#Eyeless Jack Blog

[mr-nostalgia-blog1]

[clayteland]

Yo! 🥺

[sterifels-blog]

warnings ⚠️

•nsfw! 🔞 please do not interact if you are not 18+ ❤️ you are not my responsibility.

creepypasta

REQUESTED: how they'd react if you ask them what their favorite (body) part of you is.

bloody painter

•he would say your hands. he's intrigued by your fingers, as odd as it may seem. not so much the looks of them; but instead the power they wield. "you have such delicate hands for someone so strong... makes me wonder what they could do if they weren't holding a brush." the implication is there— and, it's more of an invitation then a question. he knows what you're capable of- but he thinks he's being smooth about the fact he wants your hand wrapped around his cock.

•soft, but possessive touches: he'll hold your hand in his and trace the lines of your palm with his thumb, enjoying the way your skin feels against his rougher hand. he's not always filthy- infact, he washes his hands more that you're around. he knows you can't stand the feeling of blood smearing all over yours off of his.

•places gentle kisses on your knuckles. he'll press a kiss to your knuckles after you've done something for him, silently showing gratitude in his own way. alternatively; as he's bumping his hips to snap his pelvis tight against your own— more-so panting onto your fingers as he holds them to his parted lips. he's grunting at how good you feel, his brows tight-- and knitted together while placing soft kisses to your fingertips. bro loves you.

•admiring the art of your hands: if you paint (hopefully, with normal supplies), he'll watch you carefully, entranced by the way your fingers move across the canvas. "i like how you create... i like how you touch things."

•okay brother. calm down.

•handcuff scenario: if he's feeling possessive, he might tie your hands just to keep you close, though it's always with a Iight touch, as if savoring the moment. it's that, or he's got you in his lap- your back pressed to his chest as one of his hands keeps your wrists pulled together, and the other is brushing hair out of the way so he can kiss your neck.

•earning affection: "i know these hands could do so much more, if i let you." a quiet invitation to explore.

clockwork

•she'd say your eyes. clockwork has a dark fascination with them, and she isnt shy about making that clear: "your eyes... they've seen more than i can imagine, and yet they still hold something innocent about them." she has no issue with tainting that innocence- although she chooses to cherish it for herself, opting to keep your mind safe and away from others. your eyes only on her.

•intense gaze: she'll lock her eyes on yours, not breaking contact, as if studying you. it's like she's searching for something deep within, and it makes you feel exposed, yet strangely desired. she'll be kissing from your sternum down to your pelvis, her nails dragging along your bare sides as she relishes in the feeling of your fluttering skin against her lips.

•her lip gloss paints your stomach in a shimmery raspberry hue as she kisses your skin, her thumbs digging into your hips as they massage in slow circles.

•she's huge on teasing: "i could lose myself in them, but you'd never let me. you'd just pull away, wouldn't you?" she won't give you much of an option to pull away. she'll have you on your knees in front of her, her hand cupped under your chin as she admires the tremble of excitement that rushes down your spine.

•gentle, longing touches. she gently cups your face, forcing you to keep eye contact "i could make you see things- things you don't want to. but... you trust me, don't you?"

•when you inevitably agree with her— saying that you do trust her, her hands are parting your thighs, shamelessly sighing as her tongue traces lazy drags against your clit and labia. (she's definitely the type to write her name with her tongue, over and over until you're whining for her to do something other than tease. you're not talking at all after that)

•behind-the-scenes power: "if you look away, i'Il only make it worse. keep looking... you're mine, aren't you?"

eyeless jack

•thoughtful to say your throat. jack has an intense interest with your neck/throat. he can't stop staring at your throat, where he knows your pulse beats, so close to the surface- so easy to cut off if he so much as squeezed you hard enough. if he so much as twisted your head quick enough to cause dissection. not that he ever would- no, no. such horrific things are only reserved for his victims- but his medical knowledge often gets the better of him when intimate with your body.

•gentle but dangerous touch. he'll graze his fingers lightly along the curve of your throat, his thumb brushing the side of your neck as though testing your response. he'll hum— his nail digging softly into the prominent vein on the side of your neck, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against it as though smelling the metallic flow from the outer-shell of your skin. he doesn’t say anything, but the way his hand squeezes is word enough. jack loves you, he's made it clear over and over again- but often, he still finds it necessary to remind you that you both are different. un-alike.

•dangerous affection: "i know the veins here so well... it's almost like could just.." he might trail his fingers over your throat, his mind going to darker places as he tightens the grip he has on you to just beneath your chin, tilting your head back with a little groan into your ear. he brushes your baby hairs away from the base of your neck, leaning in to place a kiss against the base of your skull, panting with hearty breaths whilst his hips rut slow, sloppy grinds against the cheeks of your ass.

•alternatively, he’s got your legs kicked apart, his own feet placed between yours as to ensure that you don't try and squeeze them shut. pinned to him, your back against his chest— jack doesn't let you loose as his fingers swirled wide circles around your clit. his teeth graze at your ear, murmuring quietly about how easy you were for him. predictable. and you were.

•teasing whispers: he'll lean close to your ear and murmur, "your pulse is fast... what's got you worked up? it's just me.."

•holds your throat while he's fucking into you from behind.

hoodie

•your ass. zero shame, zero hesitation: hoodie doesn't even try to hide it, "you've got the best ass i've ever seen. why wouldn't i look? you should be flattered."

•he's hands-on at all times. whenever you walk past him, his hand is right there. sometimes, he gives it a playful squeeze, other times a sharp smack that makes you jump. "what? you're the one who walked by me like that."

•you, in fact, didn't even walk by. he's the one who walked by you. too many times, will you give him silence in return for his tomassery– and each time, he does the same thing. he'll come up behind you, apologetically (🤥) sliding his hands down your waist to cup your ass as he presses a kiss to the back of your neck. "you know i'm just teasing.."

•favorite pose? you straddling his lap. he loves when you sit on him, especially facing away so he can rest his hands on your hips— or further down. "you're making it really hard to focus, you know. not that i'm complaining.."

•and he isn't complaining, especially when he’s able to bend you over the counter later that night, groaning and grunting as he 'thanks' you for the meal you'd cooked for him after a long mission assigned by the operator. he's tired, sure; but he always has some extra stamina stored away for times like this. seeing your ass bounce on his hips as his dick bullies against your g-spot is worth every bit of energy he has left.

•constant touching: if you're lying on your stomach, he's lying next to you, his hand lazily draped over your lower back and sliding lower.

•pulling you closer: if you're standing in front of him, he'll wrap an arm around your waist and pull you back against him, hands wandering. "c'mere. you're too far away. yeah, that's better."

jason the toymaker

•your hands

•craftsman’s admiration: “your hands... so delicate, yet so full of life. they could create so much beauty... if i allowed you.” his voice carries both fascination and a subtle possessiveness, enjoying how wrapped around his fingers you were. the innuendo is there, integrated in his words. why would you need to touch yourself when he was there to do all you wished for you?

•very gentle with his touches. he loves to take your hands in his, running his fingers over the smooth skin, almost as if memorizing every line and curve. the type of guy to intertwine your fingers with his own as he keeps your wrists pinned to the bed— huffing against your neck with steady, deep thrusts. loves kissing behind your ear, grumbling about how good you take him- make him feel.

•kisses to your palms. jason has a habit of turning your hand over and pressing slow, deliberate kisses to your palm. “such beautiful hands… wasted on anything but me.” definitely prompts you into giving him a hand job, obsessive over the way your fingers feel curled around him. he thoroughly can't get enough of you, and arm wrapped lazily around your waist as he sits you in his lap for a slow makeout.

•mild.. obsession: he’ll watch you when you’re doing anything with your hands—writing, sketching, even cooking. “it’s mesmerizing, really. i could watch you all day.”

•into playful (but freaky ass) control. jason likes to guide your hands when you’re working on something, his larger hands enveloping yours. “here, let me show you how to do it properly. not that you’re bad at it… i'm just better.” this applies to the bedroom, where he's guiding your hand; curling your fingers only when he allows you to.

•possessive comments: “these hands belong to me, no? no one else gets to feel them, hold them, or be touched by them.”

jeff the killer

•dangerous attraction to your thighs: "your thighs... they look so soft. i bet they'd feel even better wrapped around me." and they do— whether they are clung at the sides of his head, or straddling his hips as he helps you ride him after a particularly high stress day. he loves them more than anything else in the world.

•gentle possessiveness.. he'll casually run his hands over your thighs, his fingers lingering just a little too long as if marking territory. does it especially when you are all sitting in a group. if given the opportunity, he'll have you tucked between him and the arm of the couch, your legs slung over his own so his hand can rub up and down yours.

•plenty of flirtatious teasing: "how tight do you think those legs could squeeze, huh? show me, and i'II make it worth your while."

•when you go about showing him- he makes it a point to keep you at his disposal until you're too satisfied to complain about anything. his tongue is useful for talking— but it is just as skillful when it's dipped between your thighs, running between your folds until you're squeezing his head so tight, he was sure his skull would crack.

•loves giving you kisses to the inner thigh. on a whim, he might press a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, just to feel the warmth of your skin. after a particularly strenuous night of.. events, it's a subtle gesture of appreciation

•"i can't help it. your thighs are just... perfect. i think i could spend all day here, don't you?"

•mock care: if he's feeling particularly mischievous, he'll gently squeeze them and say, "relax. i'Il be gentle. for now."

jane the killer

•playfully seductive: "these hips of yours.. i could write a book about how perfect they are." she smirks as her hands glide along them, leaving goosebumps in her wake. by far, they are the most favorable thing on your body in her eyes- apart from the obvious sentiment of your breasts. she thinks the proportions of them match you perfectly.

•possessive hold. jane has a habit of gripping your hips firmly, puling you closer until there's no space between you- mainly around the others of the household. there is no denying that you're hers- but it is still in her nature to be competitive over that fact, especially with her other-sex counterpart being present. "you feel so good against me. don't think i'Il let go anytime soon."

•slow in admiration. her fingers trace the curve of your hips, almost reverently. "every inch of you is stunning, but this.. this drives me insane." you're hovered over her- sweat dripping down your spine and dampening the roots of your hair as her hands guide you in a rocking motion. they are clasped tightly to your hips, nails, digging into your flesh as she encourages you to tuck in your core. she doesn't mind doing the messy work of bouncing you on her strap, so long as numbs you into that blissful state.

•dually stimulates your clit just to see them buck.

•sultry whispers while standing behind you. she'll lean in, lips brushing against your ear as her sleek nails tickled your hips with repetitive strokes. "these hips were made for my hands, don’t you think? hm?"

•when things heat up, her focus always finds its way to your hips, her kisses trailing along the curves as her grip tightens. "you have no idea what you do to me." jane's eyes linger on your hips like they're the most captivating thing in the world.

kagekao

•your mouth and messy kisses. kagekao loves kissing you- rough, messy, and without warning. he thrives on the way he can leave you breathless and completely flustered. it comes of good use when you two are arguing. you'd been rambling about something- not that he was listening; but he captured the gist of you bitching about how he was leaving the house a mess. guilty— of course he was; but he wasn't going to acknowledge it. "can't talk now, can you?"

•shutting you up: secondary to a kiss, if you're rambling or talking back, he'll cut you off with a hand against your mouth; putting you into momentary silence. it is only when his hand moves to tug at the buckle of his belt do you understand where he is truly going with it. your mouth, around him- is as good as it is while talking. as skillful as your insults- just more quiet apart from the occasional gag to fuel his ego.

•playfully dominant. he's a master of teasing you into silence, brushing his thumb over your lips and smirking. "these lips of yours are dangerous... but i like the way they feel under mine." he's cheesy because he knows it gets you going. you'll cuss him out, commencing a back-and-forth between the two of you. and as much as he enjoys shutting you up— it is, unfortunately, your 'arguments' that get him swollen and tight in his slacks.

•messy control: if you're mid-argument, he'll pin you against a wall and kiss you hard enough to stop the words from coming. "i don't care what you were going to say." he's a bit of an asshole— and when it comes to an actual confliction, you're often pushing him away as to voice your opinion.

•obsession with your voice: he's addicted to the way your lips move when you talk (+ the sound of it), and he often stares shamelessly. "keep talking- let me watch those pretty lips of yours."

•if it's been a while since he's last seen you; and you have the chance to speak to him over the phone, he's 100% not opposed to rubbing one out with you on the line. he'll go silent, listening to you ramble on about something that seems insignificant compared to the raging throb of his erection. mindlessly hums in agreement to something he shouldn't have— and gets startled when you begin scolding him over the phone.

laughing jack

•jack has a shameless fixation on your legs, especially if you're blessed with some extra height. "your legs just go on forever, don't they? makes me want to see how far they can wrap around me." his words are said with a wicked grin, no shame in his tone. if you're smaller, no worries about it— he's still intrigued about how many positions he can wrangle you into, especially with your smaller size being an accommodation.

•loves, loves, loves having you up against the wall. it's not the most practical position- but he has the strength to pull it off. at no point in time will your feet be touching the ground. your legs are slung over his hips, and mercilessly, jack is giving you no time between breaths as he fucks in and out of you. he'd been worked up over a dress you'd worn out with jane; the gap of time from which you returned— to then being railed furiously almost nonexistent.

•the stupid cunt is constant teasing: he'll comment on how your legs look in any outfit especially if they're bare. "oh, you're just showing them off today, aren't you? that's just cruel." he especially loves seeing you in skirts or short dresses. a tight pair of pants will still do justice- outlining your figure, but seeing your skin is an entirely different experience for him.

•obsessive attention. runs his hands along your thighs and calves, almost like he's worshiping them, while making playful, almost mocking comments. "so soft.. are you sure you're strong enough to be here?" he knows you are, he has no sincere doubts that you've earned your place amongst the bunch; but it intrigues him how someone as hard working as yourself could have any aspect of a gentle physic leftover.

•payful biting: he'll nip at your legs from your calvee to your thighs, just to watch you squirm. "what? can't handle a little attention?"

•restless fascination: loves having his head in your lap, running his hands up and down your legs, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "how am i supposed to behave with these perfect legs right in front of me?"

•a good smack to the head will do it.

masky

•masky has an obvious fixation on your breasts. he won't even try to hide it. when you're in close quarters, his eyes are always drawn to your chest, and he'll casually glance at them before meeting your eyes, smirking. "could you be any less distracting?"

•shameless touching: he's the type to casually rest his hand on your chest when in private, grinning like it's the most natural thing in the world. if you're not paying attention, he'll give them a slight squeeze and say, "couldn't resist, sorry." which, is a lie. he's fully capable of resisting- but with you, he doesn't care much to.

•throughly enjoys having you ride him. if not only to see the way your face twists up in pleasure; then, to see the way your breasts bounce with each desperate thrust you chase after.

•loves seeing you in workout clothes— especially something like a workout bra that cups your breasts exceptionally. he'll come up behind you, hands wandering from your sides, and against your ribs to your breasts, his fingers fondling with the under-band of your bra appreciatively. places soft kisses on the back of your neck, humming in approval as he relishes in the sight of his palms engulfing your chest in the gym mirror.

•unapologetic flirting: "look real fucking good in that top. deserve some attention, don't you think?" he'll lean in close, just to make it clear that he's very aware of what he's doing- not that you had any doubts.

•although secondary pleasure wasn't normally accommodated on his schedule (nor does he have a high drive for it)– when you gave him a tit job for the first time; he swore he was knocking on heavens door. he could hardly keep himself from giving in too early- grunting and huffing as he dragged on his cigarette, prolonging his climax for as long as he could. cusses the entire time, groaning about how good you were.

•proximity: when he sleeps, he'll have his face tucked against your collarbone, his arms wrapped around you as his nose divets to your sternum.

slenderman

•control obsession: he’s drawn to your wrists, knowing just how delicate they are and how easily he can take control. he loves— and definitely gets off on the feeling of holding them tightly, guiding you however he sees fit. “your wrists are so fragile... better reason for you to listen"

•possessive in his grip. slenderman will sometimes just stand behind you, his long fingers brushing your wrists in a possessive, almost ritualistic manner, ensuring you feel his presence without him saying a word. he might even trace your veins as if marking them as his own— otherwise, silently reminding you of your merciless place beneath him.

•soft yet firm restraint. if you’re not paying attention, he’ll slip his tendril around your wrists with a cold, firm grip, keeping you in place. his touch is both controlling and almost comforting, as if trying to stake a claim over you that is inevitable. keeps you from moving too much, because it “makes it easier to work with you.”

•tying you up: there’s something about restraining you with ropes or simple threads that bores him. he's more into using his tentacles— wrapping them around your wrists slowly, ensuring it’s just tight enough to restrict movement. it’s a methodical and precise act. “you’ll stay still. you can handle this, can you not?"

•borderline sadistic during intercourse with you. overstimulation is a guarantee— his tentacles cuffing your wrists together as you squirm on the silk of his bedding. relentless. your breaths heave in desperation as his thumb circled your clit for what felt like hellish hours on end, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes that he brushes away with little care- only after they'd began to trail down your cheeks.

•fingers that linger: when he’s guiding you through a task, his fingers press against the soft skin of your wrist, sending shivers up your spine. it’s a constant reminder of his dominance and the way he can bend you to his will with little effort. sits you between his legs and has you ride his fingers, kissing the flat surface of your inner wrist.

•silent manipulation: whether you’re walking or sitting, his hands will often find their way to your wrists. the way his fingers curl around them feels almost hypnotic, leaving you unsure if it’s affection or an underlying threat.

ticci toby

•possessive grip: toby's hands will find their way to your chest, casually gripping them as if it's the most casual thing in the world. he's not gentle, but not rough either— just firm enough to feel like he's marking his territory. "i like having you close. ganz in der nähe" the words may seem innocent enough, but they are the furthest thing from it.

•soft, but intense. if you're in his arms, he'll keep you pressed against him, his hands roaming under your clothes to gently feel and play with you. his breaths hitch as he does, clearly enjoying the closeness more than anything. not being able to feel much- it's intriguing for him to see how you react to something he assumed would feel so insignificant.

•when he figured out you enjoy it- quite a bit, he'll find himself stroking your ribs more often, tracing over your collarbone.

•huffs of approval: when he feels the soft weight of your breasts in his hands, you'll hear him let out a pleased sigh, followed by a low chuckle. "you can't help making these noises when i touch you, hm?" he enjoys them, thoroughly. in fact, it's something he favors, doing whatever he can to pry the sweet sounds from your lips.

•missionary— classical. he's got your back pinned to the bed, one arm wrapped around your spine as he lay a series of open-mouthed kisses to your throat, trailing down to find one of the pebbled nipples of your breasts. the sound of your breathy moan is almost enough to make him brick up again, a low groan leaving his throat as his lips engulfed your tit with gluttony. he could worship you like this for hours- but not without his own share of enjoyment.

•light teasing: if you react to him touching you, even just a little, his grin widens. "i know you like it. you don't need to hide it." he'll lean in close, letting his breath ghost over your neck. there's nothing he enjoys more than getting a reaction out of you— and it severely agitates him when you silence yourself.

•insecure softness: as unhinged as he may seem, he can get a little soft about it, too. "i just... i need you close, okay? don't push me away." he's not one to beg, but there's something desperate in his voice when he holds you like this. loves having you against his chest, feeling your bare skin pressed against his own.

[lowwwwka]

ASK BLOG "CREEPY PARTY"!

Status: FROZEN E.Jack threw a party (almost his idea) and invited two friends and Jeff's friend Ben. Rules: You can ask them requests (for example, eat a spoon of cinnamon) or questions. None of them r in relationship w each other, but i don't mind if you ship them and ask thematic requests/questions. This is a fun party! So, no nsfw and guro ;) Ask questions in messages (ask me button)

[uncannydevotion]

a/n: this is kinda based on my creepypasta boyfriend scenarios that i sorta abandoned after quotev died fgdjksfgs i miss it but it's kinda bad so i might just start over one day. idk. anyways bc of tht it'll include all the characters i had in tht story so <3 this is gonna be pretty short btw!!

includes: slenderman, jeff the killer, eyeless jack, homicidal liu, the bloody painter, and brian thomas.

warnings: mentions of injuries nd murder in slender's part, thoughts of harm against reader in both jeff and ej's parts, depictions of murder in jeff's part, cannibalism in ej's part, i can't think of any warnings for liu nd helen, post-mh canon that im making up for brian where he lives, some vague depictions of the sickness in brian's part.

SLENDERMAN

Truth be told, Slender found itself feeling very confused after its encounter with you. It isn't sure if it has ever met a human that didn't flee at the mere sight of it. Even after all the static it forced upon you, you wanted to help it.

Not that it needed your help, really. It was used to people trying to hunt it. No human would ever be able to kill it, even if it did end up getting injured.

A mild injury, at that, but one you tended to nonetheless. Like it was a normal person. Like it couldn't tear you apart in the blink of an eye if it so desired.

And the weirdest thing is...

Slender doesn't want to kill you.

It was never fond of people trespassing in its forest, truthfully. Humans were annoying creatures. Expendable ones, at that. But you're the first one to ever worry about it. It found that to be interesting.

And it rarely ever found a human interesting. Perhaps that's why it didn't have any interest in killing you. Rather, it wanted to study you. Surely there must be something wrong with you to not be afraid of it, right?

Something it could exploit, something it could use to break you down and turn you into another proxy.

Hm...

Why does the thought of you becoming its proxy make it feel strange? How... interesting. Annoying, even. A feeling it wishes to study further, given the opportunity.

When it no longer felt your presence in the forest, Slender found itself hoping to meet you again soon. Preferably when there's not someone trying, and failing, to kill it.

JEFF THE KILLER

Jeff was feeling pretty damn frustrated, to say the least. He'd been eyeing you for weeks, planning out the perfect time and perfect way to carve you up so you'd end up on the news. He was never supposed to interact with you.

But then some drunk bastard had to get all up in your business on your walk home, and he was not going to risk some other guy killing you before he got the chance to.

Even worse, Jeff had given you his name. All because of your damn frown when he had tried to ignore you.

What the fuck was wrong with him!?

Really, the only way to vent his anger and frustration was by brutally murdering the man who had harassed you.

But even as the blood stained his clothes and his hands, you never left his mind. You, and your stupid fucking smile, and your stupid gratitude.

He knows you're not an idiot. You know that he's been watching you for a while now, and yet you spoke to him so easily. You thanked him like he was someone who deserved it. Maybe you were an idiot, actually.

The knife sunk into the drunkard's chest, and Jeff sighs in mild annoyance when he realizes the man had finally died.

It all ended far too quickly for his liking, and it looks like he went a little overboard this time.

This was all your fault.

He needed to see the life leave your eyes. Maybe then this annoying feeling in his chest will go away, and you'll finally leave his thoughts.

EYELESS JACK

Jack was feeling rather pleased with himself.

When he entered that neighborhood tonight in search for some dinner, he had made a pretty decent meal out of some guy. He was still feeling pretty hungry by the time he had finished, so it felt like fate when a light shined through the window and illuminated him.

He met your gaze across the street from the safety of your own home, blood staining his hands as he lowered the mans lung from his mouth.

You'd be his next meal, he decides.

And as soon as you looked away from the window, Jack was discarding his forgotten dinner and sneaking his way across the street to your home. It wasn't hard breaking in, your window to your bedroom having been cracked open.

It didn't take him long to find you either, sitting in your kitchen staring at your coffee machine, looking as if you were going to fall asleep right then and there.

You had acted so calm at the sight of him, and it didn't take him long to realize that you thought you were hallucinating from some form of sleep deprivation.

So, obviously, he was going to use that to his advantage. He asked to eat you, and you had agreed. Well, you set some conditions. Something about being on your deathbed. That's neither here nor there.

All he cared about was the fact that he was going to be able to make a meal out of you in the future, he just had to wait for you to drop dead.

He'll make sure to pay a visit to you again soon, to keep you healthy. He wants you to taste good, after all.

HOMICIDAL LIU

As soon as you left Liu alone in the church, he could practically feel the excitement coming from Sully, the man basically crowding his mind asking if they'd see you again soon.

He's not sure what you did, but you certainly made a lasting impression on his alter. Which was shocking, in all honesty, because there's not many things that can keep Sully's attention.

Maybe that's why you were still alive. He can't remember a single time Sully spared someone, even if it meant getting his ass beat and leaving Liu to tend to the wounds.

Of course, just the fact that you had tried to kill him left Liu with many questions. You seemed... trained. Like a professional, almost. Sorta like a hitman, honestly. Which made him wonder... did someone put a hit on him?

Crazy line of thought, honestly, but given the way his life has turned out, it's not all that shocking.

Sully is the one who comes up with the idea of searching for you. If you were a hitman, then they could employ you to help find Jeff.

And while Liu didn't like the idea of getting an outsider involved in his... family drama, if that's what you want to call it, it wasn't a bad idea. He had reached a dead end, so an extra set of eyes could be useful.

And lucky for Liu, he was pretty good at tracking people down. He'd see you again in no time, surely.

THE BLOODY PAINTER

Helen had joined this art class mostly out of boredom. He didn't need anyone to teach him how to draw, he just... needed something to do when he wasn't searching for a new person to make a project out of.

Honestly, a few weeks into joining the class, he had considered dropping out. But then you showed up, and you started interacting with him.

It was never anything major, just a small greeting every time you crossed paths. It was enough to make Helen aware of you, and that was enough to draw him in.

He knew you weren't interested in art. You were probably only there out of boredom as well. You rarely ever tried when it came to drawing, but he could see the potential in you.

So when the teacher of the class presented an optional project to participate in, Helen was already getting up from his seat to ask you to be his partner in this project.

He didn't need you to draw, he just needed you to be his model.

Not to mention you were the only person in this whole class that he felt remotely comfortable working with. The other people who attended this class were all... reminders.

They made him think of people he'd rather not think about.

But you were different. Special.

He'd make sure to paint you the perfect portrait.

BRIAN THOMAS

Brian was completely out of it when he had first met you, honestly. He was still trying to process that fact that he was alive, somehow. Memories of his death making his head pound, confusion the only thing he can feel other than pure and utter nausea.

Truth be told, a part of him thinks you're someone he conjured up in his mind to keep himself alive a little longer.

It's not until he takes a long shower and pops some pain meds that he's able to gather some of his thoughts and come to terms with the fact that you were one, very real, and two, he was... far away from home.

He's not even sure what town he was in right now, let alone what state. All he knew was that he had been taken to some shitty motel by someone who probably should've dragged his ass to a hospital instead.

And when Brian no longer felt like he was going to die from the world's worst migraine, he found himself revisiting the place you had found him.

Some abandoned and overgrown park in the forest bordering this weird town where the locals pretended he didn't exist.

Partly because it was the only secluded place he could think of where he could look through footage on the camera he had been carrying with him for some reason.

But mostly because he wanted to see you again. To thank you for helping him out when you had.

Not to be dramatic, but he probably would've actually died if you hadn't been there, so.

[noctiva]

Oh interesting :o Toby jorking it hcs….. how about EJ jorking it hcs too? 👀 (only if u wanna write that ofc)

-🐶

OKAY! lmao yeah I got you

-

Eyeless Jack NSFW Headcanons (Beating it edition)

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CW: Explicit sexual content, 18+ content, descriptions of male masturbation + sex toys, mentions of mating cycles, mentions of a blood kink + cannibalism

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NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

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Jack’s not a fan lmao

Not that he hates it or anything, he’d just… rather not.

The feral demon part of his brain has rotted the rest of him, so if he’s spilling his load onto his bedsheets it just feels like a waste and he’s left with a pretty sour mood afterwards.

He’d much rather be giving it to someone :)

So, if he’s popping a boner and he’s not in a relationship - he’d be much more inclined to just ignore it until it’s gone or just go hop in the shower and turn it alllll the way to cold.

Unless….

I mentioned in my general Headcanons about him that Jack goes through mating cycles (because I said so) so, if he’s deep in the throes of his rut and doesn’t have a partner - what choice does he have?

Definitely a fleshlight kind of guy, because his hand just simply isn’t good enough. It gets the job done, but doesn’t leave him satisfied.

He’s fucking that toy like it’s the real thing, just filling it with load after load as his hips twitch and stutter.

Gonna go out on a limb here - he’s a pillow humper too 🙂‍↕️

Teeth locked into one pillow while his hips desperate rut against the other, throaty growls and groans muffling against the fabric as he stains them with his saliva and cum. He’s a drooler. Fuckin’ salivating all over the place tbh.

I hc him as fully blind, so he doesn’t need visual stimulation, but auditory…? Yes.

He’ll ‘watch’ porn just for the sounds - headphones in his ears and cranked to the highest volume. Head filled with the sound of that obscene squelching and skin on skin as he works to find his own release.

And he’s reallyyyyyy sensitive after he cums. Like, all over. If he’s in a rut and the arousal persists, he’ll still have to give himself a little bit of recuperating time before he gets back to it

But also, his refractory period is CRAZYYYYY

Give him like, less than a minute and he’s already getting hard again (this applies outside of his rut too, so if you’re in a relationship with him - lucky you!)

Like Toby, dude’s got a blood kink - but tbh, his is even worse (can you blame him? he’s a full blown cannibal.)

His blood isn’t good enough for him though (demon blood, tastes bitter), so he always makes sure to have a meal close by if he knows he’s close to his rut.

Getting real messy when he eats so that he can lick the blood off of his fingers while he fucks up into his fleshlight - imagining that it’s coming from the neck of his mate.

He’s loud too, even on his own.

Grunts, groans, growls - the whole nine yards. He doesn’t have the rationality to try and quiet himself, but at least it’s clear when not to come knocking.

And he’s fucking MESSYYYY. When it’s all said and done - his sheets are rumpled and damp, chest and abs smeared with his own release along with residual blood from feeding

Cleaning up is a task in itself, and as I said - he’d much rather be going through all of this with a partner, so he’s a little peeved when he has to put his room back together afterwards.

So as he does, he’s hoping that one day, he’ll be tasked with cleaning up his loved one instead.

————————————————————————-☆

did I wake up today thinking that I’d write about ticcijack jerking off? no, but life works in mysterious ways so here we are

[timoogi]

AHHH AH AAAAAHHHH THIS SPAGHETTI IS SCARING MEEEEE AAUHGGGGG

(Tomato sauce is getting everywhere as I freak out)

(The waiters are stone-faced as I flail around)

[insomniatrical]

Lazari and Jack fighting bc I Headcanon them as half siblings

[archenemisis]

TO ALL THOSE WONDERING yes the ask blog is still being worked on, we read all the asks, we are just horribly slow! UHM my bf did however make this for yall cause he loves ya! 10/10 ! @frightening-rigatoni <- ask blog @x3-n9n <- boyfriend and artist!!!

[adallinda]

Girl dinner

(Forgive me)

[scary-lasagna]

I LOVED THE VAMPIRE POST SMM. So like would Liu, EJ, BEN and Jeff let their vampire s/o bite them and drink their blood?

Homicidal Liu

Liu is squeamish when it comes to blood due to his past trauma of obvious reasons.

And even with a high pain tolerance, he wouldn't voluntarily allow himself to be bitten.

Many risks come with the first bite; An artery could be sliced, blood infection, too much blood loss, you hate the way his blood tastes so therefore you will hate him forever.

That last one was just Liu's imgaination running wild, but all together it's pretty risky.

He might offer a test bite, not a full chomp, but a little nibble on his arm to see how it feels. A pinprick was all he could describe it as.

But he quickly backed out once he caught wind of the blood trickling down his arm.

He might allow a second attempt, but not anytime soon. 

Sully, however, is a different story. He would let you drink this body dry, and force Liu forward in the middle of it just to be a sadistic asshole. 

Either way, they're both willing to try at least once.

Eyeless Jack

Jack doesn't think that you would enjoy his blood very much.

Much like the liquid that seeps from his eye sockets, his blood has a tar-like consistency. 

It wouldn't go down easy, and if your body rejects it since it's not truly 'blood', it won't come back up easy either.

Ultimately, Jack says no due to your safety. It just too big of a risk for Jack to feel comfortable letting you take a bite out of him.

Jelly donuts are better, anyway. Especially at 3am while everyone else is asleep.

BEN

BEN will act tough and dominant up until it's actually time for you to bite him.

He'll get squirmy and find excuses to delay the inevitable now that he's talked the big talk and agreed to do it.

You'll of course call him out on it, and will nervously sit down and away from his stack of DS games that he wanted to organize alphabetically. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" You ask him, with a comforting hand on his knee.

"Yeah.." Ben sighs and rubs the back of his neck with a nervous tic. " I'm just afraid it'll hurt or I make a weird noise or something." He chuckles lightly.

"We can start, and if you want to stop we can and I won't judge you for it." You reassure. "Or we can do blood lettings which doesn't involve biting."

"It's that like plague doctor shit, though?"

"Well yeah but it doesn't invol-"

"Just take a bite, babe."

He trusts you with all of his heart. And he lets you take a bite.

And yes, he does make a weird sound.

Jeff

Oh hell yeah, fucking go for it.

No questions asked.

Jeff thinks it's hardcore, and frankly, he's not experienced enough to know the dangers of blood letting or blood biting. He just thinks your hot and that you wanna bite him.

And honestly? Go for it. He's probably got a few diseases lurking in there but you're immortal so it doesn't affect you.

He would urge you to keep going even after he feels light headed, just ot see how long he can stay awake.

Jeff can be an extremely convincing individual, but do not trust him.

He can and will pass out and then you will have to call Eyeless Jack and explain everything to him.

He will not be happy.

Jeff will try to kiss him thinking that he's you.

And then Jeff will get swatted away and start crying out of rejection 

[mr-nostalgia-blog1]

Punch Jeff in the face, if you need a reason, just realize how ugly he is😃

Tough crowd.

[clayteland]

Who else should I put here? Help.

Btw, C.J. is my creepypasta oc, a simple russian who just loves to break skulls with her big double mallet, just a silly girlie ♡

[officialcreepypastareheated]

CREEPYPASTA COMMUNITYYYYYYY!!!!!

Your time has come.

We have a friend in dire need of financial help and it is up to y'all to either give money where you can or share this around.

I wanna see reblogs, i wanna see this show up in other spaces, but most of all I wanna see wallets being OPENED!

My friend Romeo here has been strugglin with this teeth stuff for too long and if I see this go on for another day I WILL FIGHT SOMEONE.

So please, even if it's a couple dollars, spare SOMETHING!

[lowwwwka]

QUESTION FOR TOBY :3 (creepy party) did you ever find out how they connected the nintendo to the ps im very curious

ASK "Creepy party"

1/? answer

(he's alive)

Info in pinned message in profile.

[sterifels-blog]

Chiaroscuro

part one of eyeless jack x f!reader

🔗 masterlist

quotev: more chapters posted! always updated first

chiaroscuro - a technique that uses strong contrasts between light and dark to create a sense of drama and intensity

────────────────────────────────────

There is a man on your porch.

You don’t realize it at first. Not fully. The moment is slow to reach you, like a radio signal threading its way through static—present, but distant. You are washing dishes, half-lost in the mindless repetition of warm water and ivory suds, when the porch light hums awake. It flickers against the windowpane, casting dull reflections across the sink. You don’t look up immediately. The sensor has always been sensitive. A possum, a stray cat, the wind. But then the light doesn’t turn off. It lingers, buzzing faintly against the stillness of the night, and something in your chest twists—small, instinctive, just enough to break the rhythm of your movements.

You glance up.

You stop. Doe, doe, doe. Freeze.

The kitchen clock ticks— slow, steady, unbothered—as the world around you shrinks. Outside, beneath the humming light, there is a shape. A figure. Slumped against the wooden railing, body half-turned away from the door, unmoving but present in a way that makes your breath stutter. The porch is old, the wood split and faded from years of sun, brittle where the rain has sunk in deep enough to rot it from the inside. You have always been able to hear the groan of it under the weight of a body, the slight shift of nails tugging against their sockets. But there is no sound. No movement. Only stillness, thick and weighted, stretching out between you in the cool press of autumn air.

Your fingers tighten around the ceramic dish in your hands. You hadn’t dried them. The water clings, sliding in cold trails along your wrists, settling into the fine grooves of your skin. The dish soap smells like artificial citrus, too bright, too clean, too sharp against the scent of damp earth curling in through the open kitchen window. The night is heavy with petrichor, the remnants of earlier rain pooling in the cracks of the driveway.

And then—copper.

It is subtle at first, something that only registers when you inhale too deeply, the scent weaving itself between breath and bone. It does not belong to the air, to the damp leaves, to the quiet hum of crickets hidden in the grass. It belongs to something raw. Something wet. Something alive— or, at least still is trying to be.

A prickle runs down the length of your spine, slow and methodical, an animal’s reaction to a threat it cannot yet see. You could almost hear the warning signs of your mother. Tail flagging, stomping, blowing. You're a fawn that should duck– tall grass as kitchen cabinets; but your gaze shifts, following the dull shine of porch light against fabric. His hoodie is dark, though not from the night alone— the cotton clings, stiffened in places, torn at the sleeve where the sickness of his arm is exposed. The flesh there is not whole. It is broken, slick with something that should not be outside of a body, the wound deep enough that even from here you can see the edges struggling to knit themselves back together.

He’s hurt.

The thought lands softly, but it does not settle. Instead, it presses at the edges of something deeper, something far more difficult to place. You should be afraid, a stranger at your portal. You should move— reach for your phone, make yourself smaller, step away from the glass. But you don’t.

Instead, you stare, bystander to your own gossamer heart. Not at the wound, not at the sluggish way he breathes, but at him.

The mask is strange—smooth, impersonal, a void where a face should be. It swallows the light without reflecting it, as if the space where his eyes belong is nothing but absence. You cannot tell if he is watching you, cannot feel the weight of a gaze, but there is something in the way he holds himself—silent, waiting. Not quite expectant- but present. 

And then, as if sensing your hesitation, he shifts.

It is slight—nothing more than the slow tilt of his head, a minute adjustment of posture—but it sends something cold curling through your stomach. The movement feels deliberate, calculated, a message that does not need words to be understood.

He knows you see him — he, if its the only thing that could be assumed by the stature of his wilting frame. 

Something heavy settles behind your ribs, pressing against the delicate space between thought and reaction. The weight of it is unfamiliar, a new shape cut from an old instinct, carved from the marrow of something deeply human.

He does not speak. Neither do you. Because the wood and sand are nature's natural hermetic against sound.

The silence stretches between you, thick and unbroken, until the night itself begins to breathe. The wind shifts through the trees, sending brittle leaves skittering across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, sharp and startled before quieting again. The house settles, wood stretching in the cool air, the refrigerator humming in the background, indifferent to the moment unfolding before it.

And still, he waits.

You do not remember when your hand moved to the door. You do not recall crossing the space between the sink and the threshold, do not register the cool press of the brass knob beneath your fingers until it is already there. The motion is instinctive, thoughtless, something that happens to you rather than because of you.

You turn the lock.

The softest of sounds, but it cuts through the silence like a thread pulled tight. The porch light flickers, washing his mask in brief, golden light before it fades again, the night stretching long and undisturbed beyond him. The door groans softly on its hinges as you pull it open. The air shifts, cool and damp against your skin, carrying the scent of blood, of rain-soaked leaves and something deeper, something raw. He does not move, does not rise or push forward, does not make any effort to meet you halfway. He only waits.

The moment stretches.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the door, searching for something solid, something familiar, but when you speak, your voice is neither firm nor distant. It is quiet, soft in the way of things meant to soothe.

"Oh, Sir.., come. Come inside," you murmur, barely above a breath. "You’re hurt—"

His mask tilts. Not much—just the smallest adjustment, as if he is studying you, parsing out the shape of your voice, the meaning behind your words. The wind moves again, slipping through the open space between you, and something fragile lingers there, not in his deck of cards, but in yours.

You step back, leaving the door open. An invitation. It is cold, the air— numbing the the tips of your fingers in dull tickles. 

For a long moment, nothing happens, and you think, just perhaps, a mortician will be taking the stranger off your hands at any moment. Or maybe he just does not speak your language—. Then, slowly, stiffly, he moves. Not with force, not with confidence, but with the careful weight of something testing its own limits. His breath is measured, his steps deliberate, and when he crosses the threshold, there is no sound but the whisper of fabric, the chalkboard grinding of boots shuffling against worn wooden floors.

He does not speak.

You only watch as he straightens, as the mask shifts slightly in your direction, as if to gauge you one last time. His presence fills the space, dark and unfamiliar, the scent of blood curling through the air between you. Still, you do not step back.

Instead, with a touch as light as moth wings, you press the door closed behind him.