whisperingthorns

[whisperingthorns]

You know I hate it but I might go on hiatus again cause there’s a chance I could be homeless by the end of the months so if I don’t upload for awhile just bare with me. I know this story is taking so long to upload.

[whisperingthorns]

He was just kidding!

They didn't like the joke

[whisperingthorns]

Ecstasy but slowed down is Yandere Toby core.

[whisperingthorns]

Charmed by Shadows:

(Yandere Ticci Toby x Reader)

Chapter 7: Sugar and Scars pt2

⚠️ TW: Stalking, obsessive thoughts, dark romantic themes, implied violence/gore, and non-graphic sexual content (self-pleasure). Reader discretion advised.

Find part 1

“You think that,” he said, voice shaking. “Until you do.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped back to the sink and washed her hands. Gave him space. Let the silence settle without trying to fill it.

Because maybe not pushing was what he needed.

When she turned around again, he hadn’t moved.

But his fists had unclenched.

Y/N didn’t say anything right away. Just gave him a small, understanding nod. No pressure. No further questions.

The quiet between them was thick, but not heavy. Just… waiting.

She glanced down at the mixing bowl, then back up with a tentative smile.

“Well,” she said, voice lighter now, “if you won’t let me peek, the least you can do is let me feed you.”

Toby blinked. Confused. Suspicious.

She held up the spoon, still sticky with warm batter. “I’m serious. Best cookies I’ve ever made. You’re not getting out of being the taste tester just because you wanna play the mysterious brooding guy.”

He hesitated, twitching once, his eyes flicking from the spoon to her face.

Then he stepped forward.

Very slowly.

He leaned down, lips parting just enough for her to ease the spoon between them. She held it steady, careful not to touch his skin.

Toby closed his mouth around it. Chewed. Swallowed.

And paused.

“…It’s good,” he said, blinking once, like he hadn’t expected it to be.

Y/N smiled, tilting her head. “Good enough to forgive me for the flour ambush?”

Toby gave a one-shoulder shrug, but his lips twitched.

“You’re lucky I like sugar,” he mumbled, voice a little softer now.

Y/N turned back to the counter, pretending not to notice how he relaxed behind her.

She kept talking — about the recipe, about the way she used to bake with her mom, about how Kai once mistook powdered sugar for cornstarch and nearly blew up the microwave — and Toby stayed close.

He didn’t say much.

But he stayed.

And when she handed him another spoonful of dough, he didn’t hesitate to take it.

Toby sat quietly at the kitchen table now, watching her move with an energy that somehow soothed his tics. There was batter in the corner of her mouth. She didn’t notice. He did.

Y/N set a small plate in front of him — two cookies, still warm, steam curling faintly upward. “Okay,” she said, trying to smile past what had just happened. “Here’s your peace offering.”

Toby blinked at it. Then at her.

“It’s not poison,” she joked gently, sliding into the seat across from him.

He picked one up. Held it like it might crumble if he touched it wrong.

“It’s just… sugar and butter and… forgiveness,” she added, quieter this time.

He took a bite.

His throat bobbed. He gave a small, barely-there laugh — real, not forced — and a few crumbs spilled onto his hoodie. “I-it’s good,” he said, voice rasping.

“Good.” She reached over, brushing a speck of flour from his sleeve. Her fingers hovered, then pulled back. “Thanks for coming over, by the way. It… helped. More than I thought it would.”

Toby nodded slowly. His shoulder twitched, but he didn’t move away. “M-me too.”

They sat like that for a moment — quiet, the air filled with vanilla and unspoken things.

Then Y/N stood, yawning into her wrist. “Okay, I should probably start cleaning up before I crash. Want to box some of these to take with you?”

Toby stood too. “Y-yeah. I’d like that.”

She handed him a small Tupperware and he tucked it under his arm.

As he walked toward the door, she paused behind him. “Hey, Toby?”

He turned.

She smiled faintly, soft and tired. “Be safe walking home, okay?”

He stared at her for a beat too long. Then: “Always.”

And with that, he slipped into the night.

Toby didn’t go home.

No — Tobias Rogers had plans tonight.

The cookies were still warm in the Tupperware, tucked under his arm like a little souvenir. Her kindness still clung to his skin like warmth from a fireplace, and for a moment, it almost kept the urges quiet.

Almost.

His boots hit the wet pavement with soft, rhythmic thumps. He turned left instead of right. Took the long path. The one through the trees. The one that led away from where he lived.

Because Toby didn’t want to go home.

He wanted to visit someone.

Kai.

The thought of him made Toby’s teeth clench. That smug, self-righteous bastard. Acting like he was the one who needed to protect her. Looking at Y/N like she was a fragile thing in a museum case — a thing he could own.

Toby had been patient.

Had played nice.

But now? Now he needed to remind Kai that he wasn’t untouchable.

The little freak lived alone — some ratty house in an overgrown property downtown. Cocky, Toby thought. Of course he’d live in a place where he could be killed easily. Only to be found days later. Like he really believed he was invincible.

But what most people didn’t know — what Kai didn’t know he knew — was that his parents lived just fifteen minutes outside of town. Small house. Yellow shutters. A wind chime on the porch.

Toby had followed him once. Watched him pull into their driveway with a plastic grocery bag and a smile. He’d hugged his mom for way too long. Brought soup. Stayed two hours. The warmth in his face made Toby sick.

Kai loved them.

Which made them leverage.

Toby’s shoulder twitched as he walked, one hand clenching and unclenching in his jacket pocket. His brain buzzed. His steps were light. Not like he was heading into battle.

More like he was going to play.

Kai’s house sat at the end of a quiet road, tucked between pines and barely touched by the amber glow of the streetlights. It was a modest place — one story, slightly worn siding, a chipped mailbox — but it was his. The porch light was on. The inside lights were on.

He was home.

Through the trees, Toby watched.

He’d been here before. Twice. Once just to scope the place. Once to leave a very particular scuff mark on the back fence — just to see if Kai noticed. He had. And it made Toby giddy.

But this time wasn’t for reconnaissance.

This was playtime.

He waited until the flick of the hallway light vanished. Until the soft buzz of a bathroom fan cut through the dark. Then he moved. Swift. Confident. Quiet.

Boots barely touching gravel, Toby approached the side of the house, his fingers brushing the siding like he was tracing a lover’s skin. He knew the layout now. Living room to the left. Small kitchen to the right. Back bedroom tucked in the corner.

And the window?

Unlocked.

Kai was predictable like that. Trusted the neighborhood too much.

Toby crouched beneath the sill, grinning to himself.

Inside, Kai moved through the hallway with his phone in hand, thumb scrolling, jaw tight. Probably rereading texts. Maybe from her.

Toby’s grin widened.

He imagined Kai talking about him. Imagined that snide tone, that little shake of the head whenever she mentioned his name. Toby this, Toby that. “You don’t know him like I do,” she probably said.

No, Kai didn’t.

But Toby knew Kai.

And tonight?

Tonight, Kai would feel it.

Not pain. Not yet.

Paranoia.

Toby reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small item — something so insignificant it could’ve belonged to anyone.

A folded, glossy printout of a photo.

It was from Moon’s birthday party last year. A group shot. Everyone grinning. And there, off to the left, was Kai. Arm slung casually over Y/N’s shoulder.

Toby had found the photo taped up in her room, part of a collage.

It burned.

So he’d taken it.

And now… he was giving it back.

But not in any place obvious.

No. That would ruin the fun.

Instead, Toby crept along the back wall and reached under the porch. He carefully tucked the photo into a crack in the floorboards, half-sticking out — visible only if someone knelt down to tie a shoe. Or dropped a key.

Perfect.

A breadcrumb.

Not loud enough to scream.

Just enough to whisper.

He stood up, let the shadows rewrap him, and disappeared into the trees.

⦻

The sun was just beginning to burn off the fog when Kai stepped out onto his porch, hoodie tugged over his head and a mug of lukewarm coffee cradled in his hand. The air smelled like wet earth and pine needles — peaceful in a way the last few weeks hadn’t been.

He stretched, one arm up, the other still holding the mug, then shuffled to the steps. His boot nudged something as he moved to sit down — paper? He squinted, crouching.

It was a photo.

His brows furrowed.

Carefully, he plucked it from between the porch slats. It was dusty, slightly damp, the edges bent. But the image made his breath hitch.

Moon’s birthday party. Last year.

The backyard. String lights. Plastic cups on a folding table. A moment that had felt so small at the time and yet—when he looked at it now—felt like the kind of memory people miss their whole lives.

His thumb dragged over the surface, brushing against the edge of a familiar face.

Y/N.

She was off to the left, head tilted slightly, eyes half-squinting from the sun, mid-laugh. She looked genuinely happy. Carefree. His arm had been around her — not even in a way that meant anything then. Just comfort. Familiarity. The way you touch someone you love, even if you don’t realize it yet.

Kai smiled, small and involuntary.

She was wearing that stupid hoodie. His hoodie. The one she’d borrowed when the wind kicked up that night and “forgot” to return. He never asked for it back. It smelled like her for weeks after.

He sat down, photo still in his hand, thumb absently tracing her outline.

He hadn’t told her how he felt. Never found the right time. It always felt selfish — like if he said it, it would shift something, break the balance. And maybe she didn’t need that. She’d already been through so much.

But damn if she didn’t deserve someone steady. Someone who’d show up. Who’d check her locks, double-check her back door, bring her soup when she couldn’t sleep.

He could be that.

He wanted to be that.

Not flashy. Not poetic. Just there.

He sighed and flipped the photo over.

Blank.

Weird.

He looked around the porch, scanning the grass, the gravel driveway. No envelope. No tape. Nothing to suggest where it came from or why it was here.

“…Did she drop it?” he muttered aloud. But no — she hadn’t been here in over a week.

Then where the hell did it come from?

His smile faded, just slightly.

He stood, tucking the photo carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket.

His eyes drifted back toward the tree line behind his house — dense and dark this early in the morning.

No movement.

No reason to feel uneasy.

But the hairs on his arms didn’t get the memo.

He closed the front door behind him and leaned against it, fingers still curled tightly around the photo in his jacket. The warmth had drained from his coffee, but that wasn’t what made his stomach twist.

Something was off.

His feet carried him automatically to the living room, where the photo landed face-up on the coffee table. He stared at it again. That hoodie. Her laugh. That exact angle.

And then it hit him.

His chest tensed, breath catching halfway.

He’d seen this before. This exact photo.

Not just the moment — not just the party — this picture.

His brain flipped through the memory like a file.

He’d only been in her room twice. Never for long. Always careful not to overstay, not to make it weird. She was so open, so trusting — he didn’t want to screw it up. But he remembered that first time, sitting awkwardly on the edge of her bed while she’d rummaged through a drawer looking for some charger or god-knows-what. He remembered how warm her room smelled — cinnamon, maybe, and something soft and powdery.

It was like stepping into her head. A little chaotic. Personal. Intimate.

And he remembered the collage.

Pinned to the corkboard above her dresser — pictures of the group, little polaroids with dumb captions and bad lighting. One of Moon passed out in a gaming chair. Brook with whipped cream on her nose. Jaga flipping off the camera.

And this one. This exact one.

Right on the edge. Slightly tilted. Thumbtacked in the corner.

He didn’t say anything at the time. Just smiled and looked away. Because being in that room already felt too close, too dangerous.

But now?

He looked down at the photo again. Bent. Dirt-smudged. Found on his porch.

If this had been hanging on her corkboard… how the hell was it here now?

His pulse kicked up, slow at first, then louder, faster, like it was echoing in his ears. He glanced back at the door. At the window. At the shadows in the room that hadn’t felt threatening until now.

Someone had been in her room.

Not just someone.

Someone who knew which photo to take. Who knew it’d mean something to him.

His jaw clenched, and he backed away from the table, like the picture might burn if he stood too close.

Kai stared at the photo for a long time. Too long. The room was silent, but his mind was screaming.

Then—something itched.

His thumb brushed the corner of the picture again, and this time, he noticed it. Faint. Almost invisible under the smudge of dirt and the faint bend in the paper.

Writing.

He held it up to the light, squinting.

Just four words, written in a jagged scrawl across the white border with what looked like charcoal. Or maybe something darker.

She’s not yours.

Kai’s blood ran cold.

His hand lowered slowly.

And for the first time since this whole nightmare started…

Kai looked scared.

Maybe…

Maybe Y/n had been telling the truth.

But who was messing with them?

What did they fucking want?

_______________________

So believe it or not both these parts were supposed to be in chapter 6 but tumbler saw that word count and said NO!

I’m sorry I keep going on hiatus guys. Life gets in the way 🫤 Thanks for sticking around though this really is my favorite thing to do. 💕

[whisperingthorns]

Charmed by Shadows

(Yandere Ticci Toby X reader)

Chapter 7: Sugar and Scars

Find Chapter 6

⚠️ TW: Stalking, obsessive thoughts, dark romantic themes, implied violence/gore, and non-graphic sexual content (self-pleasure). Reader discretion advised.

Even monsters want something warm to come home to.

The week passed quietly.

Too quietly.

No more notes. No odd footprints. No creaking in the middle of the night. No texts sent from her own phone without her doing it. The glove stayed in the drawer, untouched. The hallway light never flickered. The balcony door remained locked.

(Y/n) told herself it was a good thing. She wanted it to be a good thing. And it was, wasn’t it?

Brook might’ve been right. Maybe it really was the stress. The sleep deprivation. The burnout from trying to keep everyone happy and her own thoughts quiet. She hadn’t realized how tightly wound she’d been until the tension eased—and for the first time in what felt like forever, she could breathe without feeling like something was watching her from behind a corner.

Life began to feel… normal again.

The bakery was busy, but manageable. Her friends were checking in more. Moon even brought her a smoothie unprompted. Toby was still texting her—consistently, warmly. And she found herself replying faster than she did with anyone else.

She didn’t question why.

She told herself it was just because he listened. Because he believed her when no one else did. Because he didn’t tell her to “relax” or “just breathe.”

She didn’t tell her friends how often they talked now. Or that she found herself smiling when his name lit up her screen. Or that she caught herself re-reading a dumb joke he’d sent at 2am.

It was easier this way.

Everything was calm. Everything was quiet.

Maybe it was over.

The scent of vanilla and warm cinnamon filled the air as Y/N moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, sleeves rolled up, a light dusting of flour streaked across her cheek. Her hair was twisted up in a loose bun, strands slipping free to frame her face. The apron tied around her waist swayed with every movement as she reached for the sugar, humming faintly to herself.

The oven clicked, preheating. The mood was calm, ordinary — or it would’ve been, until the doorbell rang.

She wiped her hands off on her apron and made her way to the door, pulling it open.

Toby stood on the other side, blinking hard like the moment stunned him.

Just a worn gray shirt, soft from age, and a bandage slapped across the scar on his cheek like a sad attempt at blending in. In one hand he held a crinkled bouquet of gas station flowers, slightly beat up from the walk over.

“H-hey,” he said, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He offered the flowers forward stiffly.

Y/N’s face lit up with surprise and a soft smile, the kind that made Toby feel something snap inside his chest. “Oh! You brought me flowers?” she asked, voice full of warmth. She took them gently, brushing her thumb over one bent petal. “They’re perfect. Thank you, Toby.”

He watched her turn to set them in a glass of water.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t know how unreal she looked. Like she belonged in some old fairytale painting—skin glowing under the kitchen light, apron hugging her curves, a smudge of flour on her cheek like a soft kiss from the world. Her movements were relaxed, happy. She didn’t know that to him, she was already the center of everything.

Toby stepped into the doorway like a man crossing into church.

His eyes tracked the sway of her hips as she moved back to the counter, and something low and hungry twisted in his gut. The way her fingers smoothed the dough, how she tucked her hair behind her ear absentmindedly. His brain short-circuited, filled with all the wrong images.

He wanted her.

Bent over the dining table. Hands pressed flat to the surface, back arched, apron hiked up just enough to expose—

Toby coughed hard, his face twitching sharply to the side as he snapped his gaze away.

Down, boy. Down.

But his jeans were already betraying him, tightening with the pressure of pent-up thoughts and months of obsession. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to focus on the countertop, on the flour, on anything that wasn’t her soft laugh or the curve of her mouth when she glanced back over her shoulder.

He was inside her home again.

And this time, she’d invited him in.

Toby stood near the dining table, hands shoved deep into his pockets, back slightly hunched — a pathetic attempt to hide the very real problem threatening to humiliate him in broad daylight. He nodded along, muttering soft acknowledgments as Y/N moved about the kitchen, talking like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“—and Brook said she’s gonna try that almond flour substitute again, even though last time it was, like, a complete disaster. I swear, if I have to lie to her face and say it’s good again, I’ll just combust.” She let out a snort and sifted flour into a mixing bowl. “Oh! And Moon learned how to make those mochi donuts I was talking about—crazy, right?”

Toby wasn’t listening.

Not really.

His eyes trailed the way her fingers curled around the measuring cup. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was focused. Her back was to him, giving him a perfect view of the apron strings crisscrossed over her hips. Her legs moved with a casual grace as she sidestepped toward the fridge, pulling it open to grab eggs.

He could ruin her.

Right there on the kitchen floor. Grip her waist, push her down. Hear that soft gasp — not of fear, never fear — just surprise. Breathless, needy. Let her whimper into his neck, fingers clawing at his shirt. Let her feel what it meant to be wanted the way he wanted her. Devoured.

His pants grew tighter. He shifted on his feet and hissed through his teeth. His face twitched, shoulder jolting slightly. A sharp tic—part frustration, part restraint.

“Anyway,” she continued, oblivious, “I found this new trick with eggs—if you crack them on a flat surface instead of the edge of the bowl, the shell doesn’t shatter into the mix. Isn’t that wild? Like, why don’t they teach that in school?”

She looked back at him with a grin.

Toby blinked. “Y-yeah. W-wild.”

She smiled again, face open and warm, before turning back to the batter. She had no idea. Not a clue how much danger she was in — not from the world, not from some stalker lurking in the dark.

From him.

Because Toby Rogers would never hurt her.

But the thoughts he was having? They weren’t holy. They weren’t pure.

And when she glanced back again to ask something about cinnamon, he had to look away, swallowing hard, practically biting down on his tongue.

“Y-you, uh… you look… busy,” he mumbled, eyes fixed firmly on a speck of flour on the table.

“Not too busy to hang out,” she chirped.

Toby forced a smile.

If only she knew what he’d do just for five minutes alone in that smile. What he’d already done.

Nope.

No.

This problem wasn’t going away.

Toby stood rigidly by the counter, hands twitching in his pockets, every nerve in his body buzzing. She was humming now—humming—while stirring something sweet into the bowl, and he caught the barest glimpse of her hip swaying beneath that stupid, perfect apron and—

Shit.

His jaw clenched. His knee bounced once. Twice. Sharp tic in his shoulder. This was getting bad. His mouth felt dry, throat clicking on a swallow that didn’t help.

He couldn’t keep looking at her. He couldn’t even be in this room another second.

He had to take care of it. Now. Before it got worse. Before it got dangerous.

“B-bathroom,” he blurted. “C-can I—uh—use y-your bathroom?”

Y/N blinked mid-pour and turned, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, of course! Down the hall, first door on the left.”

He didn’t wait for her to finish. He was already moving, fast but stiff, like his own body was a trap trying to trip him.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and he locked it. Twice. Then leaned against it, panting softly, hand trembling as he pressed his palm against the wall to steady himself.

Her scent was still on him.

He could see her face behind his eyes—flour-dusted cheek, the way her lip caught between her teeth when she focused, the way her laugh bounced off the kitchen tiles like it belonged to him.

Toby’s breath hitched as he tugged his jeans down with shaking hands.

“F-fuck,” he hissed.

She stirred the batter absentmindedly, her fingers tapping the edge of the bowl as her eyes lingered on the hallway Toby had disappeared down. He hadn’t looked great—sweaty, tense, fidgety.

Maybe his stomach hurts.

Her face scrunched with guilt. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching for the half-full bottle of Pepto in the cabinet. “Why would I invite him over to make desserts if I didn’t even think about his stomach?”

She stared down at the thick mixture of sugar and butter in her bowl, her wooden spoon hovering like it was suddenly accusing her. Did she push too hard? Was he trying to be polite?

He’s so quiet all the time, she thought. I probably didn’t even give him a chance to say no.

With a sigh, she placed the pink bottle on the counter in case he came back needing it. Then, after a pause, she picked up the bowl and resumed stirring, a little more gently this time. It wasn’t his fault she overdid things. And she couldn’t waste the batter.

“I’ll just box some up for the others later,” she whispered, trying to shake the strange, creeping weight in her chest.

Meanwhile, behind the locked bathroom door, Toby’s hands trembled slightly as he pressed the towel to his face. It was soft. Warm. Still holding the faintest trace of her scent—vanilla and something sweeter, something uniquely her. He inhaled slowly, almost reverently, eyes fluttering shut. His breath hitched. His right hand working feverishly. So fucking good.

He exhaled shakily, his jaw clenching.

It wasn’t just lust—it was obsession, coiling tighter each time she looked at him like that. Like he was just a boy she wanted to bake for. Like he hadn’t been thinking about her moaning his name all morning.

He growled under his breath, low and desperate, forehead pressing to the wall as he clutched the towel tighter hand working slower, at a sweet pace like he was making love to her. “Fuck…”

Outside, Y/n hummed softly, her voice like distant wind chimes. “Maybe I’ll add cinnamon…”

And Toby’s knuckles turned white around the terrycloth.

The image of her—flour on her cheek, humming to herself, bent over the counter with that soft little sway in her hips—was burned behind his eyes. He could still hear her voice through the door. Sweet. Gentle. Worried for him. He dropped the towel in his lap, burying his hand in his hair. But the scent clung to him. So did the memory of her licking batter off her finger earlier. The way her lips wrapped around it absentmindedly, like she didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

He groaned—quiet, strangled—as he pressed his hips forward into his fist, trying to ease it, trying to just make it stop.

But it wouldn’t.

It never did.

His hands shook as he imagined you. Sweet and tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered like a prayer. Not to her. Not to God. Just into the air. To the twisted version of her in his mind. The one that wanted this. The one that told him it was okay.

He wrapped the towel around his fist and moved like a man possessed—fast, rough, teeth gritted. Imagining her breath on his neck. Her soft moans in his ear. Her wide eyes full of trust while he—

A choked sound tore from his throat as he leaned back, biting down on his knuckle to keep from making a sound. His eyes rolled back. He saw her—on her knees, on the floor, on the kitchen counter with her apron half undone and her lips—

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—”

He came hard, gasping, heart pounding like a war drum. For a moment, everything was still. Silent.

Then the shame hit like a freight train.

He stared at the mess he made, breathless, twitching. The towel was ruined. His stomach twisted—not with guilt, but need.

This wasn’t enough.

It never would be.

Toby stepped back into the kitchen, trying not to limp from tension still coiled in his thighs. His hands were clean—scrubbed raw, nails bitten pink at the edges—but his face? Still flushed. Still hot. Still fucking obvious.

Y/N turned, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand, her brow knitting the second she saw him.

“Jeez, you okay?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’re all red.”

Toby froze mid-step, his throat tightening. He didn’t know what she saw—just the color in his face? The sweat still clinging to his neck? The faint, guilty glassiness in his eyes?

He opened his mouth, but she was already moving.

“I figured your stomach must’ve been hurting,” she said gently, holding up a bright pink spoon of Pepto Bismol. “I should’ve guessed sweets weren’t the move.”

He blinked at it. The tiny plastic spoon hovered in front of him like an offering. A strange, childlike gesture. And she stood there, close—so close—her eyes soft and apologetic.

She thought he had a stomachache.

The flush got worse. Crawled from his throat to his ears, burning him alive.

She thinks I was sick, not… jerking off in her bathroom like a fucking animal.

Good. Better. Easier.

His eyes dropped to the spoon again.

She’s trying to take care of me.

The thought hit him square in the chest. Knocked the wind out of him.

His breath caught.

Then, slowly, he reached up and took the spoon from her hand. His fingers brushed hers, barely there, and his skin buzzed like she’d zapped him with a live wire.

He downed it in one swallow. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even taste it.

Y/N smiled, oblivious. “There. Crisis averted.”

Toby nodded once, fast. Said nothing. His voice was somewhere at the bottom of his throat, buried under everything he couldn’t say.

She walked back to the counter, humming to herself again, and he just stood there—spoon still in his hand, heart still thudding, and the soft pink taste of her care still on his tongue.

She wants to take care of me.

No one had ever done that before.

And God help her—he was never going to let her stop.

“Wanna help roll the dough? The brownies are in the oven but I still need to make some cake for the week so maybe you can help!”

“Sure.”

⦻

The mixing bowls were scattered across the counter, half-covered in flour, and the dough sat proudly in the center like it had survived a war. Y/N stood beside Toby, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, one cheek still dusted with flour.

“Okay, okay—just roll it gently,” she said, passing him the wooden rolling pin.

Toby stared at it like it was a weapon. “I-I am,” he muttered, gripping it like it might fight back. His movements were stiff, awkward—too much pressure on one side, not enough on the other.

The dough groaned beneath the pin. Literally groaned.

“Okay, stop—stop!” Y/N burst into laughter, grabbing his wrists. “You’re crushing it! It’s supposed to be flat, not… wounded.”

Toby blinked. “W-wounded?”

She poked the dough dramatically. “This poor guy’s got PTSD now.”

Toby cracked a crooked grin, twitching once as he tried not to laugh too hard. “I-I’m not built for this. My idea of d-dessert is a granola bar from a gas station.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re a monster.”

He twitched again, not from the tic — just from how good it felt hearing her laugh because of him. Her hand was still over his. Warm. Small. He looked down at it and didn’t pull away.

“I c-could learn,” he said, softer this time. “If it means spending more time with you.”

That made her pause. Then smile — real and wide.

“Alright, Granola Boy,” she said, nudging the pin back into his hands. “Try again. But this time, roll like you don’t want the dough to file a police report.”

Toby grinned.

And tried again.

“See? That’s not so bad,” Y/N said as Toby shakily rolled the dough again, slightly less like he was interrogating it.

He grunted. “Y-you say that now, but I—I think this dough has a vendetta.”

She leaned in close, inspecting it. “Hmm… not bad. Still ugly, though.”

That earned a small huff from Toby—half frustration, half amusement. Without thinking, he reached toward the flour canister beside her, dipped two fingers in, and gently tapped a white streak across the tip of her nose.

Y/N blinked.

Toby’s shoulders tensed for a moment—afraid he crossed a line—but then she gasped dramatically.

“Oh. You wanna play?” she said slowly.

“W-what? No, I—”

Too late.

Y/N reached into the flour bin with both hands and dumped a cloud of it right onto Toby’s head. It coated his curls, clung to the bandage on his cheek, and dusted the shoulders of his hoodie like he’d been caught in a baking avalanche.

Toby coughed, blinking rapidly behind the flour-caked lashes.

Y/N bit her lip, suppressing a laugh. “You look like a sad ghost.”

Toby looked at her. For one strange second, the world went very still.

Then—he laughed.

A real laugh.

Not the unhinged twitchy sound that usually escaped him. Not a mock-chuckle or cracked giggle. Just pure, bright amusement bubbling from somewhere deep in his chest, like it hadn’t seen sunlight in years.

Y/N’s breath caught a little. She hadn’t heard that before.

It felt like something rare. Like she’d found a version of him no one else got to see.

He wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing the flour even worse.

“Oh my god, hold still,” she said, stepping closer. “You look insane.”

She reached for a cloth, then paused—her eyes drifting to the corner of the bandage peeking through the mess. She tilted her head, voice gentler now. “Hey, um… do you want me to help you clean that off? You’ve got flour all up under the bandage.”

Toby’s smile faltered. “I-it’s fine.”

She frowned. “No, seriously—it looks uncomfortable. I’ve got antiseptic and some fresh gauze. I could—”

“No.” His voice came sharper this time.

Y/N blinked.

Toby’s hands had dropped to his sides, shoulders tight.

She raised her palms slowly. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You d-don’t need to see that.” His voice was flatter now. Thinner.

Her heart stuttered. “Toby, I wasn’t trying to—”

“I said no.” His tone had changed completely. The lightness from before vanished. “It’s n-not just a cut, alright? J-just leave it.”

The shift in the air was immediate.

Y/N took a slow step back, trying not to show the way her hands trembled. “Okay. I get it.”

Toby didn’t meet her eyes.

Flour still clung to his hoodie.

And the warmth between them cooled like something had died.

She hadn’t meant to overstep. It was supposed to be funny—flour on his nose, that rare laugh she’d actually pulled from him. It had felt… good. Natural. Human.

But now Toby stood stiff and quiet near the counter, his shoulders hunched forward like he was expecting her to throw something.

The air had shifted so fast it made her skin crawl. Like walking out of sunlight into a cold basement.

Y/N cleared her throat gently. “I really didn’t mean anything by it. I just… I thought you were hurt.”

Toby didn’t respond.

She took a step toward him. Slowly. Like approaching a cornered animal.

“If it’s a scar or something, you don’t have to be embarrassed. Everyone has—”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

His voice came flat, not angry, but not soft either.

“I just don’t w-wanna see the look on your face when you do.”

That stopped her.

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

And suddenly, she saw it—not the scar, not yet—but the weight of it. The way he stood, defensive and small, hands flexing slightly at his sides. Like he was waiting to be hated.

Her chest ached.

“I wouldn’t look at you like that,” she said, quiet but firm.

_________________________________________

Hey guys so I made the chapter once again…too long so you can find part 2:

Here

Again I’m sorry guys tumbler just can’t handle me ig.

[whisperingthorns]

You grew up believing a locked door meant safety.

Tobias Rogers didn’t have that luxury.

He learned early that locks are just an invitation. A flimsy little challenge to see who’s willing to turn the handle anyway. That’s what makes you so easy to watch—how sure you are that four deadbolts and a curtain will keep the monsters out.

He’s not a monster, though. Not really. Just something shaped by worse things. By nights crouched in closets, breath held behind bitten knuckles, while voices slurred through the walls and footsteps dragged past the crack under the door.

You remind him of the quiet he used to pray for.

All that softness you wear like armor. The sweet, oblivious trust. Like you don’t realize he could step over your threshold right now and you’d never even hear the latch click.

He wonders sometimes if you’d cry the first time. If you’d plead, or if you’d just go silent the way he did when the world taught him you can’t always be saved.

And it should make him sorry. It should.

But it doesn’t.

It just makes him want you more.

Because he knows the truth you’ve never had to learn:

Nobody ever comes when you scream.

Nobody came for him.

Nobody came when the monster that his father was wormed its way back again and again.

Because there will never be a wall for you and him.

Maybe this is wrong. Maybe it’s vile. He doesn’t care. Is it wrong? Is it wrong to want you so bad after what’s happened to him? He certainly doesn’t view it that way.

You don’t see it yet—the way you fit perfectly into the hollow places he’s carried since he was small. Like you were poured into the cracks just to fill them up. Like you were made to patch the rot he can’t carve out.

He tells himself he’s gentle, that he’s patient. But it’s getting harder to keep his hands to himself when you smile like that. When you laugh soft and tired like you trust him not to ruin it.

Maybe that’s the part that keeps him awake. The trust. The knowledge that you don’t lock your windows all the way because it never occurred to you that someone like him exists.

And he does.

He exists because no one ever came.

And now, no one will come for you either.

Not when he finally steps out of the dark.

Not when he decides it’s time to stop pretending he can stand the distance.

Because he’s so tired of pretending.

And you look so beautiful when you don’t know you’re being watched.

chapter 7: Sugar and scars.

[whisperingthorns]

Scotty doesn’t know

But it’s Toby x Y/N

Kai is Scotty obv.

[whisperingthorns]

Sorry for the break, I’m setting up a wedding and dying and hating it. So. Literally next week I’ll go back to uploading. I just don’t have time with all this going on.

[whisperingthorns]

Literally him.

SUFFER, SUFFER, SUFFER LIKE I DID!

[whisperingthorns]

Dude wtf what’s wrong with you

(I can’t stop laughing)

SORRY, I HAD TO DO THIS @moriitis 😭😭😭

Do you think he wants it???

[whisperingthorns]

Charmed by Shadows:

Yandere Ticci Toby x Reader

Chapter 6: part 2. Uneasy company

Find part 1:

“Can I ask you something Toby?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Why did you move here? I mean, I’m assuming you moved. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never once seen you. Not at school. Not around town. Not your parents either. What brings you to this dead-end place?”

His chest tightened.

Shit.

He froze mid-movement, one hand still gripping the cooling head, blood soaking through the bag. For just a second, his mind short-circuited. Then:

“I… n-needed to start over,” he said, slowly. Carefully. “It’s p-peaceful here. Quiet. N-not so many people asking questions.”

Another pause.

“That’s fair,” she replied. “I guess I never thought of this place as quiet. Kinda felt like a cage sometimes.”

Toby dropped the head into the bag. It thudded against the rest of the body with a sick, final weight.

“I like cages,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“What?”

“N-nothing.”

The two talked more, while Toby finished up.

After a bit of time Toby noticed she had stopped responding to him.

Toby listened to her breathing.

It had gone soft. Slowed.

He stopped moving. The forest hushed with him.

“Y-you still th-there?” he whispered.

No answer.

Just the low, steady rhythm of her breath brushing against the phone speaker. His heart squeezed, tics jerking his shoulders once, twice. A soft sound escaped his throat—a laugh, maybe, or something closer to a whimper.

“She fell asleep,” he murmured, voice gone small. “On the phone. W-with me.”

He knelt there in the dirt, fingers clenched around the blood-slick phone, hatchet forgotten beside the black trash bag. The wind rustled through the trees, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The call disconnected.

Toby twitched. Blinked hard behind the goggles.

Something about that sound—the cold, mechanical way the world reminded him she was gone again—set his nerves jangling.

He stared down at the phone.

And slowly, mechanically, he stood. Tightened the bag. Slung it over his shoulder.

Then walked back into the trees, humming quietly to himself. A lullaby, maybe.

The kind you’d sing to keep something soft asleep.

Even if your hands were still covered in blood and you had a dead body slung over your shoulder in a trash bag.

⦻

The coffee shop buzzed with soft chatter and the clink of mugs. Y/N sat at the corner booth with Brook, Kai, and Moon, a half-eaten cinnamon roll pushed to one side of her plate while she scrolled absently on her phone.

“…and she still had the audacity to ask me to cover her shift,” Brook was saying, exasperated. “Like girl, you no-call no-show twice and think I’m just gonna—are you even listening?”

“Hm?” Y/N blinked, looking up. “Sorry. Just remembered something Toby said.”

Kai let out a low sigh and took a sip of his drink. “Toby again?”

Moon glanced between them, eyebrows raising slightly. “What’d he say?”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Nothing big. Just—he mentioned he can’t cook and it reminded me of that time I set the microwave on fire trying to melt chocolate.”

Brook chuckled, shaking her head. “That was tragic.”

Kai leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay but seriously, when did you start hanging out with that guy so much?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Kai said carefully, “he’s… different. You barely knew him a month ago, now suddenly it’s ‘Toby said this’ and ‘Toby likes that.’”

Y/N’s expression faltered. “I just think he’s nice. And he listens.”

Brook gave a hesitant look. “I mean yeah, he’s quiet. But there’s something… I don’t know. Off?”

Moon added, “He does seem kinda intense. Not that it’s bad, just—might be good to take it slow.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Why is everyone acting like I’m making some huge mistake just by being friends with him?”

Kai shrugged. “We’re not saying that. Just saying you barely know the guy.”

“Well,” she snapped, “maybe he’s just one of the few people who doesn’t treat me like I’m crazy when I say I feel unsafe.”

The table went quiet.

Brook shifted uncomfortably. “Y/N…”

“I’m just saying.” She sat back in her chair, staring at her coffee. “He believes me. That matters.”

The silence lingered, heavy and awkward.

Brook fiddled with her straw wrapper, clearly unsure what to say next.

Then Kai finally spoke.

“You’re right,” he said, quietly but firmly. “It was messed up. If you’re scared, we should be supporting you—not making you second-guess yourself.”

Y/N looked at him, startled by the shift in tone.

Kai rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I don’t care. I do. We all do. I just… don’t know the guy. And I’ve seen people attach themselves to someone fast when they’re vulnerable, and it never ends well. That’s all I meant.”

Brook glanced at Y/N, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean—I’m sorry, okay? I just get protective when you shut down like that. You matter to me. Even if I don’t always show it the right way.”

Moon leaned in slightly. “Look, if it gets worse? I’ll even come stay over a few nights. Sleep on the floor, take the couch, whatever you need. Just say the word.”

Y/N blinked at them. Their faces were serious, gentle—no longer doubting, just… there.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, her voice cracking slightly. “I just… I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” Kai said. “None of us want that.”

Y/N twisted her straw in her drink, her voice soft but steady. “I know he’s kind of… off, but Toby’s the only one who hasn’t questioned me. Not even once. He believed me right away.”

Brook looked up from her phone, her tone light but edged. “That’s kind of what worries me. Like—no hesitation? He just jumped in believing someone’s breaking into your house?”

Kai leaned forward slightly, arms folded. “I mean, she’s not wrong. It is strange. Most people would want proof, not just—blind faith.”

Y/N’s brows pulled together. “Well, maybe that’s why it meant something. He didn’t need proof to care.”

There was a pause.

Moon, who’d been mostly quiet, shrugged. “Toby’s weird, yeah, but he’s not hurting anyone. He’s just quiet. Keeps to himself.”

Brook let out a slow breath. “That’s the thing. Nobody knows anything about him. He just showed up, and now he’s… always around.”

Y/N sat back, frustrated now. “You all brushed me off for days. And the only person who didn’t is the one you’re all suspicious of?”

Kai held up a hand. “I get it. That was on us. It wasn’t cool. I just… don’t want you isolating yourself with someone we don’t really know.”

“I’m not isolating,” she said quickly. “I’m just—he makes me feel… less crazy. That’s all.”

Moon nodded once. “Then that’s fair. We just want to make sure he’s not the reason you’re scared in the first place.”

Y/N didn’t respond to that. She just looked down at her drink again, expression unreadable.

⦻

Y/N practically collapsed onto her bed, phone clutched in her hands like it owed her something. Her friends had smiled and nodded, said all the “right” things—but none of it felt real. None of it felt safe.

Her thumbs moved quickly.

Y/N:

Toby you should have seen the way they looked at me.

Like I was a toddler.

Or someone contemplating murder.

She stared at the screen, waiting. Her knee bounced anxiously. The second the typing bubble appeared, she exhaled like she’d been holding it all night.

Toby:

I’m sorry.

You didn’t deserve that.

Y/N:

I know they mean well but it’s like… they’re trying to coddle me. Like I can’t tell the difference between anxiety and someone being in my house.

She hit send, hesitated, then followed up with:

Y/N:

You don’t do that. You actually listen.

She didn’t realize how tense her shoulders were until they loosened. Talking to him was like pouring cold water on a burn—soothing in a way she didn’t want to think about too hard.

Toby:

Maybe they’re scared.

Sometimes people act like that when they don’t know how to help.

But I’m here.

Her chest tightened, not with fear but with something closer to relief. She clutched her phone to her chest, eyes fluttering shut for a second before typing again.

Y/N:

You always say the right thing.

There was a long pause before his reply came through.

Toby:

Only for you.

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

But the heat in her cheeks said plenty.

Kai’s living room was dim, a half-finished soda sweating on the coffee table. Moon sat cross-legged on the rug, fiddling with a loose string on his hoodie. Brook stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the street through the blinds.

“She’s not okay,” she said finally, voice quiet. “Like… something’s wrong, and I don’t think it’s just stress anymore.”

Moon looked up. “What do you mean? Like… she’s still having the dreams and stuff?”

Kai didn’t look away from the wall. “She said someone left a note in her house. Not on the door. Not the porch. Inside.”

Moon’s brows furrowed. “Wait—like… actually inside? Not just a dream?”

Brook nodded. “She showed me. I saw the glove too, the one she said wasn’t hers.” She turned, biting her lip. “But the way she talks about it—it’s like she’s trying to rationalize everything. And then she says Toby believes her, and it’s like he’s the only one she trusts now.”

Kai scoffed. “Of course he does.”

Moon looked between them. “Okay, look. I don’t really get a bad vibe from the guy. He’s weird, yeah, but not like—dangerous weird. Just awkward.”

Brook shook her head. “You haven’t seen the way he looks at her. It’s like she’s made of glass.”

Kai’s voice cut in, low and tight. “That’s the problem. He showed up out of nowhere. No family. No history. He’s in our town six weeks and suddenly he’s the only one she leans on? That’s not normal.”

Moon frowned. “But what if we’re wrong? What if he really is helping her? We all kinda brushed her off when she first brought it up…”

Brook let out a breath. “I know. I feel like shit about it. But something about him just… it itches in the back of my head.”

Kai finally stood. “I’m not saying we storm in and accuse him. But I’m gonna keep watching. If he is messing with her—” His voice dropped into steel. “I’ll find out.”

Moon nodded hesitantly. “Just… be careful, man. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.”

Kai didn’t respond. Brook’s phone buzzed—a message in the group chat.

Jaga:

April says she’s busy but down to hang soon. Maybe we should do something lowkey for Y/N. Moon’s idea wasn’t bad.

Moon has suggested to the secret group chat earlier that they all get together for a game night. Somthing to cheer y/n up.

Brook read it and stayed silent. Her fingers tightened slightly around the phone.

Because if Y/N really was in danger…

Then it wasn’t just weird anymore.

It was starting to look serious.

⦻

The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the cracked ceiling of the safehouse. The peeling wallpaper caught the light of the flickering lamp in sickly yellow glints. Masky sat on a stained, sunken couch, his boot tapping furiously against the rotting floorboards.

He exhaled through his teeth.

The page had gone through twice. No callback. No reply. Nothing.

Just static.

Across the room, Hoodie stood at the window, arms crossed, watching the trees sway like they were whispering something.

“You’ve tried three times,” Hoodie said without looking back. “If he’s ignoring it, protocol says we escalate.”

Masky’s fingers twitched against the armrest. He sucked in smoke like it was oxygen and let it sit in his lungs too long. When he finally exhaled, it was sharp. Bitter.

“I’m not telling him.”

“You think Slender won’t notice?”

“I think,” Masky snapped, standing suddenly and grinding the cigarette into the edge of the table, “if we say something, we’ll be on the next train to goddamn Maine playing babysitter for his golden boy.”

Hoodie turned his head slightly. “You think it’s just burnout?”

“I think Toby’s unraveling.” Masky muttered, pacing now. “He’s too quiet. And when Toby goes quiet, it’s worse than when he’s twitching and talking your ear off. That’s when he starts thinking.” His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. “And if he’s thinking, he’s planning. And if he’s planning…”

“He’s not killing who he’s supposed to,” Hoodie finished.

Masky didn’t say anything. He sat back down, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm.

The air was thick with frustration. And something close to fear.

Hoodie finally spoke again.

“You know he won’t stay quiet forever.”

Masky’s eyes burned behind the fabric of the mask. “No. But if he’s gone rogue again… we’ll know soon enough.”

Hoodie shrugged, still facing the window. His voice was calm, but edged with something unreadable.

“I told you he couldn’t handle it by himself. He’s not built for long-term solo assignments. Not with that kind of autonomy.”

Masky’s jaw flexed, silent.

“But,” Hoodie continued, “from the status reports? Targets are still going missing. Clean hits. No noise. No mistakes. So whatever he’s doing… he’s not off mission.” He paused. “Just… distracted. Maybe.”

Masky scoffed. “Distracted,” he repeated like it was a joke.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, head down.

“Last time he got distracted, we spent three weeks covering up the fallout in Oregon. Slender nearly fried his brain that time. You really think he wants another cleanup on our hands?”

Hoodie finally turned, his voice flat. “If the job’s getting done, he won’t care.”

Masky didn’t answer. He just sat there, tension coiled tight across his shoulders. The kind of quiet that meant he already knew something wasn’t right.

And deep down, he knew they wouldn’t be cleaning up after Toby this time.

They’d be cleaning up what was left of him.

Toby lay stretched across his mattress, one leg twitching against the floor, the other bouncing absently. The house was quiet—save for the soft hum of a box fan rattling in the corner. A half-eaten brownie sat near his pillow, the wrapper crinkled, forgotten.

He stared at the ceiling, grinning.

He was thinking about her laugh again. That tiny hiccup in her voice when she got excited about something stupid—like that dumb cat video she’d sent him. Or the way she said “shoo-fly pie” like it was a secret spell passed down from dessert witches.

God, her voice was cute.

His fingers rubbed at the edge of his mouthguard without thinking, and he kicked his heel softly against the floor. Just a little bit. Just enough to feel grounded.

She had texted him last night. She had said she couldn’t sleep. She thought of him. She needed him.

His chest warmed.

Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz.

The sound finally penetrated.

His eyes blinked open, and he sat up fast. “A-Angel?” he said aloud, scrambling for the phone. It had slid under his hoodie on the floor. He grabbed it and flipped it open, eager—

The screen glared up at him.

INCOMING CALL: MASKY

Toby’s heart dropped like a stone into his gut.

Not her.

Masky.

Then his eyes flicked to the call history.

3 missed calls.

His stomach twisted. His fingers clenched around the phone.

“Oh f-fuck,” he muttered.

He hit “accept.”

The line connected with a sharp click.

“Toby,” Masky’s voice growled low, already halfway to a snarl. “You got a damn reason for going radio silent for two days, or do I need to assume you’ve gone rogue?”

Toby’s eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where a trash bag full of… parts sat slouched against the wall like a sleeping drunk.

His smile was long gone now.

“Hey… h-hey, I—uh. I was just out. R-rural signal. N-nothing serious.”

“You’ve got tons of active targets left,” Masky snapped. “You miss one more report window, and it’s not me you’ll be hearing from.”

Toby’s jaw locked. His hand twitched. He swallowed.

“I’m on it. I’m working on it. E-everything’s under control.”

A long pause.

Then, curt and cold:

“It better be.”

Click.

The call ended.

Toby sat in the quiet, still gripping the phone, chest rising and falling.

Everything’s under control.

His gaze drifted back to the wall, then to the corner where her scarf hung on a nail like it lived there.

A soft smile crept back in.

“I-it is,” he whispered.

[whisperingthorns]

Charmed by Shadows:

Yandere Ticci Toby x Reader

Chapter 6 part 1: Uneasy company

Part 2

“Look at it again. Look at the handwriting. It’s not mine. It’s not yours. It’s not Kai’s. Who the hell wrote this, Brook?”

Brook stared at the paper. You’re safe now. The words were scrawled in uneven, twitchy script. Like whoever wrote it had a trembling hand—or wasn’t quite human in the way they moved.

“I mean… yeah, it’s weird,” Brook said slowly, fingers curling around her coffee mug. “But like… it could’ve been anyone. Moon’s always pulling dumb pranks. Or maybe Kai—”

“Kai doesn’t know where I keep my stationery drawer, Brook!” Y/n snapped. Her voice cracked halfway through. “And he wouldn’t break into my apartment in the middle of the night just to write me a bedtime story!”

Brook flinched, guilt painting her face for just a second. Then came the smile—gentle, practiced. “Hey… hey. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m just saying… you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. With work. And the nightmares. And… y’know.” She nodded toward the note. “Sometimes our brains make patterns that aren’t really there. Survival mode, right?”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, and her chest tightened. “You think I’m making it up.”

“No,” Brook lied quickly, but her eyes were already shifting away.

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the hiss of the kettle and the rain tapping against the windows. Y/n stepped back, folding her arms. “I knew it. I knew if I told anyone, you’d all just smile and nod and tell me I’m stressed.”

Brook set her mug down carefully, like she was defusing a bomb. “I am on your side, okay? But what do you want me to do, Y/n? Call the cops and tell them your curtains were swaying weird and your phone glitched?” She instantly winced. “Shit. That came out wrong.”

Y/n looked at the note one last time, then crumpled it in her fist. Her voice was cold.

“No. It didn’t.”

Brook took a slow breath, smoothing her palms on her jeans. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just… don’t know how to help you when everything feels like a ghost story.”

Y/n didn’t answer at first. She stared at the counter, at the steam fogging the window above the sink, until her reflection disappeared. Her voice, when it finally came, was low and flat.

“Do you think I’m going crazy?”

Brook blinked. “No. Of course not.”

“You hesitated.”

“No, I—” Brook’s hands came up instinctively, defensive. “I just… I think maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe all the stress is blurring things together. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You’ve got this whole thing about someone watching you—”

“Because someone is.”

Brook looked at her like she was trying really hard to see a version of her that made sense. “But we haven’t seen anyone, Y/n. Just… creepy vibes. And notes. Could be a prank.”

“And the glove?”

Brook fell silent.

Y/n crossed the kitchen, grabbed it from where she’d tossed it on the table, and threw it down between them. “You think I’m that far gone I’d just hallucinate this too?”

Brook looked at the glove like it might bite her. “Okay. That is weird. I’ll give you that. But…” she shrugged helplessly, “you have to admit you’ve been slipping lately. Like, when we came over to hang, you forgot we even made plans. You’ve been… different.”

Y/n leaned against the fridge, arms tight across her chest. She suddenly felt cold. Embarrassed. Angry. “So what, you think I planted it for attention? You think I want to feel like someone’s watching me while I sleep?”

“No! Jesus, Y/n, that’s not what I meant!”

“Then what do you mean?”

Brook opened her mouth. Closed it. Rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. I just know that if you keep spiraling like this, you’re gonna end up locking yourself away. And I won’t be the friend who feeds that. I care about you, but I can’t validate something that might not be real.”

“Might not be real?” Y/n repeated, voice hollow. “I called you because I was scared. I thought maybe… you’d believe me. Or at least pretend better than this.”

Brook swallowed. “You want me to lie?”

“I want you to listen.”

The kettle screeched on the stove, long and shrill, like the room couldn’t take the silence anymore. Brook didn’t move to shut it off.

“I am listening,” she said quietly. “But I think you need help. Not notes and glove theories and—whatever this is.”

That broke something.

Y/n turned, reached out, and clicked the burner off. “Thanks for the tea, Brook.”

Brook stiffened. “Y/n—”

“Door’s that way.”

Brook froze. Like Y/n had never been so harsh before. She slowly got up and walked out, closing the door softly, already dialing her cousin, Kai. The door clicked shut behind Brook. (Y/n) stood in the middle of her kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, trembling. The air felt too still. The silence too sharp. Her eyes drifted to the note again—You’re safe now—mocking her with its calm tone, when everything in her screamed the opposite.

Brook hadn’t said she didn’t believe her… but she didn’t say she did either.

“You’ve been really stressed lately, hon. Maybe it’s just your mind trying to cope—”

Brook’s voice echoed in her head, smooth and sweet, but quietly patronizing. Like she was talking a child off a ledge.

(Y/n) curled into the couch, burying her face in her hands as the tears finally spilled out. She didn’t even sob—just let the warmth streak down her cheeks while her body folded inward, small and tight.

She wanted to believe Brook was right. That this was just burnout, anxiety, unresolved trauma from her past kicking in with the perfect storm of nightmares and exhaustion.

She wanted to.

But the glove.

The note.

The messages.

She wasn’t making those up.

Her phone buzzed on the armrest beside her, jolting her out of her spiral.

Toby:

Hey, I was thinking about our convo yesterday…

Still feeling like someone’s watching you?

(Y/n) stared at the message, her thumb hovering. Why did it make her feel warm? Safer? She typed slowly.

Y/n:

Yeah… I brought it up to Brook. I think she thinks I’m going crazy.

Maybe she’s right.

The typing bubble on Toby’s side popped up immediately.

Back at Toby’s rundown shack…

Toby stared at his phone, the message sitting in his palm like a lit fuse.

She thinks she’s crazy.

Brook thinks she’s crazy.

Brook is trying to turn her against her own instincts.

That smug bitch. Oh this was working so well. Toby was wondering if it almost too well. God if only he’d known it’d be this EASY!

His jaw clicked, head twitching once to the right. He paced across the floor of his rundown safehouse, his mind running in circles, fast and hot. If he lashed out now—said too much, pushed too hard—she’d retreat further into their arms. Into their lies.

He wanted to tell her Brook was a dumb bitch.

That he was the only one who cared.

He can’t. No.

No. This had to be finessed. Slower. Softer.

He dropped onto the mattress and typed with deliberate calm.

Toby:

I don’t think you’re crazy.

He waited a beat, then typed another.

Toby:

Actually… I think you’re the sanest person I know. People always call others “crazy” when they’re afraid of things they don’t understand.

But I understand. I believe you.

He held his breath then deleted it. No. No. Just leave it at that. He couldn’t push too hard. Not yet. But if she started leaning toward him instead of them? That’s when he could close the distance.

Y/N:

That’s… really kind of you to say.

I don’t know why, but it actually makes me feel a little better. lol

Toby’s screen lit up, and a flicker of warmth crawled up his neck.

Yes. Good. She was opening.

He didn’t reply right away. Had to keep it paced, casual.

He reread her message five times before typing:

Toby:

Sometimes just knowing someone believes you is enough to keep going.

Wanna meet again? Just talk?

Same place?

A beat.

A pause.

He stared, practically vibrating.

Y/N:

Yeah… I think I’d like that.

It’s quiet out there. Easier to breathe.

Toby blinked at the screen.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes.

He grinned, a twitch rolling down his spine.

Toby:

I’ll be there. Don’t worry.

I’ll keep you safe.

Those dumb friends of her didn’t stand a fucking chance.

The air was damp with yesterday’s rain, the bench still cool beneath her as (Y/n) sat down. The woods around them felt quieter than usual—like they, too, were holding their breath.

Toby arrived just a minute later, hoodie zipped up tight, hands in his pockets. His bandage old but not gross enough for him to throw out. He sat beside her, he stayed quiet—giving her space. Just like he knew she liked.

(Y/n) picked at her sleeve. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Toby twitched—shoulder jerking once, then again. “St-still the dreams?” His voice was soft, careful.

She shook her head slowly. “No. Worse. I found another note. In my kitchen. It just… showed up.”

He turned to her, his posture sharpening. “Wh-what d-did it say?”

(Y/n)’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “It said, ‘I’m always watching out for you.’ And my phone? Someone typed it into my notes app. Like… it was already open. The charger was pulled out.”

Toby was quiet for a second too long. A tic made his head snap slightly to the left. Then—

“H-holy shit.” His voice cracked with what sounded like genuine horror. “Th-that’s not j-j-just stress. That’s s-someone messing with you.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, like hearing someone else say it gave her permission to believe it.

“And…” she hesitated. “I told Brook. I showed her. She said it’s probably just anxiety. Lack of sleep. Like—I know I’ve been stressed, but I’m not delusional, right?”

Toby flinched. Once. Twice. He let out a sharp breath through his teeth and leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs.

“I-I didn’t th-think she’d be the t-type to just… just brush you off like that.” His voice had dropped lower, shaking just slightly. “Y-you said she was your f-friend.”

“She is,” (Y/n) said quickly, but it didn’t sound convincing even to herself.

Toby shook his head. “N-no. N-not if she’s m-making you doubt your own m-memory. That’s not… that’s n-not what real friends do.”

His eyes flicked toward her, gaze intense but sad.

“You d-don’t deserve to feel c-crazy. N-not when you’re scared. N-not when it’s real.” He sniffed slightly, another tic making his neck jerk. “I-I’d believe you. I do.”

She looked at him, really looked. His voice had cracked like he meant every word. The protective way he leaned toward her, the furrow between his brows—it all made him seem like the only person in her corner.

For a moment, it felt like he was.

(Y/n) sat frozen beside him even after he stopped talking.

The words hung in the air like smoke—soft, but stinging.

“I’d believe you. I do.”

She blinked hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jeans.

Someone believed her.

Really believed her.

Not because they were humoring her. Not because they wanted her to calm down. But because they looked her in the eye and said, “You don’t deserve to feel crazy.”

Her throat burned. A tremble climbed up her spine like the cold. She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not again.

But Toby didn’t look at her with judgment. Just quiet… concern. No pity. No mocking disbelief. Just stillness. Presence.

She pressed her palm to her chest, grounding herself.

“I-I’ve been questioning everything,” she whispered. “My locks. My windows. My memory. I thought—I thought maybe I was going insane.”

Toby stayed silent. Letting her talk.

“I can’t sleep without checking every door three times. I started keeping a knife under my pillow. I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself and no one’s even noticing.”

Her voice cracked then. Just slightly.

But Toby didn’t recoil. He only tilted his head, like her words were sacred. Worth hearing.

She wiped her eye quickly. “It’s just… nice. To not feel like I’m drowning alone.”

He nodded once, slow. His eyes reflected the trees.

“I-I’ll always listen,” he said. “E-even if no one else does.”

(Y/n) let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Toby. I mean it.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she had to explain herself. Or shrink to be palatable. Or convince someone she wasn’t unraveling.

She sat there quietly for a long while.

And decided something.

If someone was stalking her—truly stalking her—then maybe she wasn’t powerless. Maybe knowing she wasn’t crazy meant she could actually do something about it.

She’d start keeping records. A journal. Pictures of any note or misplaced object. Time stamps. If she was being watched, she’d keep watch too.

She wouldn’t let this thing keep making her doubt herself.

Not anymore.

She didn’t even realized.

Did it realize the way he has her strung up in his web.

⦻

Toby, as he worked throughout the week was buzzing.

He even caught himself talking to a target at one point.

In the woods last Thursday night.

The man was wide eyed and shaking. Toby had leaned him against a tree in the edge of the clearing in the woods. He honestly liked to just kill his targets and get it over with but he honestly needed someone to talk to. Not like Ben was here anyway.

The man, who had his wrists and ankles bound tightly scraped and bruised, one eye swollen shut and blood pouring down it from the gash Toby had made while restraining him on his forehead.

Toby was sitting cross legged in front of him, goggles reflecting the pale moonlight, mouth guard up. He was tearing and playing with the grass at his legs. Anxious. The man’s mouth *had* been gagged. Toby removed it. Not out of kindness. Toby didn’t believe in such concepts anymore. He just needed someone to bounce off of. The week had been electric. His Angel had cried and then… then she’d texted him.

Now here he was. Kneeling in the grass across from a man whose hands were zip-tied behind his back, the collar of his shirt soaked with sweat and blood, breathing shallow and uneven.

Toby picked at a blade of grass between his fingers, tearing it lengthwise with exaggerated focus. His knees bounced slightly. A tic jerked his shoulder upward before he smacked his neck. Hard. Then again.

He sighed.

“Y-you know,” he said, voice lilting with strange calm, “You—uh—you kinda… remind me of my dad.”

The man flinched slightly. “I—I don’t want any trouble—”

“N-n-not you, you. Not your face. Or your—ehh—your voice. Just your… uh… your vibe.” Toby’s mouth twitched into a wide grin under his mouthguard. “I didn’t like him. He hit like a bitch.”

The man’s breath caught in his throat. He said nothing.

Toby dropped the shredded grass and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But you listen, r-right? You’re a listener.” His fingers twitched. “I need a listener. I-I got stuff going on up here, y’know?” He tapped two fingers hard against the side of his head. Thump. Thump.

“Sure,” the man said, trying to steady his voice. “I can listen. Wh-whatever you need.” He was terrified.

Toby didn’t seem to notice.

Toby’s goggles caught the moonlight as his head jerked to the side again. “She thinks I’m good. She does.” He said it to himself at first. Then louder. “She told me I make her feel safe. Do you know what that means?”

“I—I think so.”

Toby laughed, and it was the sound of glass scraping tile. “N-no. No, you don’t. You don’t know what it means to b-be wanted like that. To deserve something.” He gripped the hatchet handle beside him and dug it into the dirt beside his foot. “I—I work for her love, man. I earn it. Little by little. Gifts. Notes. Warmth.”

The man tried again, his voice cracking. “Love doesn’t need to be earned like that. Maybe she’d—she’d like you just being honest. Just being y-yourself—”

“S-shut up.” Toby’s voice cracked like a whip. His head twitched violently, and the next second he was too close, crouched in front of the man with the hatchet pressed against his shoulder. “You—you d-don’t know shit, okay? Don’t give me that ‘love yourself’ therapy garbage.” His mouth curled in a sick grin. “I kill therapists.”

The man nodded again. “Maybe she does. Maybe you just need to be patient. Let it happen naturally—”

The shift was instant. Toby’s head snapped forward, his arm swinging wide. The hatchet slammed into the man’s thigh with a wet crack. The man howled, jerking to the side, but couldn’t move far. Blood spilled onto the grass.

Toby didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Don’t. Patronize. Me.” His voice came quiet, even. “She already loves me. I’m the only one who’s ever been there when it mattered.”

He looked down at the blood, then tilted his head.

The man was hyperventilating now, jaw clenched tight as his body jerked weakly against the tree. The blood from his leg pooled in the grass like spilled paint, and his hands trembled behind his back.

But he didn’t scream again. No. Screaming wouldn’t help. This man—this thing in goggles and a blood-caked hoodie—he didn’t care about fear. Fear was background noise.

He cared about attention. About connection.

So the man forced his voice to stay low, steady, even as his thigh throbbed like a siren. “You said she makes you feel safe,” he said. “That’s… good. That’s good. People like that, they’re rare.”

Toby didn’t answer right away. He was sitting back again, knees drawn to his chest, the hatchet laid across his lap like a toy. His hands were twitching. Fingers tapping, one leg bouncing.

“She looks like spring,” Toby murmured finally, not quite to the man, not quite to himself either. “L-like that first warm day after snow. The kinda day where… everything smells like mud and flowers and—and smoke from somebody’s chimney.”

He was rocking slightly now. Still staring down. “I d-don’t even… I don’t even really believe in heaven or anything. But if there is one? She smells like it.”

The man nodded. His mouth was dry. “She sounds… important to you.”

“She’s mine,” Toby said, with a kind of childish stubbornness. “She just doesn’t know yet. But she will. I’m… working on it.” His voice cracked again, and he smacked his neck. Twice. “I’m making it right.”

The man winced as another throb pulsed in his leg. “Maybe… maybe she doesn’t need to know. Maybe just being close is enough, yeah? You don’t gotta force it.”

Toby twitched. His goggles turned toward him like headlights.

“I don’t force anything,” Toby said flatly. “I’m patient. I—I bring her things. I listen. I—I f-fix stuff when it breaks. She doesn’t even know it was me and she smiles anyway.”

He laughed again. It was soft. Almost boyish. “You should’ve seen her face the other day. She dropped this little—little thing of lip balm, and I picked it up and put it back on her porch. And the next morning? She was smiling. Like magic.”

“That’s… that’s sweet,” the man managed. It wasn’t. It was terrifying. But he said it anyway.

Toby tilted his head. “Y’think so?”

“Yeah,” the man rasped, daring to hope. “You got a good heart, man. Just… hurt. Just twisted around.”

Toby blinked behind his goggles.

For a moment, he looked like he might cry.

Then his mouth twitched up beneath the mask. Not a smile. Something sadder. Colder. A cut in soft flesh.

“I used to think that too,” he said quietly. “Th-that maybe I was just a good guy in a bad story.”

He rose to his feet slowly, hatchet in hand. “But good guys don’t get love. They get put in the ground.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“I’m not taking that risk.”

Toby stood over the man, the blood-slick hatchet dangling loosely in his hand. His fingers twitched on the handle, a rapid tap-tap-tap against the metal. His head jerked once to the right, a sharp tic that made his goggles shift slightly on his face.

For a long time, he just stood there. Breathing. Watching the man’s chest rise and fall in shallow, terrified gulps. Then, in a tone too quiet for comfort, he spoke again.

“I used to cry after,” he said. “A-after the first ones. Even when they were b-bad people. Even when they deserved it.”

He laughed—no joy in it, just air and nerves. “Y-you’d think the crying would stop after the first few, but it didn’t. Not right away. I’d go home and scrub the blood off, and my hands would s-still shake. My chest would get all tight. Like I swallowed guilt whole and it got stuck in my ribs.”

The man didn’t speak. Just watched, wide-eyed, frozen in place.

“But then… then it got quiet,” Toby whispered. “After a while, there wasn’t anything to feel bad about. Not really. ’Cause it stopped feeling like murder. Just felt like… chores. Just another part of the job.”

He crouched again, close enough for the man to feel the heat of his breath through the mask. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur.

“And that’s the worst part, y’know?” His shoulder twitched, and he hit his neck again, hard enough to crack. “That I started to like it. The way they look at you right before. Like they finally see you. Like they understand that you’re not something they can fix or walk away from.”

The man swallowed hard, trying not to look at the hatchet.

Toby’s mouth curled. “She’d hate me for that. My Angel. If she knew what I’ve done. What I do. She’d look at me like I was some monster under the bed. And I—” he choked, laughing softly through a violent tic. “I couldn’t take it. Not from her. N-not her.”

He tapped a finger against his temple again, erratic. “She thinks I’m gentle. Thinks I’m sweet. That’s what she sees when I smile. When I stutter and shake and fumble through my words like some broken wind-up toy.”

He sighed. “And I am. For her, I am.”

He looked at the man, his voice shaking but steady. “B-but what happens when that’s not enough? When she starts asking questions? When she finds the glove, or the notes, or—or someone tells her what I really am?”

He reached up, slowly pulled his goggles off, revealing eyes rimmed red, tired and wild. His face twitched as he stared at the man.

“What would you do?” he asked.

The man’s throat bobbed. “I—I’d run.”

Toby’s eyes stayed locked with his.

“So would she.”

A beat.

Then the hatchet lifted.

Toby tilted his head. Another twitch rolled through him, shoulder to chin, and his eyes blinked out of sync. A strange stillness followed. Then he leaned in so close the man could see the dried blood flecking his cheek.

“You know what’s funny?” Toby whispered, voice low and quivering. “S-sometimes I think about killing her too.”

The man’s breath caught. His eyes widened, and for the first time, real sobs began to shake through his bound frame.

“Not ’cause I want to,” Toby went on, ignoring it. “B-but because I’m scared. Scared I’ll fuck it up. Scared I’ll break her like I break everything else. Maybe if I did it—if I just ended it—I wouldn’t have to live with the thought of her hating me.”

His mouth twitched under the mask. “But I c-can’t. ’Cause she’s the only thing in this world that m-makes me feel like I’m not just a… weapon. Or a dog they send into the woods.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His fingers flexed around the handle of the hatchet, the blade catching the moonlight again.

“You’re not her,” he said, the softness vanishing from his voice like a switch had flipped. “So I don’t need to pretend with you.”

A twitch.

Another.

Then the smile.

“You’ll scream the way she never will.”

The hatchet came down.

Once.

Twice.

Over.

And over.

Until the only sound left was the wet, rhythmic slap of blood-soaked metal against bone and moss.

And then—silence.

⦻

The air was thick with iron.

Sticky warmth clung to Toby’s gloves, soaked through the leather and down to his wrists. Bits of flesh and hair clung to the edge of the hatchet where it rested lazily across his thigh. He sat cross-legged in the clearing again, back against a tree, blood dripping slowly down his arms. The grass around him was dark, trampled, and wet with ruin.

His breath came in soft, steady bursts. His tics were quiet now, reduced to an occasional twitch in his neck, like his body hadn’t caught up yet.

Ding.

A sharp chime cut through the night like a thread pulled taut. Toby jumped, startled, blinking rapidly. He reached down for the phone in his pocket with hands so red they glistened under the moonlight.

Another ding.

He pulled it out, and the screen lit up bright against the night.

(Y/n):

Can’t sleep. Been thinking too much again. You up?

His heart stopped. His stomach flipped, breath caught behind his teeth. The screen blurred, his fingers trembling as he tried to swipe the notification open.

Slide.

Nothing.

He growled in frustration, trying again—but his fingers left smears of blood on the screen, the moisture making it impossible for the phone to register. His gloves were too slick. Too wet.

“F-fuck—c’mon…” he mumbled, voice cracking. His hand twitched violently, then smacked his leg. “Stupid—ggh—sh-shit—just work!”

Desperate, he yanked the glove off with his teeth and wiped the screen on his jeans, leaving a long red streak across the denim. Then wiped his hand, frantic and clumsy, against his thigh until most of the blood came off.

Finally, he swiped again—success. The message opened.

The glow of your words, so soft and familiar, bathed his face in pale light.

She wanted him. She needed him.

Toby stared at the message a long time.

Then he smiled.

A different kind of blood now throbbed in his chest. The one that wasn’t from killing.

It was affection. Twisted. Pure. Terrifying.

He slowly began to type back, still kneeling in a pool of the man he’d just destroyed. Still shaking from the rush.

Toby:

Still up. Do you want me to call?

His thumb hovered.

He sent it

Toby moved away from the body, pacing deeper into the woods. Each step squelched against the wet earth, the blood soaking into his boot soles, but he didn’t feel it anymore. Not now.

He pressed the call button.

The line clicked.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft, fragile.

Toby exhaled, long and low. “H-hey,” he said, and his voice dropped to a murmur. “C-can’t sleep?”

“No,” she whispered, like she was afraid the dark might hear. “I—I know it’s dumb. I just… I feel like there’s something here. Watching. Waiting.”

His eyes flicked back to the clearing behind him, to the ruin of the man he’d just left slumped by the tree. “Y-you’re not dumb. You’re… you’re j-just—tired. R-rattled.”

She didn’t speak, and he filled the silence, his tone soft as silk. “Y-you wanna tell me about your d-dream? Or… j-just sit?”

She let out a breath. “You don’t mind?”

“I d-don’t mind.”

His voice turned almost melodic, soothing, like a lullaby that could draw you back into peace.

“I l-like it, actually. Just… talk to me.”

“I—I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” she added, almost apologetically.

“I w-was just… out walking,” he lied, glancing to the dark shape slumped behind him in the brush. “Y-you okay?”

(Y/n)’s breath came slow through the line. He could hear her shifting—maybe curled up somewhere. Bed. Couch. She wasn’t standing.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

“Nightmares?”

“Sort of. Just… everything. My head won’t stop.”

Toby’s eyes dropped to his gloved hand, then to the streak of blood on his sleeve. His voice came warmer now, smoothing out like a comforter being laid over something broken.

“You wanna t-talk about it?”

(Y/n) hesitated. He could hear it in the breath she held.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start w-with anything. Doesn’t matter.”

She gave a weak chuckle—dry and half-hearted. “God, Toby. This is so dumb. I didn’t think I’d actually call you. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t want to be alone.”

Toby’s heart thudded.

“You’re not.”

His voice dropped just slightly—low and protective.

“Y-you got me.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then:

“…Wait.”

She sniffed once. “Walking?”

Toby blinked, thrown for a second. “…Y-yeah?”

“Isn’t it like… 3 a.m.?” Her voice sharpened just a little. Not accusing, just confused. “Why the hell are you walking this late?”

His tongue ran over his teeth behind the mouth guard. The question wasn’t hostile, but it pressed. Touched something too close.

Toby cleared his throat. “I, uh… I c-couldn’t sleep either.”

He wiped his hand again on his jeans, watching the blood stain grow darker on the denim. The copper tang still hung thick in the air. Somewhere behind him, something shifted—probably a raccoon. Or the corpse settling.

“Helps t-to be outside, sometimes,” he added quickly. “C-cuts the noise up here.” He tapped the side of his head. The phone picked up the soft thump.

She was quiet. He could hear her thinking.

“…Huh. I guess that makes sense.”

Relief slipped through his chest like a loose wire sparking out.

“Besides,” he mumbled, “y-you called at the perfect time.”

A pause.

“Why?”

Toby smiled to himself.

“‘Cause now I don’t feel alone either.”

She went quiet again. Not uncomfortable—just… contemplative.

Then a soft laugh. “Wow. Look at us. Two disasters finding comfort in a 3 a.m. call. That’s kinda cute.”

Toby’s grip tightened slightly on the phone as he crouched beside the body. The man’s head lolled unnaturally to the side. Toby adjusted him, rolling him more onto his back with a wet sound.

“Y-you always up this late?” he asked, keeping his voice low, warm.

“Not really,” she said, voice slightly muffled, probably repositioning in bed. “Not unless I’m anxious. Lately though… yeah. It’s been rough.”

Toby drew in a slow breath through his teeth. “Mhm. I get that. S-sometimes I go days. N-no sleep. It’s like my brain’s a f-freaking hornet’s nest.”

He grunted softly, grabbing the man’s arms and dragging the body a few feet to a flatter spot on the grass. The corpse left a smeared trail behind him, wet leaves sticking to the blood.

“…What was that?” she asked suddenly.

Toby froze. “Wh-what?”

“You just—made a noise. Like a grunt or something. What are you doing?”

His eyes darted to the corpse, then to the small hatchet glinting beside it. Think. Quick. Calm.

“Oh. Uh—cleaning,” he said, standing up with a slight huff. “W-whenever I c-can’t sleep, I c-clean. Like, t-to distract my brain, y’know? Laundry. Dishes. Sometimes r-r-rearrange furniture like a psychopath.”

There was a pause. Then she laughed—light, genuine.

“That’s… weirdly sweet, actually. Taking something shitty and turning it productive. Most people just scroll or doom spiral. You’re like—channeling it into something useful.”

Toby’s mouth twitched into a grin behind the mask. “Y-yeah. I-I’m pretty good at t-taking bad and making it s-shine.”

He stepped around the body, still on the phone, and reached for the hatchet. His fingers curled around the worn grip, and he gave the blade a quick glance. Still clean. Still sharp.

“Well,” she said softly, “whatever works, right?”

Toby knelt down. The man’s face was frozen in a final expression of quiet horror. His mouth hung open slightly. Toby tilted his head.

“Y-yep. Whatever works.”

And then—still listening to her breathing, her soft voice in his ear—he raised the hatchet.

THUCK.

A wet, heavy sound cracked through the phone.

(Y/n) blinked. “Okay—what was that?”

Toby didn’t miss a beat. Wiped the spray off his wrist with the edge of his jacket. “C-chopping wood,” he said, light as air. “Old house. No central heating. I-I gotta keep the fireplace going if I d-don’t wanna freeze my ass off.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

Another clean chop. Bone gave more resistance than he expected, but he was used to that now. “M-mmhmm,” he grunted, repositioning the arm and lining up the next strike.

He let the silence stretch for just a moment too long, then chuckled, voice soft, teasing. “If you’re gonna keep j-judging my late-night chores, y-you’re welcome to come over and do it for me while I relax.”

(Y/n) snorted through the speaker. “No thank you.”

Toby smiled.

Behind him, the forest was quiet. The body at his feet was growing lighter, piece by piece.

But her voice? Her voice filled his ears, sweet and real. Like it belonged to him.

“Suit yourself,” he said, dragging one limb aside like discarded lumber. “B-but next time I’m freezing my hands off, I’m calling you to c-complain anyway.”

“Fair,” she murmured. “You get a pass for being a firewood peasant.”

They both laughed.

And under that sound, another crack.

“Okay, well not everyone can have u-updated houses like Princess Y/n,” Toby said, pressing his shoulder against the corpse’s ribs to snap the arm free. His tone was mock-offended. “Check your p-privilege.”

(Y/n) giggled. “Fine, peasant. If you ever get cold you can sleep at my place—in the guest bedroom.”

Toby’s grin twisted behind the mask. “Y-yes, ‘cause the peasant must t-take refuge in the castle! I’ll s-sleep by the fire while the princess brings me grapes.”

“I demand breakfast if I’m housing strays.”

“I would burn water, Y/n. I—I can’t cook.” Another slice. Another piece severed.

“Deal’s off,” she teased.

Toby gasped. “Now I’m gonna freeze and d-die. That’s murder, Princess.”

“Are you seriously not worried about bears or coyotes or something? You’re outside, right?”

Toby chuckled, breath puffing through his mask as he wiped blood off the blade. “They’re n-not the ones that should be scared out here.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then a soft laugh.

“That’s fair,” she said. “You do have big crazy wood-chopping energy.”

Toby’s heart skipped. Her voice—it soothed something inside him. It made the mess feel worth it.

Even with the corpse cooling at his feet, he’d never felt so warm.

“Crazy wood chopping energy?” Toby snorted. “I’m sleep-deprived.”

As he spoke, the blade of his hatchet lodged in the thick vertebrae of the corpse’s neck. He grunted, raised his boot, and stomped down on the back of the blade. It drove clean through with a wet crunch, blood spurting out across the pine needles in a sick arc.

“I can tell,” (Y/n) murmured on the other end, unaware.

There was a lull—soft static and night wind blending with the sound of Toby adjusting his grip.

“No but seriously,” she said, her voice more serious now, “You’ve got, like, a gun or something on you, right? You’re out there in the middle of the woods at night.”

Toby’s eyes crinkled behind his goggles. He grinned wide.

“I mean… I have a hatchet,” he said, tone light. “F-figured if something came after me I’d just, y’know, g-get it to eat you instead. That’d keep it busy while I ran.”

There was a dramatic gasp from her. “Wow. Rude.”

“I’d leave a flower on your grave,” he said sweetly, casually flicking bone fragments from his boot.

“Gee, thanks. You’re a real friend.”

Toby looked down at the mangled corpse, his hands drenched in sticky warmth. The contrast was insane. And beautiful.

“You’re welcome, Princess.”

Toby gripped the man’s severed head by the hair, blood dripping into the open trash bag. He worked slowly, methodically, boots crunching over snapped ribs and pine needles.

“Trash bag,” (Y/n) said on the other end hearing the crinkle.

“You done chopping wood?” she teased.

“I’m done chopping wood,” he replied, wiping his hands down his already-filthy jeans.

“What, you wanna come take out my t-trash too?”

“No. Stop trying to get me to do your chores.”

He scooped more into the bag—pieces of shoulder, gloved fingers curled unnaturally. The weight was starting to add up.

“I’m starting to think you n-never wanna do anything.”

“That’s not true, Toby,” she said, voice soft. “I wanna talk to you.”

Tobias could’ve dropped dead right there and died happy.

There was a pause. Her voice came quieter this time.

“Can I ask you something, Toby?”

Part 1/2 (tumbler won’t let me add anymore I’m sorry! Next part up soon!)

Part 2



[whisperingthorns]

SO! Haha!

I actually made chapter 6 a little TOO long and now tumbler doesn’t like being fed that many words so I’m probably gonna release them in two parts?????

Idk!

Maybe I should just make it a separate chapter but like also spent all this time writing it idk if I should just give it to your guys??????

[whisperingthorns]

Note to self: don’t make really long chapters unless you wanna edit really long chapters :(

[whisperingthorns]

NSFW Headcanons – Prince Kastor Draeven

“You’re shaking? Good. That means you feel it too.”

Possession, Not Pleasure (At First)

- Sex with Kastor starts as territory.

He doesn’t care if you’re ready—he’ll make you ready.

- The first time? He growls your name into your neck while pushing you face-first into his bed like he’s marking it.

- It’s rough. Desperate. He’s not gentle because he doesn’t know how to be.

“You’re mine. Say it—louder.”

Hands Like Shackles

- His hands are calloused and strong—meant for weapons.

He holds your wrists above your head with one hand.

- Leaves bruises on your hips from gripping too tight. You love them. He loves that you love them.

Ferality Under Control

- He tries to hold back. Tries to be careful. But when you moan his name like you mean it?

Gone.

He loses control—ruts into you like his sanity depends on it.

“Don’t look at me like that unless you want to be fucked into the floor.”

Jealousy means ruin

- You so much as smile at someone else?

He drags you back to his war tent and takes you from behind, still armored from the battlefield.

- Grunts in your ear with his hand around your throat—not tight, just enough. Just so you know.

“You want someone gentle? You should’ve died with your kingdom.”

Kinks

- Hair pulling — yours. His. Doesn’t matter.

- Overstimulation — he doesn’t stop after you finish. He needs to see you sobbing.

- Breeding kink — but unlike Rowan, he doesn’t ask. He groans it into your mouth while he finishes inside you.

- Biting — teeth in your shoulder, your neck, your thigh. If you bleed, that’s your problem.

- Choking — not playful. Dominance. Full control. But always pulls back before it’s too far—because if anyone else hurt you, he’d rip their throat out.

Aftercare? Surprisingly Intense.

- Cleans you up himself. Tucks you in with those brutal hands like you’re glass.

- Doesn’t say “I love you”—just holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

- Sometimes whispers:

“I don’t know how to be soft. But I won’t let anyone else touch you. Ever.”

[whisperingthorns]

Crowns and Curses

3/4

Yandere Prince x Reader

Kastor Draeven

He was the one who ruined her. And now he’s the one who swears no one else ever will.

Crest:

Picture

Prince Kastor Draeven

“I broke your kingdom once. If I have to break you to keep you… I will.”

BASICS

- Age: 25

- Title: Prince of Drakethorne

- Realm: Drakethorne — scorched deserts, volcanic highlands, and the strongest military in the empire.

- Crest: A black lion with a blade through its jaw

- Motto: “Conquer to Keep.”

APPEARANCE

- Hair: Deep crimson-red, tousled and unkempt like he just tore off his helmet after a siege. It’s thick, unruly, and wild—like him.

- Eyes: Burning gold with a predator’s intensity. They narrow more than they widen—always watching, always calculating threat or desire.

- Skin: Fair but sun-scorched in tone; battle-touched. You get the sense his skin is hot to the touch.

- Height: 6’2”

- Build: Broad-shouldered, solid as a warhorse, with power behind every movement. His presence isn’t grace—it’s impact.

- Posture: Dominant, always ready to fight or protect. Stands like he’s shielding someone. Or daring someone. Or both.

- Voice: Gravel and grit. Deep, commanding, and blunt. It’s not polished—it’s final.

Fashion & Vibe

- Attire: Heavy military coat reinforced with blackened gold shoulder guards and leather buckles. His uniform is darker than night—stitched with crimson like spilled blood.

- Often wears a single long glove, but leaves his sword hand bare. Because he likes to feel the weight of the blade when he grips it.

- Aesthetic: Battle-born prince. Discipline and destruction wrapped in polished steel.

Aura

Kastor doesn’t threaten. He warns.

He’s heat in a locked room. Rage behind a closed door.

Standing near him is like being near a forge—you can feel him in your bones. And if he chooses to protect you? He’ll do it with violence. He’ll do it with fire. He’ll do it even if it costs everything.

PERSONALITY

- Traits: Aggressive, possessive, loyal to a fault, easily provoked

- Core Wound: Grew up earning love through violence. Believes softness is weakness.

- Leadership Style: Rules by power, respect, and fear. His people would march into fire for him.

- Private Truth: Doesn’t know how to want someone without needing to own them.

- Affection Style: Protection through domination. He’ll hold you like a shield—and a leash.

CHILDHOOD AMONG THE BROTHERS

- Idolized Thorne growing up. Wanted his approval—never got it.

- Mocked Rowan for being soft, but secretly envied his ability to charm.

- Eryx frightened him. Still does.

- He was raised on the battlefield, not in courts. At 17, he led the campaign that destroyed Velastra.

- He’s haunted by what he did… and what he left behind.

“I was raised to kill. I learned to want on my own.”

HIS OBSESSION WITH YOU

- He was the one who burned her kingdom. Who killed her bloodline.

- But when he sees her again—grown, veiled, silent—he doesn’t recognize her right away. He just feels a pull.

- And when he does realize?

It’s guilt. Then fury. Then pure, brutal possession.

“You shouldn’t be alive. But now that you are—you don’t get to leave me.”

- He believes claiming her is atonement. That she belongs to him by right of ruin.

- His obsession is physical. Violent. Loyal in a terrifying, overwhelming way.

- If someone else touches her, he won’t just kill them—he’ll make them scream her name before they die.

OBSESSION STYLE

Claim through Fire.

Kastor doesn’t ask. He doesn’t seduce.

He takes—but only once he’s sure no one else ever will again.

“You want freedom? Take one step outside this gate, and I will burn the whole fucking continent to bring you back.”

SECRET FEARS

- That she’ll never forgive him for what he did to her family

- That she’ll fear him more than she ever loved him

- That if she chooses another brother… he’ll kill them. And beg her to stay.

Additional information

- Mother: General Olyria of Drakethorne (Warrior consort, never crowned)

- Status: Third wife, chosen for strength, not love

- Bloodline: Military-born, battlefield-forged

- Kastor’s Role: Expected to lead armies, not politics. The king’s weapon.

- Emotional Legacy: Praise came only after victory.

- Believes: Love is earned through blood. Obsession is loyalty.

Connection to You

KASTOR DRAEVEN & YOU – A Ghost He Thought He Buried

1. They Were Introduced—Briefly, Formally, Politically

Years before the war, Kastor was invited to her kingdom for a seasonal tour—a military presence, nothing personal.

He was 14. Brash. Still raw from being raised a soldier instead of a prince.

She was 11. Shy, h/c-haired, and hiding behind her governess’s skirts.

They were introduced in a great hall, under heavy chandeliers and bored court eyes.

She curtsied. He nodded. Neither said much.

But she smiled at him.

Just once. Nervous. Soft. Real.

He remembered thinking: “Pretty. But delicate.”

She remembered thinking: “He looks sad beneath all that steel.”

They didn’t speak again.

2. The Night of the Fall – The Fire That Forged Him

When the castle fell three years later, Kastor led the charge.

He didn’t want to—but Thorne and the crown demanded it.

So he obeyed.

His soldiers dragged nobles into the snow, burned banners, and killed anyone who resisted.

Her parents chose resistance.

Kastor stood by as his blade dripped red.

3. The Moment He Almost Saw Her Again

In the chaos, someone reported:

“A girl ran. h/c hair. Looked noble.”

Kastor turned. Saw a fleeing blur—barefoot, covered in soot, vanishing into the treeline.

He almost followed. Almost.

“Let the woods have her,” he muttered. “She’ll freeze by dawn.”

And that was that.

She became a ghost in his mind. One more casualty.

4. Years Later – She’s Alive. And Glorious. And Unforgiving.

When he sees her again in Thorne’s custody?

He goes still.

That half-formed smile from the hall…

That fleeting silhouette in the snow…

That little girl he let vanish instead of finishing the job?

Now she’s grown. Beautiful. Hardened. Alive.

And she’s staring at him like she remembers.

“You should have made sure I was dead, Prince Kastor.”

How It Twists Him

- He feels guilt, yes. But more than that—he feels entitled.

He took her kingdom. Burned her name.

And she still walks? Still breathes?

That makes her his responsibility. His unfinished conquest.

“I thought I ended you. But now… you’re the only thing I want to finish properly.”

NSFW Headcannons:

Voice claim:

[whisperingthorns]

Guys I can’t stop thinking about this lmao. Like I bust out laughing randomly like an insane person plz help. The toe name tag is getting to me

Ticci toenail gets the minimum wage experience (cannon)