty palms. He stares at your text message again.

A weird, choked laugh escapes him, startling a passing woman who clutches her purse tighter and scurries away. Toby doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy staring at the words.

She gave me her number… he thinks, the words a foreign concept in his head. A girl. A pretty girl. A girl who sat with him. A girl who told some assholes to leave him alone. And she gave him her number.

A grin splits his face, hidden behind the mask. A genuine, unthinking burst of happiness. It feels alien. It feels good. It feels dangerous.

He should go. He should find Brian and get back to the forest. He knows this. The rules are clear. No unnecessary contact. No leaving trails. No distractions.

But he can’t make himself move. He just stands there, under the flimsy awning of the coffee shop, replaying the last twenty minutes in his head. The way you flinched at the hot coffee. The way you didn’t flinch when he twitched. The casual way you slid your phone across the table. Like he was just a guy. Not a freak. Not a proxy.

Just… Toby.

A sharp, violent tic snaps his head to the side, cracking his neck with a sickening pop. The painless jolt grounds him, reminds him where he is, who he is. He’s not “just Toby.” He’s Toby Rogers. Slender Man’s dog.

Brian’s gonna kill me.

The thought is a cold bucket of water. He shoves the phone back into his pocket, the buzz of contact already fading into a phantom vibration. He scans the street, the rain still coming down in blinding sheets. He shuffles the coffee cups in his other hand before heading off in the direction he was supposed to go.

He walks quickly, his mind a messy chaotic jumble. He wants to text you back, but he wants to say something clever. Something that will make you smile. But what? What do normal people say? ‘Thanks for the number, I didn’t even have to murder you for it.’ No. Too soon. ‘I bet you taste better than this coffee.’ Definitely not. His thoughts are a minefield of his own making, each idea more disastrous than the last.

He’s so distracted he almost walks right past the alley. A flicker of movement catches his eye, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness of a doorway.

He stops.

The figure steps out onto the sidewalk. The light yellow hoodie is almost luminous in the grey afternoon. His usual mask is absent, revealing sharp features and a tense expression. Brian.

“You’re late.”

Toby flinches, the automatic response to the flat, emotionless tone. “S-Sorry. The… the line w-was long.”

He holds out the coffee cup, a peace offering.

Brian takes it, but doesn’t drink. He just stares at Toby, his gaze analytical and unnerving. “We should’ve been on the road 20 minutes ago.”

“I-I know, I—”

“Who was that?” Brian cuts him off, nodding his head back in the direction Toby came from.

“Who was w-who?”

“The girl you were talking to.”

Toby’s stomach drops. He hadn’t realized Brian was watching. Of course he was watching. Brian is always watching. He feels a familiar prickle of paranoia, the feeling of a hundred invisible eyes on the back of his neck.

“N-Nobody. Just… some r-random girl.”

Brian takes a slow, deliberate sip of the coffee, his eyes never leaving Toby’s face. “Looked a little more than random, Toby.”

“It was n-nothing.” The words are too fast, too defensive. He knows it the second they leave his mouth. He feels another tic building, a sharp jerk of his shoulder. He tries to suppress it, to hold it in, but it’s like trying to hold back a sneeze. His entire body convulses, a violent shudder that racks his frame. “Fuck!”

Brian doesn’t react to the tic. He never does. He just waits, patient and still as a predator. “Slender doesn’t like loose ends. You know that.”

“She’s not a l-loose end!” Toby’s voice rises, cracking on the last word. “I-I just… I talked to her. For like… five minutes. That’s it.” He’s lying, and they both know it. It was longer than five minutes. And it was more than just talking.

Brian’s gaze drops to Toby’s pocket. The one with the phone in it. Toby feels a surge of panic, an irrational urge to protect the device, to shield the number he was just given.

“Just—just d-drop it, okay? It’s nothing.” He turns to walk away, to end the conversation, to put as much distance between himself and Brian’s piercing stare as possible.

Brian tsks, a soft, clicking sound that’s more dismissive than any word could be. “You’re an idiot.”

Toby rolls his eyes, a flare of teenage irritation that’s completely out of place. “Yeah, w-well, you’re an asshole.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just starts walking, loping strides that eat up the wet pavement. He can feel Brian’s stare on his back.

They make their way to the truck, parked a few blocks away in a grungy public lot. The inside smells like stale cigarette smoke and damp wool. Toby throws himself into the passenger seat, slamming the door with more force than necessary. Brian gets in the driver's side, placing the coffee carefully in the cup holder. The engine turns over with a gravelly cough.

The drive is silent, the rhythmic thump of the wipers the only sound. Toby stares out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of color. He sneaks a hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around the cool, smooth surface of his phone. His earlier thoughts started to rattle off in his head again. What should he say? What would make you smile? He imagines your face, the small wince from the hot coffee, the way your eyebrows drew together in concern when he apologized for himself. He imagines you smiling back at him through the screen.

He’s so lost in thought he doesn't notice Brian has stopped the truck.

“Get out,” Brian says, his voice flat.

Toby looks around. He was so lost in thought he hadn’t realized they were already back at the cabin, the woods looming dark and oppressive around them. He’s home. He hates the relief he feels.

They get out of the truck and Toby beelines for the door, eager to escape Brian’s silent judgment.

Inside, the cabin is warm, lit by the soft glow of a single lamp. Tim is sitting at the rickety kitchen table, cleaning a handgun with practiced, methodical movements. He doesn't look up when they enter, but Toby feels his attention shift to them all the same.

“What’d you find out?” Tim drawls, not looking up from his work. The Southern lilt in his voice always sounds a little mocking, even when he’s not trying to be.

Brian begins to fill him in, his tone clipped and professional. The words land like styrofoam in Toby’s head as he shuffles away towards his room, eager to be alone with the phone in his pocket. He doesn't care about the intel; he cares about the contact information burning a hole in his jeans.

Toby slips into his small bedroom, the door quietly clicking behind him. The room is sparse, a mattress on the floor, a single, rickety dresser, and a desk littered with spent shell casings and half-finished drawings. He sits on the edge of the mattress, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up, illuminating the scattered scars on his hands.

Your contact info sits there, a lifeline to a world that feels a million miles away. A simple name. A simple string of numbers. It’s the most normal thing he’s owned in years.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard, the anxiety from earlier returning with a vengeance. He starts typing, then deletes it. Types something else, deletes it again. The urge to say the right thing is overwhelming. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb, and one wrong word will blow the whole thing to hell.

Finally, in a fit of frustration, he types out the first stupid thing that comes to mind.

‘hey it’s Toby from the coffee shop. hope ur tongue is okay.’

He hits send before he can second-guess himself.

The screen of the tv was a wash of blue light, the sound of some mindless reality show a low drone. Your boyfriend’s arm is slung casually over your shoulder, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns on your skin.

“What the hell is she yelling about now?” Jay asks, gesturing a chip toward the television. “He just asked for ranch. It’s not a constitutional crisis.”

You chuckle. “Maybe she’s passionate about condiments.”

“Or maybe she’s an actual lizard person in a human suit. That would explain a lot.”

You laugh and lean your head against his shoulder, the conversation easy and familiar. Your phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside you, a bright splash of light in the dim room. You pick it up, expecting a spam notification or a forgotten work email.

‘hey it’s Toby from the coffee shop. hope ur tongue is okay.’

You stare at the message, your brain stuttering for a second. Toby. The twitchy guy in the corner. The guy you gave your number to. You hadn’t actually expected him to text.

“Who’s that?” Jay asks, leaning over to peek at the screen.

“Oh, this guy from the coffee shop… some people were making gross comments about his disability, I kind of told them off, we talked for a bit, and then I, uh… I gave him my number. Thought he could use a friend.”

He raises his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t seem particularly bothered. “The good samaritan strikes again. What’s he want?”

You read the message again. “Just… asking if my tongue’s okay. He saw me burn it on my coffee,” you explain, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Your boyfriend shrugs, turning his attention back to the television. “As long as he’s not asking for your kidney.”

You smile faintly, but the casual comment hangs in the air a little longer than it should. You type back. ‘It’s recovering. The sacrifices we make for good caffeine.’

You set the phone down, but your eyes keep drifting back to it. The tv show becomes background noise. The weight of your boyfriend’s arm on your shoulder feels a little heavier, a little more present.

A few minutes later, your phone buzzes again.

‘tbh I would’ve died without it today. my coworker’s a dick.’ The words are followed by a string of emojis: a skull, a middle finger, and a little cup of coffee. It’s… dorky. Endearingly so.

You can’t help but smile. You type back. ‘All coworkers are contractually obligated to be dicks on rainy Tuesdays. It’s in the handbook.’

The response is almost immediate. ‘shit is that why? nobody gave me the handbook’

You’re grinning now, fully engaged. You lean forward, dislodging your boyfriend’s arm. He doesn’t seem to notice, too engrossed in the televised drama of a woman throwing a wine glass at her sister.

‘Top secret information,’ you text. ‘Had to earn it. Usually involves surviving at least three potlucks with burnt chili.’

‘fuck that. I’d rather take my chances with the dick coworker’

You laugh, a real, audible laugh that makes your boyfriend glance over at you.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“Nothing, this guy’s just… funny,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, but doesn't press it. You turn your attention back to your phone, a private little world glowing in your palm. The conversation flows easily, a volley of silly texts back and forth. Before you know it, the show has ended, and your boyfriend is yawning, stretching.

“Ready for bed, babe? I’m beat.” He gets up, heading towards the bedroom without waiting for your answer, a clear indication of your expected next move. You shake your head, attempting to clear the fog of infatuation from your brain. You and your boyfriend have been together for a year and a half. He’s good. He’s stable. He’s… here. This guy, Toby, is a complete stranger. Maybe a new friend. But that’s all.

You set the phone down and head to the bedroom.

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