tipsynight0

[tipsynight0]

Chokehold

Parings - Jeff the killer x female reader

Word count- 800

Trigger warnings - idk Jeff being Jeff, no crazy triggers.

Summary - drunk gas station assholes

Author's Note: Yes, I've been posting a lot more lately than I have in the past few months, trying to squeeze out any inspiration before writer's block sets in. I’ve received a few requests that I’ll be working on, so feel free to send yours in too—don’t be shy!

The gas station's fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, casting everything in that weird, sickly glow that made even normal things look wrong. Jeff needed cigarettes and booze - simple enough errands if you weren't plastered across every police station's wall. That's where (Y/N) came in handy.

He hung back, watching her between the aisles of chips and energy drinks. Fucking Mountain Dew - how many flavors did one drink need? The light above him flickered, and he tugged his hood lower, keeping his face in shadow. Can't be too careful, even in this middle-of-nowhere shithole.

(Y/N) moved toward the liquor section, and Jeff's eyes followed. She reached for the vodka, and he couldn't help but notice how her shirt rode up, showing a slice of skin above her waistband. The store's bell jingled, breaking his concentration.

Two drunk idiots stumbled in, laughing too loud for the empty store.

Their boots squeaked against the dirty floor as they made their way to the beer cooler. One of them - tall, wearing a stained trucker cap - brushed past (Y/N).

"Well damn, look what we got here," Trucker Cap slurred, his eyes running over her like oil. His hand shot out, making contact. "Ain't you just the prettiest thing?"

"Get your fucking hands off me," (Y/N) snapped, jerking away. Her voice was steady, but Jeff saw the flash of fear in her eyes.

Trucker Cap moved closer, backing her against the cooler. His breath reeked of cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes. "Come on, baby. Got a nice truck outside-"

Jeff moved before he could finish. His fingers wrapped around Trucker Cap's wrist, squeezing until he felt bones grind together. The drunk's face went white.

"You just made the biggest mistake of your life," Jeff whispered, voice low enough that only Trucker Cap could hear the promise in it. He twisted, and the drunk screamed as something popped in his wrist.

Jeff slammed him into the beer cooler. Bottles rattled like teeth. The drunk's friend had already bolted, the bell jingling his escape.

His hand found (Y/N)'s lower back, pulling her against him. She fit perfectly there, like she was made for it. His lips brushed her ear as he growled, "Take the vodka. We're leaving."

He guided her out, past the terrified cashier who suddenly found the floor fascinating. The night air hit them like a slap, carrying the smell of gasoline and upcoming rain.

The bathroom door creaked when Jeff shoved it open. Graffiti covered the walls, years of crude drawings and desperate messages. A single bulb swung overhead, throwing weird shadows across the cracked tiles.

"Jeff, he was just some drunk asshole," (Y/N) said, her voice bouncing off the grimy walls. "It wasn't-"

He spun her around, one hand tangling in her hair as he pressed her against the mirror. His knife appeared in his other hand, catching the swinging light. Her breath hitched when the cool metal traced her jaw.

"You think I care what he was?" Jeff's voice was dangerously soft. His lips found her neck, and she shivered. "You think being drunk makes it okay?"

His free hand gripped her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. The knife traveled down her throat, not breaking skin but promising it could. (Y/N) couldn't look away from their reflection - her wide eyes, his dangerous smile.

"I'm going to find him," Jeff whispered against her skin. "Going to make him wish he never learned how to walk." His teeth grazed her pulse point, and she gasped. "Because you're mine, (Y/N). Nobody touches what's mine."

She could feel his heart hammering against her back, matching her own wild rhythm. His grip tightened possessively as he pressed closer, the knife never stopping its deadly dance across her skin.

"When I find him," he continued, voice rough with promise, "I'm going to take my time. Make it slow. Make it hurt." His lips brushed her ear. "And then I'm going to come back to you, and show you exactly who you belong to."

Thunder rolled in the distance, like the sky itself was responding to his threats. The bathroom's single bulb swung lazily overhead, making shadows dance across their faces in the mirror. (Y/N) watched as Jeff's eyes met hers in the reflection, dark and hungry and full of violent promises.

His knife traced back up to her throat, gentle enough not to cut but firm enough to remind her it was there. "Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, voice barely above a whisper.

"You," she breathed, the word fogging the mirror.

His smile was all teeth. "Good girl."

[tipsynight0]

Creeper smooches part two

FEM POV !

Characters - Jane the killer, eyeless Jack.

Tw - slight nsfw but nothing explicit

Summary - more lipstick and creeps <3

Word count - 1.7k

Author’s note - I was planning to post these with the others yesterday, but I got so worn out from writing. So here they are now! I'm really enjoying creating these little stories and I'm trying to introduce more characters—so meet my version of Jane! My requests are still open, so feel free to send them in. Thank you all so much for your support, Ilysm! <33

Glass shattered against the wall as Jane hurled another empty bottle in frustration. The sound echoed through her room like a gunshot, matching the thunder in her veins.

"Where the fuck is it?" she snarled, upending an entire drawer onto the floor. Makeup scattered like shrapnel, but her prized black lipstick was nowhere to be found. "I swear to god, when I find out who—" She stopped, nostrils flaring as she caught a familiar scent. Her scent.

The door clicked open.

"Don't you fucking dare," Jane warned, not bothering to turn around. She knew that presence, could feel those eyes on her back like a physical touch.

(y/n) stepped in anyway, boots crunching over broken glass. "Redecorating?"

"Get out before I make you regret having legs," Jane growled, finally turning to face her roommate.

The sight made her blood boil. There, on (y/n)'s perfect lips, was the unmistakable shade of her black lipstick.

"Make me," (y/n) purred, leaning against the doorframe with deliberate insolence.

Jane crossed the room in three swift strides, pinning (y/n) against the wall with an arm across her chest.

"You've got exactly five seconds to explain why you're wearing my lipstick before I remind you who runs this show."

"Maybe I just wanted to look pretty for you," (y/n) teased, not even trying to hide her smirk.

"Four seconds." Jane's rings caught the light as she flexed her fingers.

"You know black's my color too—"(y/n)'s breath hitched as Jane pressed closer, the leather of her jacket creaking.

"Three." The floorboards groaned beneath them as Jane shifted her weight.

"—and you never share—" (y/n)'s back arched slightly off the wall, her shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin.

"Two." Jane's free hand traced down (y/n)'s side, making her shiver.

"What happens at zero?" (y/n)'s whisper was almost lost beneath the patter of rain against their window.

"One." Jane's hand found her pocket, retrieving the stolen lipstick. The metal tube was still warm from (y/n)'s body heat. "You little thief," she breathed, pressing closer. "Did you really think you could take what's mine without consequences?"

(y/n) tilted her chin up defiantly, the motion causing her silver necklace to catch the light."Maybe I wanted the consequences."

"Oh, sweetheart," Jane laughed darkly, the sound echoing off the room's exposed brick wall. Her rings scraped against the wallpaper as she leaned in closer. "You have no idea what you're asking for." She grabbed (y/n)'s jaw with one hand, thumb pressing against those black-stained lips. The lipstick had been applied messily, like (y/n) had done it in a hurry. "Look at the mess you've made. Black really isn't your shade."

"Seems to work just fine on you," (y/n) managed, breath hitching as Jane's grip tightened. (Y/n) hands found purchase on Jane's leather jacket, fingers curling into the worn material.

Jane released her suddenly, stepping back. The floorboards creaked beneath her heels as she moved, the sound sharp in the tension-filled air "Wipe it off."

"What?" (y/n) remained against the wall, looking deliciously disheveled.

"The lipstick. Take it off. Now." Jane's voice carried an edge that made (y/n) shiver.

"Make me."

The challenge hung in the air for exactly one heartbeat before Jane surged forward, crushing their bodies together. The impact sent a framed poster rattling against the wall as she grabbed a handful of (y/n)'s hair, yanking her head back. "You really want to play this game?"

"Already winning," (y/n) gasped, eyes gleaming with defiance.

Jane spun them around, marching (y/n) backward until her legs hit the vanity. Makeup clattered to the floor as Jane lifted her onto the surface. "Let's see how smart that mouth is when I'm done with it."

She uncapped the lipstick with her teeth, never breaking eye contact. "Hold. Still."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make you." Jane traced the black stick across (y/n)'s lips with excruciating slowness. "See? Much better when you behave."

(y/n)'s hand shot up, deliberately smearing the fresh application across Jane's mask. "Oops."

"You're really pushing it," Jane growled, grabbing both of (y/n)'s wrists and pinning them above her head.

"Maybe that's the point," (y/n) breathed, arching up against her.

Jane's free hand yanked her own mask up just enough to expose her lips. "Last chance to back down."

"I never back down."

"Your funeral." Jane crashed their lips together, claiming (y/n)'s mouth with bruising force. She bit down on her lower lip, drawing a whimper that sent electricity down her spine.

(y/n) wrapped her legs around Jane's waist, pulling her closer. "Is this supposed to be punishment?"

Jane broke the kiss, leaving them both gasping. "Oh, baby," she purred, trailing black-stained lips down (y/n)'s neck, "we haven't even started the punishment yet."

"Promise?" (y/n) challenged, voice breaking as Jane's teeth found her pulse point.

"Shut up," Jane commanded, releasing (y/n)'s wrists to grab her hips instead. "You've done enough talking for one day."

"Make me."

Jane's laugh was dark velvet against (y/n)'s skin. "That's exactly what I intend to do."

The night had left Jack ravenous, but not just for food. Three days of hunting had ended in a messy chase—his prey proving more trouble than they were worth. His three tongues, each with a mind of their own, writhed restlessly behind his teeth as he finally made his way home, his combat boots heavy on the wooden floors. The scent of (y/n) hit him before he even reached their bedroom—sweet, intoxicating, alive.

His heightened senses picked up every detail of her: the soft whisper of her breath, the subtle shift of fabric as she moved in her sleep, the thundering drumbeat of her heart that called to him. The blue mask that concealed his face felt suffocating now, trapping his desire behind its cool surface. He removed it slowly, fingers trailing over the familiar contours before setting it on the nightstand.

"You smell like blood," (y/n) murmured, her voice thick with sleep but tinged with something darker. The sound sent shivers down his spine.

"Messy eat," he growled, his dirty brown hair falling forward as he stripped off his grey sweater. The fabric caught briefly on his scarred skin before dropping to the floor beside his boots. His grey jeans followed, leaving him in just his boxers as he crawled into bed.

(y/n)'s breath hitched as his cool skin met hers. "Missed you," she whispered, pressing back against him. The contact made all three of his tongues press against his teeth, desperate to taste her.

"Dangerous," he warned, but his arms were already wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. One hand splayed across her stomach, the other gripping her hip with barely contained need. "Shouldn't tempt me when I'm hungry." He kissed her jaw

(Y/n) laughed softly, the sound making his grip tighten. "Maybe I like dangerous."

Morning came too soon, but (y/n) had plans of her own. She studied Jack's sleeping form—the way his lips parted slightly, revealing hints of his extraordinary anatomy, the scars that mapped stories across his skin. With deliberate care, she decorated his mask with lipstick kisses, each one a promise of what was to come.

When Jack woke, the house was alive with knowing snickers. Jeff's mocking tone, Jane's attempted warning, but it was (y/n)'s heartbeat that caught his attention—faster than usual, excited.

"Made you coffee," she said innocently, but her pulse betrayed her mischief.

The kitchen air was thick with tension as Sally's giggling revealed the prank. “Why is there kisses on his mask!” Sally howled with laughter.

Jack's fingers found the lipstick marks, and something stirred inside him. He moved through the kitchen with predatory grace, his blindness forgotten as he tracked (y/n) by sound and scent.

The whipped cream was cold in his hand as he sprayed it across her neck, her shriek of surprise mixing with breathless laughter. But Jack wasn't laughing as he cornered her against the counter, his body caging her in.

"Playing games, little one?" His voice was rough, dangerous. He lifted his mask just enough to expose his mouth, all three tongues emerging to taste the air between them. The first tongue traced her jaw, the second followed the line of whipped cream down her neck, and the third flicked teasingly against her pulse point.

(y/n)'s hands fisted in his grey sweater, her body trembling. "Jack," she gasped, the sound nearly his undoing.

"You marked my mask," he growled against her skin, each tongue leaving its own wet trail. "Marked what's mine." His hands gripped the counter on either side of her, the wood creaking under his strength. "Should show you what real marking feels like."

Sally's rapid retreat went unnoticed as Jack's tongues worked in tandem, tasting, teasing, claiming. (y/n)'s heart raced beneath his ministrations, her body arching into his touch.

"Next time," he promised darkly, one tongue flicking out to catch a drop of whipped cream at her collarbone, "I won't just be late." Another tongue traced the shell of her ear as he whispered, "I'll take my time devouring every..." The third tongue dragged slowly up her throat. "Single..." His teeth grazed her pulse point. "Inch."

The kitchen filled with the sound of (y/n)'s ragged breathing and Jack's low growl, the air electric with promise. His mask might have been covered in her playful kisses, but he intended to leave marks of his own—marks that would remind her exactly what kind of creature she'd chosen to love.

[tipsynight0]

Kissing the creeps

Fem pov!

Characters - Jeff, clockwork, Toby.

Tw - slight nsfw? Nothing explicit.

Summary - lipstick and creeps <33

Word count - 2.1k

Author's note- I originally wanted to try writing headcanons since I've never done them before, but then this idea just kind of popped into my head and I couldn’t stop writing! Also, crazy new creepypasta characters unlocked in the Marcy Chronicles of Tumblr. This is my first time writing Clockwork, (and Toby too 😭). I did try, though! I'm not really sure what this is, but I hope you enjoy it! <33

(Y/N) had been meaning to show Clockwork the lip gloss for a while now. It had been sitting in her pocket since she nicked it from the corner store—a sticky-sweet reminder of her impatience. But between Clockwork's constant fixing and tinkering around the mansion, (Y/N) hadn’t found the right moment—until now.

From the porch, (Y/N) watched Clockwork under the car, her legs stretched out, grease smudging the worn denim of her jeans.

The white tank top clung to her back, stained with oil, and the way her hands moved—precise, confident—left (Y/N) a little mesmerized. The creeper squeaked when Clockwork shifted, her toned arms flexing as she twisted a wrench. (Y/N) couldn’t help but smirk, biting her lip before finally deciding to make her move.

(Y/N) approached quietly, the gravel crunching under her boots, and stopped just behind Clockwork's legs. She straddled her, one knee on either side of her hips. At first, Clockwork startled, pushing herself out from under the car with a quick shove, wrench gripped like a weapon.

When she realized it was (Y/N), her tense expression softened, and a crooked smile tugged at her lips.

“Well, look who decided to interrupt,” she grunted, eyes flicking up at (Y/N) through her messy hair. Grease smeared her cheek, and there was a streak along the side of her neck. She didn’t seem to notice, too busy letting her hands slide up (Y/N)'s thighs, the calloused tips of her fingers brushing over (Y/N)'s bare skin and leaving dark smudges behind.

“I’m trying to work, trouble,” she murmured, but her hands tightened on (Y/N)’s belt loops, tugging her closer until (Y/N)'s hips pressed against her stomach.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but grin, feeling a bit bolder than usual. She let her hands trail from Clockwork’s shoulders down her arms, tracing the veins on her forearms, still warm from the effort. Her fingers came away a little greasy, but she didn’t care. She twirled one of Clockwork’s curls around her finger, brushing it off her forehead.

“I found a new lip gloss,” (Y/N) said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Supposedly, it tastes like cotton candy.”

Clockwork hummed, the sound deep and approving. “That so?” One of her hands abandoned (Y/N)'s belt loop to skim up her side, sliding under the hem of (Y/N)'s shirt. The warmth of her palm on (Y/N)'s skin made her shiver. “Then let me taste.”

(Y/N) leaned down slowly, a little unsure, but when Clockwork’s hands guided her, their lips met. At first, it was just a brush—soft and hesitant. Clockwork tilted her head, and her mouth moved against (Y/N)’s with a bit more confidence. Her tongue traced (Y/N)'s bottom lip before she nipped at it, catching the faint taste of sugar.

(Y/N) couldn’t help the small gasp that slipped out, and Clockwork took advantage, kissing her deeper.

Clockwork’s lips were slightly chapped but warm, tasting like cigarettes and engine oil, mixing with the artificial sweetness of the gloss. Her other hand left (Y/N)'s hip to cup the back of (Y/N)’s neck, holding her there as she kissed her harder, like she was trying to drown herself in the taste.

When (Y/N) finally pulled back, her lips were tingling, their breaths mingling between them. Clockwork swiped her thumb over the corner of (Y/N)’s mouth, smearing some of the gloss across her cheek with a smirk. “Think I need more than that,” she murmured, dragging her thumb down to (Y/N)’s chin.

(Y/N) didn’t have time to respond before Clockwork tugged her down again, lips parting eagerly. This time, Clockwork’s hands roamed, fingertips grazing (Y/N)’s ribs, tracing her spine. (Y/N)’s own hands slid up into Clockwork’s hair, tugging just enough to make her groan into the kiss. (Y/N) could feel the grease on Clockwork’s skin, smearing as she dragged her closer, and the roughness of Clockwork’s hands made her pulse race.

Clockwork’s lips left (Y/N)’s for a moment, kissing the corner of her mouth before moving to her jaw, biting down lightly. “You taste good,” she muttered, and there was a slight awkwardness in her tone, like she was trying too hard to sound cool. It made (Y/N) laugh, and Clockwork huffed, nudging (Y/N)’s thigh with hers.

“Shut up,” Clockwork grumbled, but the way she kissed (Y/N) after was rougher, more determined, as if trying to distract (Y/N) from the flush creeping up her neck. (Y/N) let her, melting against her touch, fingers curling tighter in her hair as Clockwork’s mouth moved over hers with renewed intensity.

Toby was out in the backyard, the rhythmic sound of wood splitting filling the warm, sunlit air. His shirt was long gone, tossed aside earlier as the work became more taxing, leaving his toned chest bare and glistening with sweat. Each powerful swing of the hatchet made his muscles ripple under his flushed skin, his cargo pants hanging low on his hips, just barely clinging as he worked. The sunlight caught on the droplets running down his torso, tracing the curve of his abs and vanishing into the waistband.

He let out a grunt, pausing for a moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving. As he steadied himself, (y/n) approached from behind, unable to resist the sight in front of her. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her face against the warm, damp skin of his back, inhaling his earthy, slightly smoky scent. Toby didn’t startle—just grunted softly, acknowledging her presence, and drove the hatchet into the stump to free his hands.

He felt (y/n)’s lips against his back—soft, almost testing—before they pressed against his ribs. A shiver rolled through his body despite the heat. Confused, Toby furrowed his brow, cracking his neck as he tried to make sense of the sudden affection. A flicker of red caught his attention. “W-what are you d-doing?” he muttered, his voice rough and unsteady, another tick making him jerk his shoulder.

He glanced down at her lips, noticing the smudged crimson, and his pulse quickened. “A-are you b-bleeding?” he stammered, concern slipping into his tone.

(y/n) pulled back just enough for him to see the lipstick smeared across her mouth. Toby swallowed hard, his throat tightening as his eyes traced the color staining her skin. He licked his bottom lip absentmindedly, his gloved hand moving on its own to touch her mouth. “W-what’s that?” he whispered, voice dropping, his thumb dragging across her lower lip. (y/n) kissed his thumb, a playful gleam in her eyes, and guided his hand to her waist.

“Do you like it?” she asked in a low, sultry voice, leaning closer.

Toby’s breath hitched, his hands instinctively tightening on her hips, gloved fingers pressing into her curves. Her lips brushed his neck, slow and purposeful, tracing the vein that throbbed just beneath his skin. His heart pounded like a war drum, and his fingers twitched against her waist, another tick slipping past his control. “F-fuck,” he whispered, his head falling back as she kissed up the column of his throat.

His hips jerked forward as her lips continued to explore, pressing heated kisses down his chest, over the faint line of hair trailing from his navel to his waistband. He was barely holding on, his body betraying him with shivers and involuntary tics. His hands slid up into her hair, rough and eager, and a guttural noise left his throat. “B-baby... a-anyone could s-see us,” he mumbled, but his words lacked conviction, especially when his hips bucked toward her again, seeking friction.

(y/n) just smiled, trailing her hands down his sides, nails scraping lightly over his damp skin. Toby grunted, his face burning, trying to bite back a moan as her lips followed the path down his stomach. His chest was now covered in smeared lipstick marks—evidence of how thoroughly she was claiming him. Toby couldn’t help the way his hands gripped her hair tighter, his knees almost buckling as she kissed just above his waistband.

A sharp intake of breath escaped him, and he pulled her back, the intensity overwhelming, his eyes dark with frustration and need. “I-I swear, if you keep that up...” he growled, words cut off by a stuttered moan as she nipped at his hip bone. He couldn’t look at her without his pulse racing, couldn’t think straight with how hot his skin felt.

When she finally drew back, he glanced down at the faded lipstick on his chest, disappointment flickering in his gaze. “D-do you have more of that?” he asked, his voice rough with lingering desire.

(y/n) smirked and pulled the lipstick from her bra, holding it up to his flushed face. The way she looked at him—so smug and knowing—had his stomach tightening, his hands itching to drag her back and make her finish what she started.

The summer night wrapped around Jeff like a second skin as he slouched on the back porch, cigarette dangling from his lips. Shadows danced across his features, broken only by the glowing ember that brightened with each deep drag. His body radiated tension.

(Y/n) approached silently, drawn to him like a moth to flame. The wooden boards creaked beneath her feet, matching the thunder of her heartbeat. His foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the steps, the only sign he'd noticed her presence.

"I'm not in the fucking mood, (y/n)." His voice came out rough, sending shivers down her spine.

Instead of backing away, she leaned down, her breath ghosting across his face as she plucked the cigarette from his lips. Their eyes locked as she brought it to her mouth, taking a long, deliberate drag. His gaze dropped to her lips, watching as she exhaled slowly before returning the cigarette. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp in the way that usually made him melt.

But tonight was different. His jaw clenched as he brought the cigarette back to his mouth, tasting the sweet cherry she'd left behind. "Didn't I fucking tell you not to wear that shit?" The words came out as a growl that made heat pool in her stomach.

She stepped down, positioning herself between his spread legs, using her height to look down at him. The air crackled between them. "What's your fucking problem?" Her voice came out breathy despite her attempt at anger. "You vanish all day and come back like this?"

His hand shot up, fingers gripping her chin and pulling her down until their faces were inches apart. His thumb smeared across her bottom lip, destroying her careful application of gloss. Before she could protest, he pushed his thumb past her lips, the pad rough against her tongue.

"Fucking taste it and tell me if you think I want that on my cigarette." Moonlight caught the dangerous glint in his eyes, making her pulse race. "I said fucking taste it," he demanded, voice dropping to a tone that made her knees weak.

She ran her tongue along his thumb, the artificial cherry mixing with the salt of his skin. His eyes darkened as he watched her, pupils blown wide with something more than anger.

In one fluid motion, he yanked her down onto his knee, the friction making her gasp.

A fresh cigarette appeared between his lips, flicking his zippo open, his hand found her jaw again, fingers pressing into sensitive skin as he tilted her head. When his mouth met hers, it wasn't gentle – it was pure need. Smoke rolled from his lips to hers as he claimed her mouth, his tongue following to chase away the sweetness.

She coughed softly but didn't pull away, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pressed closer, wanting more.

His hand slid to her throat, thumb finding her racing pulse. She could feel his smile against her lips as he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a rough whisper that made her shiver. "Don't wear that shit again. You're beautiful without it."

[tipsynight0]

The kindling

Parings - Jeff the killer x female reader

Word count- 1.1k

Trigger warnings - murder, kidnapping, fire, typical creepy pasta shit.

Summary - Jeff makes a bond fire.

Author's Note:

I swear I'll update Puppet Master once I figure out where it's headed. No idea where this came from, but I guess I just missed Jeff a little too much. Anyway, enjoy, and don’t forget to bring a marshmallow!

The sky groaned with thunder, fat raindrops pelting the earth like bullets. The ground was nothing but thick, soupy mud that sucked at Jeff’s combat boots with every step. A cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling around his face, instantly doused by the relentless downpour. His white sweatshirt clung to his chest, the fabric soaked and dirt-streaked, while his black hair stuck in wet clumps to his forehead, water trickling down his face like tears he’d never shed.

To him, this wasn’t a struggle—it was catharsis. Another task to be done. Another problem to erase. He dragged the unconscious man behind him through the mud, his grip like a vice around the man's collar, the man’s face scraping against roots and jagged stones. The man stirred, a faint groan escaping his lips.

Jeff didn’t slow down, didn’t even acknowledge the muffled whimpers as consciousness seeped back in.

The cemetery gates creaked in the wind, iron and rust moaning as Jeff pushed through. The trees here were ancient, twisted things that loomed over the tombstones like hunched sentinels. Fog pooled around the ground, swirling around Jeff’s feet like hungry ghosts. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the gravestones until he saw her—a shadow just beyond the nearest mausoleum.

A crooked, wolfish grin stretched his lips, and he dropped the man with a sickening thud, turning to face his captive.

Brandon was awake now, his face streaked with blood from a split lip, eyes wild with terror. He tried to push himself up, but his hands sank into the mud, slippery and useless. Jeff loomed over him, his imposing height casting a warped shadow on the wet ground.

“You’re up,” Jeff drawled, his voice low and unhurried. He took another drag from his cigarette, the embers burning bright in the darkness. Then, without warning, he snatched a shovel propped against a gravestone and slammed it into Brandon’s chest. Brandon yelped, clutching at the handle as Jeff leaned down, eyes narrowed.

“Dig,” Jeff ordered, pointing to the patch of untouched dirt behind him.

Brandon’s lips quivered. “W-what? No… please, I don’t—”

Jeff crouched down, his elbows resting on his knees, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “I wasn’t fucking asking,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “Dig the hole, or I’ll make you one.”

Brandon scrambled to his feet, hands trembling as he stabbed the shovel into the ground. He dug clumsily, dirt flying and splattering against his legs. Jeff didn’t take his eyes off him, barely reacting when he heard soft footsteps approaching from behind.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to see her—(y/n)—standing at the edge of the cemetery, clutching a bag, eyes wide with confusion. She hadn’t seen him like this before. The primal, feral version of him. The version that didn’t care about morals or consequences.

“Jeff?” she called out, voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Brandon froze, desperate, turning to look at her. “Please, help me! I don’t know him—he’s crazy! Just—call the cops, please—”

A swift kick to the back of the knees sent Brandon collapsing to the ground, Jeff standing over him like a vengeful god. “Did I fucking tell you to stop?” he hissed. Brandon whimpered, his hands digging frantically at the dirt.

(y/n) took a hesitant step forward, clutching the bag tighter. “Jeff, I—I brought what you asked for, but… why do you need lighter fluid? Matches? What’s going on?”

Jeff’s attention flicked to her, his grin widening. “You got me everything?” He grabbed the bag, rifling through it before grunting in approval. “Good girl.”

“Jeff,” (y/n) stammered, her voice trembling. “What’s happening? Why is he digging? Why does he—”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, his breath warm against her ear despite the chill. “You’ll see,” he whispered, his tone both reassuring and suffocating. “Just sit. Trust me.”

She stumbled as he led her to a moss-covered bench, his hand heavy on her shoulder. The air was thick with rot and damp earth, the scent creeping into her lungs and making it hard to breathe.

Brandon had managed to carve out a shallow pit, gasping for air, his knuckles bleeding from where he’d hit rocks. He looked up, his face streaked with rain and mud. “I—I’m done,” he choked out. “Please—”

Jeff squatted beside the hole, inspecting it with a disapproving glare. “Pathetic. But good enough.” He pulled the lighter fluid from the bag, biting off the cap and spitting it into the grave. “Remember that night at the gas station?” Jeff’s voice was almost conversational. “When you thought no one saw you feeling up that girl behind the register?”

Brandon’s face went pale. “N-no—I didn’t—”

“That was my girl,” Jeff interrupted, his eyes darkening. He pointed to (y/n), who was frozen on the bench, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “You touched her.”

In a fluid motion, Jeff doused Brandon with the lighter fluid, ignoring his screams. (y/n) lurched forward, sobbing, reaching out. “Jeff, stop! Please, no!”

He caught her wrist mid-air, yanking her back with a force that rattled her bones. “Stay put,” he murmured, kissing the side of her head as if to soothe her. “I’m teaching him a lesson.”

Brandon was pleading now, his voice shredded by terror. Jeff struck a match, holding it between his fingers. “You really shouldn’t have touched what’s mine,” he muttered, letting the flame fall.

The fire engulfed Brandon instantly, the smell of burning flesh sickening. (y/n) screamed, knees buckling as she covered her mouth, eyes wide and glossy with tears. Jeff approached her, dragging her to her feet, ignoring her frantic attempts to pull away.

“See what I’d do for you?” His voice softened, his hands cupping her face. “That first night we smoked together—I knew it. You’re mine. I don’t care how long it takes for you to get it, but you will. And anyone who tries to take you from me?” He glanced at the burning pit. “They’ll end up just like him.”

(y/n) was trembling violently, her breath coming in short, choked bursts. “I’m going to jail. Oh god—I’m going to—”

He pulled her against his chest, petting her hair as if consoling a frightened child. “No, doll. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll protect you. No one’s ever going to touch you again. Now… help me bury him.”

[tipsynight0]

Hi I really like your work. I was wondering if you you can make a part 3 to puppet master. It’s so good and we were left on a REALLY GOOD cliff hanger. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️♥️♥️

😭 I’m going to I promise Im just tryna see where I wanna take it, I honestly didn’t think a lot of people wanted a part three but it makes me so happy that you guys want one 🥺 so thank you ❤️❤️

[tipsynight0]

Eyes like a prison

Parings - Liu woods, sully x female reader

Word count - 1.7k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - stalking, implied S/A, obsessive behaviour, violence, alcohol, invasion of privacy, slight nsfw?? Not really.

Summary - LIU and sully are pretty much hard core stalking.

Author's note- Oh boy, don’t even get me started on writer’s block. I’ve rewritten this thing like three times and still hated it, but I think it’s finally coming together now, haha. I’ve got so many ideas for how this could go, so maybe future chapters? First time writing Liu, so be gentle with me! Anyway, feel free to throw some requests my way >:)

Every night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the same mantra looping in his head: ‘I can’t get close to her. I’ll only hurt her.’ His jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching as the ceiling fan spun lazily above him. It did nothing to relieve the tightness in his chest. Why did they have to sell the damn house? The thought lingered in his mind like a nagging itch.

His eyes wandered to the window, the familiar red brick house across the street. It had been his home. His sanctuary. Now, it was nothing more than a distant memory. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Jeff. The way Jeff would shove him off the porch, eager to get to the bus first. The same tire swing still swayed from the old oak tree, memories of their childhood woven into the threads of the rope.

‘Whoever gets to the top first wins!’ Jeff’s voice echoed in his mind, the sound of his laughter bittersweet. Jeff always had the advantage, always so quick, so sure of himself. Liu had to be smarter. He tugged at Jeff’s sneakers, throwing him off balance, just enough to slip past. The victory was his, and for a moment, it felt like the world made sense.

But the memory faded as quickly as it came, replaced with the one thing that always consumed him now. The thing he couldn’t escape. Her.

Her face. The way she smiled, the way she moved, the way her laugh lingered in the air like sweet perfume. It had started so innocently. He’d seen her around—at the store, around town, but over time, those brief moments had turned into a fixation. An obsession. He couldn’t get close to her, he told himself. But the more he tried to push the thoughts away, the stronger they became.

He had to stay away. He couldn’t risk hurting her. Yet, in the back of his mind, that voice whispered constantly: ‘She’s yours. You just need to get close. You just need to take her.’

He'd convinced himself he was being careful. He was protecting her. After all, he never went inside when she was there, right? But when she wasn’t? When she was at college, with those loud, obnoxious friends who had no idea how to treat her?

That’s when he’d sneak in. When she was at class, he’d come through the back, slipping into the house as quietly as a shadow. He knew her routine. He knew the pattern of her days better than she did.

Her room was just down the hall his old bedroom, the door always left unlocked. Sometimes, she would leave her windows open when she was gone, a small crack where the light would spill in, and Liu would sit there for hours. His eyes glued to the window as he watched the cars pass, listening to the quiet. Waiting. He would touch her things—her books, her hairbrush, the necklace she had carelessly tossed on the desk. His fingers would linger on the fabric of her clothes, the soft cotton of her favorite shirt, the panties that she would toss carelessly on the floor in a rush. the ones that had a faint trace of her scent. He would close his eyes, breathing in deeply. He didn’t want to admit the amount of times he’d gotten off to them.

‘Just a little longer, just a little closer.’

He wasn’t a creep, he told himself. He just had to protect her. It was for her safety. He couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to her.

The evenings were the hardest. The nights when she came home late, stumbling slightly, the weight of the world on her shoulders. He would watch from the shadows, waiting until her friends had dropped her off, until they left and she was alone. That’s when he would act.

His heart would race as he crept up the side of the house. The window—the one that opened into her room—was his way in. He had done this so many times, it was almost second nature now. His fingers would scrape along the old wood of the window frame, lifting it just enough to slide through. The familiar smell of her room hit him like a drug. The scent of lavender, of soap, of something deeper he couldn’t quite place.

She never remembered. Not really. She’d be so drunk sometimes, swaying on her feet, laughing too loud, her mind lost in the haze of the night. The smell of alcohol would be heavy on her breath, but Liu never minded. In those moments, he would sit by the window, watching her, making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit, making sure she was safe.

He told himself it wasn’t a violation. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was protecting her. After all, she was too vulnerable. She didn’t know how dangerous the world was. He had to watch over her.

There were nights when she’d drift into a deep sleep, her breathing slow and steady, and Liu would just sit there, staring at her, the desire bubbling up in his chest like a poison. His eyes would track her every movement. Her soft, relaxed expression, the rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips parted ever so slightly in her sleep.

He couldn’t help himself.

Sometimes, when she passed out on her bed, so drunk she wouldn’t remember the next morning, he would slip closer, just for a second. His fingers would brush against her arm, her wrist. He would touch her clothes, tugging at the hem of her shirt, imagining what it would feel like to hold her, to take what he knew was his.

And every time, he would pull back, the weight of his desire too much to bear.

‘Not yet. Not yet.’

But the nights grew harder. The cravings, the need—it gnawed at him like a constant hunger, an ache that could never be satisfied. He had to get closer.

It wasn’t enough to watch anymore.

One night, he waited until she’d come back late, laughing too loudly with some guy—someone who didn’t deserve to be near her. Someone who touched her like he had the right. Liu’s fingers clenched into fists, his teeth grinding together. ‘He’s touching her.’ The thought made his blood run cold.

By the time she stumbled up the porch steps, the man trailing behind her, Liu was already watching from the shadows of the house across the street, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t trust that guy. No one was going to touch her like that.

Liu couldn’t wait any longer. He was already climbing up the side of the house, his boots sinking into the ivy, the leaves scratching his hands as he moved. The window beckoned.

‘She’s yours. She just doesn’t know it yet.’

His breath hitched as he reached the window, prying it open, slipping inside. Her room, dark but familiar, felt like a tomb. And she was there—drunk, swaying, her eyes unfocused as the guy tried to guide her to the bed. His pulse quickened.

But this time—this time was different.

She needed him to save her.

Liu pulled out the pocket knife from his boot, the blade glinting in the moonlight. The sound of her breathing, slow and shallow, filled his ears as he took a step toward the bed.

His hands shook—tremors too violent to hide. His chest ached as every breath burned with the rage, the heat of it making his skin feel like it was on fire. His vision spun, everything warping, pulling him under.

And then, as if the world had finally split in two, the darkness consumed him completely.

When his eyes opened again, he wasn’t alone.

It wasn’t Liu anymore.

It was Sully.

The shift was like ice water flooding through his veins. The rage wasn’t just an emotion anymore—it was a voice, a presence. Something else—dark, hungry, and pulsing with violent need.

There was a man in front of him, standing too close to her. Hands on her, touching her like she belonged to him. And the sight of it twisted something in Sully—something deep and dark that had been festering in the corners of his mind. A sort of anger he hadn’t felt since Jeff.

Sully didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His smile was slow, too slow. A thing of shadows.

“No one,” he growled, voice a low rasp like a blade scraping bone. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The man didn’t hear him at first, too focused on her. Her face was flushed, disoriented, drunk. And there he was, pushing her toward the bed like she was a thing—like she was just another conquest.

That sickening feeling, the need to kill, to slice this mother fuckers throat and make him choke on his on blood, overtook Sully. His breath came in jagged bursts now, his hands curling into fists, nails digging into his own skin. He wanted to feel it. Wanted to make this moment last.

Sully took a step forward, and it was as if the air itself thickened around him. The man’s head snapped up, but too late.

“I’ll carve every finger off that touched her,” Sully hissed, the words slipping out of his mouth like poison. “One by one. Then I’ll make you eat them. Taste them.“

The man recoiled, his eyes wide with fear, but Sully wasn’t done. His laughter—if you could call it that—was twisted, jagged, the sound scraping through the room like a knife against glass. “Your going to fucking regret this”

[tipsynight0]

Hey there!

I’m a fan of your work and have been for a little while but I was wondering if you would write something involving either clockwork or Liu Woods (homicidal liu) for their fans out here?

If you cannot get to me, I fully understand and I just hope you’re doing well! Take care of yourself!

I’ve actually been working on something with Liu, I should be posting in a few days so keep a look out :)

[tipsynight0]

Thorns and roses

Parings - Jeff the killer pov x female reader

Word count - 830

TRIGGER WARNINGS - violence, blood and injury, self harm (implied) strong language.

Summary - early valentines with Jeff.

Authors note - Wow, it’s been a whole month since my last post! Life’s been pretty hectic, especially with my job at a ski resort. But I’m back, and I’ll be working on Jack’s Family part 3 next! My requests are always open, so don’t hesitate to reach out if you’ve got something on your mind! Happy Valentine’s Day lovelies 💕

The forest stretched endlessly in the dead of night, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The sludge seeped through Jeff’s worn-out Converses, but he barely noticed. His grip tightened around the bouquet in his hand, thorns digging into his palm, but the sting was nothing. Just another irritation, like the fucking holiday itself.

Valentine’s Day.

The one time of year where every goddamn idiot in town was out celebrating their fragile little love stories—whispering sweet nothings, fucking in the back of their cars, exchanging overpriced chocolates like any of it meant something. Pathetic. He’d made it his own personal tradition to ruin at least one couple’s perfect night, carving up one lovebird while the other got to go home alone, blood-soaked and broken. Almost made the holiday bearable.

Almost.

Jeff had never given a shit about Valentine’s when he was still some half-functional member of society. But now? Now, he couldn’t fucking ignore it. Not with (Y/N) around.

The little shit had made some offhand comment about never receiving flowers before—except for that one time her childhood crush had picked some shitty weeds from a bush and handed them to her like it was something special. Jeff had clicked his tongue in irritation at the memory, jaw tightening as the mansion came into view.

Was that why he was doing this? Just to shut her up? Maybe. But also to rub it in that dumbass kid’s face. Because Jeff didn’t bring her weeds. He brought her real fucking roses.

Okay, maybe they weren’t that fresh.

And maybe he’d ripped them from some poor bastard’s grave while passing through the cemetery earlier that night. But they weren’t completely wilted. The petals still held some color, even if a few were tinged with dirt. It was the thought that counted, right?

Hauling his ass up the steps, he shoved the mansion door open and stalked inside, his eyes immediately landing on (Y/N)’s sleeping form.

Tch.

Typical.

He rolled his shoulders, stepping closer. The soft rise and fall of her breath, the way the moonlight traced over her skin—he could stand here and watch for a while, but patience had never been his thing.

“Wake up,” he grunted, yanking the blanket off her without warning.

(Y/N) groaned in protest, curling away from him, but Jeff wasn’t fucking having it.

He shoved the bouquet into her face. “Picked these for you.”

The scent of earth and something vaguely metallic filled the air as a few petals fluttered onto the bed. Jeff watched, unblinking, as (Y/N) slowly blinked awake, her face scrunching in sleepy confusion.

She hesitated before reaching for the bouquet, fingers ghosting over the delicate petals. Jeff’s eyes narrowed, watching her closely.

“You’re lucky I even got you anything,” he muttered, his tone low, almost irritated. “I’ve never picked flowers for a girl before, so be fucking grateful.”

(Y/N) turned the bouquet in her hands, examining it as if she wasn’t entirely sure whether to be touched or disturbed. Jeff could already hear whatever smart-ass comment she was about to make, so he cut her off.

“I found you chocolate too,” he grumbled, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket. “But I got hungry on the way home.”

(Y/N) huffed a small laugh, shaking her head.

Jeff’s lips twitched, but he wasn’t done.

“I was gonna do something extra romantic,” he mused, his voice taking on that familiar, low purr. “Like carve our initials into some asshole’s chest, you know… real classic shit.”

(Y/N) flinched slightly as a thorn pricked her skin, a sharp bead of crimson welling up along her fingertip.

Jeff stilled.

His smile stretched, painfully wide, his breath hitching as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Without hesitation, he grabbed her hand, his rough fingers tracing over the fresh wound.

"Now that’s worth it," he murmured, tilting her palm toward the light to examine the way her blood shimmered against her skin.

Then, before she could react, he leaned down, dragging his tongue over the wound in a slow, deliberate motion.

(Y/N)’s breath hitched.

Jeff hummed, barely above a whisper. “Shit… you look so fucking pretty when you bleed.”

(Y/N) swallowed hard, her eyes meeting his. “This is your idea of romance?” she murmured, her voice unsteady but not entirely disapproving.

Jeff chuckled, breath warm against her fingers. “Fuck, you want me to say it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pressed a lingering kiss against her skin, lips brushing over the cut as he mumbled between kisses, “Be my Valentine…”

His grip on her wrist tightened ever so slightly, possessive, unyielding. He lifted his gaze, dark and hungry.

“…Or I’ll just have to carve my name into this beautiful skin of yours so nobody gets any ideas while you’re deciding.”

[tipsynight0]

For the life we never knew

Parings- Jeff the killer x female reader

Word count - 975

TRIGGER WARNING - Miscarriage, blood, grief, child loss, trauma.

Summary - a quiet night takes a devastating turn.

Authors note - As you can probably tell, I’m not your typical Creepypasta fanfiction writer. My stories lean more toward real-life experiences—raw, messy, and unfiltered. Writing has always been more for me than anything else, a way to process what I can’t always say out loud. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, maybe it’s just a need to put pain into words.

I know I haven’t updated in a while, and for that, I’m sorry. Life has a way of pulling us under when we least expect it. But for those of you still here, reading and supporting, thank you. It means more than I can express.

I guess I’ve always found comfort in heartbreak—in taking a story and twisting it until it feels real enough to leave a mark. So, as you read this, don’t be afraid to cry, to feel. That’s what it’s meant for. And maybe, when you’re done, we’ll both feel just a little less alone.

Hopefully, I’ll have more for you soon. Until then, take care of yourselves—and try not to cry too much.

Becoming a dad was never on the radar for Jeff. Not for someone like him—a serial killer with bloodstained hands and years of unresolved trauma. Jeff wasn’t the kind of man who would teach his kid how to throw a ball or give them advice on their first crush. Hell, he barely had any idea how to take care of himself. But when Y/N came to him that day, clutching the pregnancy test in trembling hands, terror written all over her face—not the kind of fear he was used to, the kind he relished in—it was different. This fear was raw, uncertain, vulnerable. And for the first time, Jeff felt it too.

The conversation that followed wasn’t pretty. There was shouting, tears, accusations, and a silence so heavy it crushed them both. But somewhere in that mess of emotions, there was a spark—something small and fragile. A seed of hope Jeff never thought he’d feel.

As the days turned into weeks, that seed began to grow. The thought of a child, their child, burrowed its way into Jeff’s cold, damaged heart. He found himself imagining things he never thought possible: a tiny hand gripping his finger, a toothless smile, a giggle that echoed in the halls of the mansion. He didn’t just start to accept it; he started to want it.

The house was alive with a strange excitement. Even the others couldn’t help but marvel at the idea of another child joining them—another innocent soul like Sally. Jack stole prenatal vitamins and a doppler, and Jeff had spent hours with Y/N listening to the faint sound of their baby’s heartbeat. He painted the nursery himself, his hands steady in a way they’d never been before. For once, the chaos of their lives didn’t seem so suffocating.

And then came the night that shattered it all.

Jeff barely stirred when Y/N slipped out of bed. She’d been getting up a lot lately, her small trips to the bathroom almost routine. He was half-asleep when he heard her call out, her voice trembling with something he couldn’t quite place.

“Jeff... come here... something’s wrong.”

The fear in her voice jolted him awake. He stumbled out of bed, heart pounding as he rushed to the bathroom. The sight that met him stopped him cold.

Y/N was sitting on the floor, her hands trembling and slick with blood. It was everywhere—on her thighs, pooling on the tiles, staining her nightshirt. Jeff’s breath hitched, his stomach turning in a way he hadn’t felt since the first time he took a life. Blood was supposed to excite him, but this... this made him want to vomit.

“I’ll... I’ll be back,” he stammered, his voice cracking in a way that felt foreign and wrong. “I’ll get Jack. Don’t move, Y/N. Don’t move.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, didn’t dare look back. He sprinted down the stairs, nearly tripping in his panic. He found Jack in the kitchen, dragging him by the arm before the other man could even ask what was happening. His words tumbled out, frantic and disjointed, but Jack didn’t need an explanation when he saw the scene for himself.

Jack knelt beside Y/N, his usually steady hands trembling ever so slightly as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stand up,” he said softly. “I need to see.”

Y/N obeyed, her body shaking as she clung to Jack for support. Jeff stayed rooted to the doorway, his nails digging into the wood as if it could somehow anchor him to reality.

Jack’s expression was grim as he straightened, his voice heavy when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

The words hit Jeff like a physical blow. Y/N let out a strangled sob, her knees buckling as Jack caught her and eased her to the floor. Jeff moved without thinking, dropping to his knees beside her and grabbing her hand.

“No,” Jeff muttered, shaking his head. “No, no, no. This—this isn’t happening. Fix it, Jack. Do something.”

Jack looked at him, his hollow eyes filled with something that almost resembled pity. “There’s nothing I can do, Jeff. It’s already happening.”

Y/N’s grip on Jeff’s hand tightened, her face pale and glistening with tears. “Jeff... it’s my fault,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice cracking. “Don’t you dare say that. This isn’t your fault.”

She sobbed harder, her free hand clutching her stomach as another wave of pain wracked her body. Jeff could only watch, helpless and furious, as the person he cared about most suffered in a way he couldn’t stop.

Time seemed to crawl, every second dragging like a knife through Jeff’s chest. He wasn’t supposed to care like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel this kind of pain. But as Y/N finally passed the tiny, lifeless form of what could have been their child, Jeff felt something inside him shatter.

He stared at the tiny, fragile thing Jack gently took away, his chest heaving as he fought to keep the scream building inside him at bay. Y/N was limp against him now, her strength spent, her sobs quieted into hollow, hitching breaths.

Jeff pressed his forehead to hers, his hand still gripping hers tightly as though letting go would mean losing her too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

In that moment, he hated himself more than he ever thought possible. He wasn’t supposed to care, wasn’t supposed to feel this. But as he held Y/N and felt the life drain from the future they’d dared to hope for, Jeff realized that maybe, just maybe, he’d wanted to be a dad after all.

And now, he never would be.

[tipsynight0]

Her smile, my ruin.

Paring - Jeff the killer x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

Summary - Jeff celebrates his anniversary with y/n drunk and alone.

Tw - alcohol, death, grief, emotional stress, impaired perception of reality.

Author notes - almost a month away from here and i've finally cured a little writer's block, thanks for the new followers :]

The December wind howled through the empty cemetery, biting at Jeff’s exposed skin, but he barely noticed. The rum in his hand burned hotter than the cold ever could, spreading a false fire through his veins. He stumbled, half-laughing, half-snarling, his boots crunching through the snow in uneven steps. The bottle sloshed dangerously in his grip as he raised it high, grinning like a man who didn’t care if the world was watching—or if it wasn’t.

“Here’s to us!” he shouted, his voice rough, breaking on the last word. His head tilted back as he drained another long swig, the alcohol burning its way down. It didn’t feel good—it never did—but it was better than feeling nothing.

A laugh, light and airy, drifted through the cold, making him stop mid-step. His vision swam as he blinked at her—Y/n. She was there, wasn’t she? She stood a few feet away, spinning like she always used to, her dress flaring out in the wind. The snow didn’t seem to touch her. She looked untouched, perfect, like something out of a dream.

“Y/n,” Jeff rasped, his voice cracking as a grin split his face. His knees buckled slightly as he lurched toward her, catching himself just before falling. She laughed again, and the sound cut through the haze in his mind, tugging at something deep inside him. Something he didn’t want to feel. “You always know how to find me, huh?” he slurred, his grin widening. He reached for her hand, his fingers fumbling as they closed around hers.

Her skin was ice.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. His grip tightened instinctively, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. He raised the bottle toward her face with a clumsy, sweeping motion. “Here—take a sip. It'll warm you up.” His words were slurred but insistent, his voice trembling just enough to betray the cracks beneath his drunken bravado.

She tilted her head, watching him with those eyes—those damn eyes that always saw too much. “What are we celebrating, Jeff?” she asked, her voice soft but distant, like it was coming from somewhere far away.

He froze for a moment, his face twitching as he forced a laugh. “What are we—what the hell kind of question is that?” He stumbled backward, waving the bottle in the air like it was an extension of his arm. “We’re celebrating you,” he spat, the words louder than he meant them to be. His laughter turned sharp, almost bitter, as he tilted his head at her, swaying slightly. “Your anniversary, remember? Or did you forget again?”

Her expression didn’t change. She just kept looking at him, her lips curving into the faintest smile, but there was something wrong about it. It wasn’t the smile he remembered.

Jeff looked away, raising the bottle to his lips and taking another deep pull, the liquid spilling over the corners of his mouth. He winced at the taste but didn’t stop until his throat burned. When he lowered the bottle, his breath fogging the air, his vision swam. The world seemed...different.

The cemetery.

Gravestones stretched out in every direction, their shadows long and dark against the snow. His stomach twisted, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head violently. “No,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “No. Don’t do this to me. Not tonight.”

He turned back to Y/n, grabbing her arms and pulling her close. She was so cold against him, her body limp in his grasp. “Stop it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “You’re here. I’m holding you. You’re right here. Say something, dammit!” His breath came in short, ragged bursts, the panic clawing its way up through the alcohol.

She didn’t say a word.

Jeff’s chest heaved as he pulled back to look at her, his vision blurring. Her face was pale, her features frozen in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Those eyes—once full of life—were distant now, empty, like glass reflecting nothing back at him.

“No,” he whispered, shaking her gently. “No, no, no, not again.” His voice rose with each word, cracking like ice under pressure. He gripped her shoulders tighter, trying to force her to respond, to move, to be there.

But she wasn’t.

His knees gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, the bottle slipping from his grasp. It hit the snow with a soft thud, spilling its contents in a dark stain across the frozen earth. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but the gravestone came into focus anyway, its letters cutting through the haze like a blade.

Her name.

The flowers he had left last year were wilted and brown, half-buried under a layer of snow. An empty bottle from another drunken night leaned crookedly against the base of the stone. It was all so familiar, yet it felt like a nightmare every time.

Jeff let out a choked laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that echoed in the stillness. “Happy anniversary, babe,” he muttered, his voice rough and slurred as he reached for the bottle. Finding it empty, he tossed it aside with a sharp, frustrated growl. His hands pressed against the gravestone, his forehead falling against the cold, unyielding surface.

“Another year,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the howling wind. His breath hitched as tears burned hot trails down his cheeks, freezing almost instantly in the biting air. “Another goddamn year without you.”

He stayed like that, slumped against the stone, the cold seeping into his bones. The world blurred around him, the snow falling heavier now, burying the empty bottle and the wilted flowers. His fingers curled into the frozen ground as he let out a ragged sob, the sound raw and desperate, as though it had been ripped from the deepest part of him.

And in the silence, he thought he heard her voice—soft, fleeting, like the memory of a dream he couldn’t hold onto. Her laughter seemed to dance on the wind, teasing him, taunting him, reminding him of everything he had lost.

Jeff closed his eyes, the alcohol and grief dragging him into the darkness. As the snow fell, covering him like a shroud, only the gravestone stood as a witness to the weight of his sorrow.

[tipsynight0]

In the stillness of fear

Parings - eyeless jack x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - ocd, intrusive thoughts, self harm behaviors, fear of death, mentions of blood.

Summary - jack is helping y/n who struggles with ocd.

Author's note - this is a therapeutic post, that's pretty much it.

Cleaning supplies, alcohol, the click of locked doors checked over and over—these weren’t just routines. They were rituals, her only means of holding chaos at bay. Y/N’s nights were plagued by an obsessive vigilance that made it impossible to sleep; lying there, she’d stare at the ceiling with her heart pounding, every muscle taut and rigid. Even if her eyes burned with exhaustion, a darker fear rooted her in place: if she closed her eyes for too long, what if she never opened them again? The thought wrapped around her chest like a vice, tightening with every second she lay in bed, her head throbbing with an unyielding urge to act. What if I die in my sleep? The question would claw its way through her mind, growing louder until it was the only thing she could hear.

It started when she was young. Y/N couldn’t remember a time when she felt carefree or unworried, like the other kids seemed to. She felt defective, haunted by thoughts that seemed foreign but relentless, like invaders in her mind. While other kids played, laughed, and moved easily through life, Y/N was bound by an invisible tether, trapped in a world of constant checking, counting, and cleaning, every action a bid to avoid an unseen catastrophe. She was different, and she knew it. Isolated in her own head, she wrestled with a terrible, suffocating sense of being the only one. Was she crazy? She couldn’t say. All she knew was that these thoughts felt like a rope around her neck, tightening each time she failed to complete her routines.

Check the door again. It was a voice that demanded obedience, cold and unrelenting. Make sure the windows are locked. She’d do it a hundred times if she had to, pressing on each door, rattling every knob, her breath catching until she was certain they were secure. But even then, her mind whispered dark possibilities. What if you missed something? The image of her family in danger flashed through her mind in graphic detail, and the only way to shake it was to give in—to check, once more, to repeat the ritual that had long since stolen her peace of mind.

These intrusive thoughts filled her days as much as her nights, like an endless litany of threats and images she couldn’t escape. Every glance at an object became an opportunity for anxiety: Is it clean? Is it safe? Her reflection in the mirror often looked back with hollow eyes, drained from the endless mental battles, and she felt herself sinking under the weight of it all. In her family and the world. y/n roommate Jack noticed, though he never said much. He would linger near the bathroom door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed casually as if he hadn’t been watching her. He’d sigh when she turned to the mirror, her hands bright red from scrubbing. “Either you left the sink running, or your hands are clean,” he’d murmur, his voice quiet but firm as he reached over to turn the tap off. His fingers would graze her raw knuckles, pausing just a second too long, catching on the cracks in her skin.

After that, Jack kept his eye on her in his own subtle way. Without making it obvious, he’d find moments to check in, little gestures woven into the ordinary. Sometimes, when she was lost in her thoughts, staring at her hands with a furrowed brow, he’d reach out and take them, as if he was studying something there. He’d hold her palms, his grip gentle yet grounding, and say nothing—only holding her hands with that faint frown, feeling the roughness of her skin. He’d clear his throat, mumbling something about needing her to "hold a flashlight steady," but she could tell he was checking on her, without making a big deal of it. And in those moments, it almost felt like she could breathe.

But there were nights when it was harder to shake the panic. She’d sit on the edge of her bed, rocking slightly, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “What if my heart stops? Or… or if I suffocate, Jack? What if the bleach seeps into my skin and I die?” Her voice would shake, hands clutching at her hair, eyes wide and wild with panic, the thoughts tumbling one after another, relentless.

He’d sigh, pushing his covers aside with a quiet patience, as if he’d expected it. “(Y/N), they wouldn’t be able to sell cleaning products if they killed you. You won’t die from it.” A pause, then, with a gentler tone, “And you won’t suffocate in your sleep, either. Not unless I decide to take you out myself.” His dark humor barely masked his worry, but it was enough to ground her, his words seeping into her mind and pressing down on her spiraling fears until they were almost quiet.

The tension would fade from her face, her breaths slowing. “Thank you,” she’d whisper, her eyelids heavy, and, at last, she’d give in to sleep.

But even then, Jack would linger. He’d take up a quiet post near her bed, one hand resting on her wrist, pressing gently against her pulse as he sat silently through the night. The gentle thud of her heartbeat, the soft rhythm of her breathing—it reassured him, each beat steady proof that she was safe, that she hadn’t slipped into the dark she feared. His hand never left her wrist, even as sleep tugged at him. The weight of his worry went unspoken, a silent promise to keep her safe.

One night, exhaustion got the better of him, and he dozed off there, his back leaning against the wall, his head slumped to one side. (Y/N) woke to the faint light of dawn, her mind hazy with a lingering nightmare, and blinked in confusion, realizing she wasn’t alone. There, beside her bed, was Jack—fast asleep, his hand still wrapped around her wrist. His mask was off, his dark, messy hair falling across his forehead, his face unguarded in sleep. She could see faint creases at the corners of his eyes, a tiredness that he hid behind his mask.

For a moment, she just watched him, feeling a strange mix of confusion and calm. It was rare to see him so close, his rough edges softened, his guard down. And in that quiet moment, she realized that even if he’d never say it aloud, he was watching over her, holding her steady in a way that didn’t need words.

[tipsynight0]

Anatomy of affection

Parings - eyeless Jack x female reader

Word count - 1.1k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - medical procedures, surgery, graphic descriptions of blood and organs, use of paralytics, body horror, gore, blood, cannibalism, descriptions of anatomy and dissection.

Summary - (y/n) is giving Jack a snack.

Author's Note: Not sure why I enjoyed writing this so much, but explaining it to my boyfriend and watching him look at me like I'm the freakiest thing he's ever seen was... interesting. Anyway, if you're squeamish about organs or cannibalism, maybe skip this one! <3

The cold metal table pressed unyieldingly against (Y/N)'s back, its chill seeping through her skin, heightening her awareness of her immobility. She lay paralyzed, her gaze locked on her lover, Jack, who moved with deliberate, practiced grace across the dimly lit room. The acrid scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, a hasty attempt at sterilization given his scarce supplies. Beside an operating tray, Jack's hands skimmed over his instruments, lingering briefly before selecting each one, his fingers brushing the tools with an expert's familiarity. He listened intently to the rhythmic pulse in (Y/N)'s neck, sensing her heart beating faster.

He leaned close, his calloused fingers tracing a gentle path over her stomach, claws lightly grazing her skin. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice soft yet intense, "I know what I’m doing." Despite herself, (Y/N) let out a nervous laugh, nodding ever so slightly. She attempted to wiggle her toes, flex her hands—anything—but her body remained numb, just as Jack had planned with the precise dose of vecuronium. This moment was one they'd prepared for, an experience she had willingly chosen.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she took in her surroundings—the familiar concrete walls lined with shelves of carefully arranged medical supplies and the slight glint of tools on the nearby tray. Jack seemed engrossed in his setup, double-checking every item with a meticulousness she recognized and loved. He finally pulled off his mask, revealing his grey skin and the unmistakable gleam in his eyes. One of his many tongues darted out to moisten his lips, a glint of hunger flashing across his face. She watched, captivated, as he inspected the monitor, satisfied that her vitals remained steady. Just in case, he had an Ambu bag at the ready, a trophy from one of their nighttime scavenging trips to abandoned clinics. They had both invested in this, carefully planning each aspect of this night.

Jack leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering briefly before he grasped his scalpel. "Alright, baby," he said with a smile that, despite its toothy sharpness, held a tenderness she trusted, "it’s time." His hand moved to her face, cupping it gently. His surgical gloves snapped into place, and his fingers began to trace a path down her abdomen, a silent promise of care. When he made the first incision, (Y/N) could only assume it had happened; her body remained numb, yet she could sense his excitement. Jack’s tongue flicked out, practically salivating as he worked, pausing only to press gauze to the incision and lap up the blood with reverence.

"Everything going good down there?" (Y/N) asked, her voice wavering but full of curiosity.

Jack nodded, casting her a reassuring glance. "Yes, darling. You’re doing great." For a rare moment, a look of genuine expression crossed his face—a mix of pride and fascination.

"Did you enjoy being a medical student?" she asked quietly, trying to break the silence that seemed to press down on them.

He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through the room as he continued to focus on removing layers of fat and tissue with precise, careful cuts. "It was… fine," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. "I just wanted to help people." For a moment, his mind drifted to those less careful procedures he'd performed in the past, crude and impersonal compared to this. This was different; this was for her. Every detail mattered, every movement was intentional. She was his priority, and he’d take hours to ensure her recovery.

The procedure continued, his hands working methodically as he navigated around muscles, vessels, and organs. With skilled precision, he reached the ureter and blood vessels before finally removing the kidney. Holding it up triumphantly, he allowed himself a brief, reverent pause, admiring its color and texture. (Y/N) felt a shiver race up her spine, offering him a shy, almost giddy smile.

"It’s beautiful," he breathed, his voice filled with admiration. "The scent is… intoxicating." He placed the kidney into a basin of ice, his attention undivided as he resumed his work. The following hours passed in quiet conversation and careful stitching. His words were soothing, his lips occasionally grazing her forehead as he worked his way through the final sutures. "Almost done, darling," he whispered, his voice rich with affection.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Jack pulled off his gloves, his fingers finding her face as he leaned down, pressing soft kisses along her cheeks, forehead, and neck. "Alright, alright, go eat," she laughed, flushed from his touch.

Jack sighed, nodding, but his gaze shifted to the basin, where her kidney lay on ice. Slowly, he lifted it, placing it in a pristine white bowl, adding a dash of salt and pepper. Seated near her, he picked up his scalpel and fork, slicing through the jelly-like texture. She watched, utterly fascinated as he lifted the fork, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of iron and freshness. This was not just any organ—it was hers, a part of her.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting the first bite linger on his tongue, savoring it fully. A low, appreciative groan escaped him. "You taste… perfect," he whispered, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

(Y/N) bit her lip, captivated by his enjoyment, as he tried to maintain some semblance of decorum while eating but couldn’t help himself. Each bite was savored as though he were tasting something divine. Once finished, he leaned over her, his tongues intertwining with hers, the taste of iron and warmth flooding her senses. She gripped his sweater, pulling him closer.

Pulling back, he whispered, "I love you," his hands cradling her face as he pressed his forehead against hers. "Don’t worry; I’m going to take good care of you for the next few weeks."

[tipsynight0]

What remains of you// part two

Paring - Jeff the killer x female reader

Word count 1.2k

TRIGGER WARNINGS - suicide, self harm, death & decay, psychosis, violence, murder?

Summary - Jeff is struggling with the aftermath of (y/n) suicide attempt.

Author's note - ahhh!! Hello lovies. I honestly didn’t expect to have so much love on my last post and a lot of requests on part two. Thank you for all the support, my requests are always open <3 reminder if you feel this way, reach out for support.

The dripping of the faucet was constant, unyielding—a steady tap-tap-tap that burrowed into Jeff’s skull, gnawing at the last shreds of his sanity. He sat alone in his dim room, a cloud of smoke hanging thick around him, his bloodshot eyes locked on the night outside his window. Everything beyond it was lost in a heavy, swirling fog. Time had twisted itself into knots, and he couldn’t remember how many days had slipped by like this, blending one into the next. His mind was fraying, but there was one thing he was sure of: (y/n) was still here.

She had to be.

He could still feel her presence, sense her somewhere in the house, even if she was cold and silent, slipping around him like a shadow. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t look at him, or that her body was sometimes stiff when he tried to hold her. She was just… recovering. Healing from that night. He had saved her, hadn’t he? Pulled her from that bathtub, his hands covered in her blood as he whispered over and over, “You’re going to be okay. I’m here.”

But sometimes, late at night, he’d reach out to touch her, and she’d feel so cold, so rigid. Sometimes he’d lie beside her, whispering in her ear, begging her to say something, anything. And in those moments, a creeping fear would start clawing at his chest, but he’d push it down, refusing to let himself think about it. She was here. She had to be. She just needed time.

But his nightmares wouldn’t leave him alone. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her in that tub again, the water pooling around her, dark and red, her face slack and empty. The smell of blood filled his nose, thick and metallic, and he’d wake up gasping, his heart hammering in his chest. The image would stay with him, clinging to him like a sickness.

He had tried to find solace the only way he knew how. Each night, he’d go out, his knife glinting in his grip as he hunted for anyone who could distract him from the emptiness gnawing at his heart. But no matter how much he tore into them, how much he bled them dry, it wasn’t the same. He’d find himself cradling them, muttering, “Why did you leave me?” as though they were her, his mind slipping as he clutched them close, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. None of it filled the void. Nothing worked. He needed her.

One night, he came back home, stumbling through the door, his clothes stained with blood. The house was quiet, and as he kicked off his boots, he heard it—a faint sound, barely there. The trickle of water.

He froze, his breath catching. The bathroom. She was in there.

The hallway felt longer than ever as he staggered toward the bathroom door, his fingers gripping the handle with such force that his knuckles turned white. His mind reeled with flashes of her lying in that bathtub, her pale face tilted toward him, blood seeping into the water. Panic clawed at him, wild and relentless, but he forced himself to breathe. She was fine. She was just taking a bath.

He pounded on the door, his voice breaking as he called her name. “(Y/n)? What are you doing? Are you… are you okay in there?” Silence pressed back at him, thick and heavy. His chest tightened as he threw his shoulder against the door, once, twice, until it burst open.

She was there, slumped in the tub, her wrists under the flow of water, her skin pale as porcelain, veins like blue rivers beneath the surface. Red streaks trickled from her wrists, painting the water with dark, dizzying patterns.

“No… no,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he staggered forward, his arms reaching out. He fell to his knees beside the tub, pulling her into his arms, cradling her body against his. Her skin was so cold, so still, but her eyes fluttered open, just barely. He gasped, his heart pounding wildly with hope as he brushed a trembling hand over her cheek.

“You’re here. I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair, breathing in her scent. He could feel the damp chill of her skin seeping into him, but he ignored it, whispering, “You’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you, like I always do.” His voice grew frantic, desperate, as he tried to warm her with his touch, his fingers trembling as he clung to her.

Slowly, he lifted her from the tub, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down gently, his hands shaking as he bandaged her wrists, his mind filling with a fierce, irrational hope. She was still here, and he would make her better. He had to. He sat beside her, running his fingers through her damp hair, his mind spiraling as he watched her face.

But something was wrong. Her skin was so pale, almost gray, her lips tinged blue, her limbs heavy and unyielding. A creeping coldness settled over him, but he pushed it away, refusing to see the truth staring back at him.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “You’re just… you’re just tired. You need to rest.” He leaned over her, his hands shaking as he stroked her cheek, his touch growing frantic as he tried to warm her lifeless skin. “You’re still here, with me. I know you are. You wouldn’t leave me.”

But as he stared down at her, he couldn’t ignore the vacant glassiness in her eyes, the way her skin had taken on an unnatural stillness. His stomach twisted, a sick dread settling over him, but he fought against it, his fingers brushing over her sewn lips, her expression frozen in a ghostly, silent scream.

“No… no, no, no!” he gasped, his voice cracking as he clutched her to him, burying his face in her shoulder, his mind spiraling as he clung to her still, cold form. “I saved you. I saved you! You’re still here. You’re… you’re…” But his words broke off as he felt her weight, the unmistakable stiffness beneath his touch, and the truth clawed its way through his delusion, ripping him open.

She wasn’t here. She hadn’t been here for a long time.

A broken, choked sob tore from his throat as he rocked back and forth, her cold body wrapped in his arms, his mind splintering under the weight of his realization. All this time, he had been talking to a memory, a shell. Every whisper, every touch had been a desperate illusion. His heart shattered, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, his voice a broken murmur.

“I’ll stay with you. I’ll never let you go.”

He laid her back down, tucking her carefully under the blankets, as if that could bring back her warmth. And as he curled beside her, his arms wrapped around her lifeless form, he felt his mind slipping, darkness closing in around him. His whispers faded into silence as he lay there “I’ll keep you safe”

[tipsynight0]

The weight of blood //part one

Jeff the killer x female reader

TRIGGER WARNING - suicide attempt, blood, graphic violence, self harm, stitches.

Word count - 900

Author’s Note: I’m sharing my thoughts and feelings in this piece, but I am in no way romanticizing these themes. If you are struggling or feeling this way, please seek help.

Synopsis - Jeff returns home after a long mission to find something terribly wrong.

The quiet drip of water from the faucet echoed in the dark, empty room as Jeff flung open the door, its rusted hinges groaning under the strain. He kicked off his boots, fatigue weighing down his every movement as his eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness. The mission had been grueling, each step back home feeling heavier than the last. His gaze instinctively traveled to (Y/N)’s side of the room, the place he always found her after the chaos. But the bed was still made, untouched, as though no one had been there in days.

A hollow emptiness spread in his chest. He shook it off, chalking it up to exhaustion. “She’s probably just out,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his sweater over his head with a weary grunt. Sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes, listening to the soft patter of water from the bathroom. The noise nagged at him. His brow furrowed as he turned towards the door, annoyance replacing the fog of weariness.

"Jesus Christ, (Y/N), you trying to flood the damn room?" Jeff growled, irritation prickling at the edges of his voice. "How do you forget the faucet like that?" He stood up, muttering under his breath as he made his way toward the bathroom, the cold floor shocking his bare feet. But as he neared, something shifted—a strange tension in the air, a stillness that made his heart pound just a little faster.

His fingers wrapped around the bathroom door handle. It was locked.

“(Y/N)?” he called, his voice rasping in the silence. No answer. His pulse quickened, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He knocked harder. “(Y/N), open the door! This isn’t funny.”

Nothing. Just the steady trickle of water.

Bile rose in his throat, panic creeping up his spine. He slammed his shoulder against the door, once, twice, until the lock finally gave way with a splintering crack.

“Are you—” His words froze in his throat as he stepped inside. The room was flooded, water pooling around his feet, but that wasn’t what made his breath catch.

The tub.

(Y/N) lay motionless in the clawfoot tub, her skin pale, the water around her stained with a sickly pink hue.

“No… no, no, no…” The words spilled from his lips as he stumbled forward, almost slipping on the wet tile as he lunged toward her. His arms wrapped around her lifeless form, pulling her into his chest. Her skin was cold, her body limp, and as he pressed her to him, he could feel the blood soaking into his skin.

“What the fuck, (Y/N), no, no… What the fuck!” His voice broke, choking on the words as his hands trembled, desperately trying to assess the damage. Blood. It was everywhere. He pressed his fingers to her wrist, his pulse racing as hers slowed to a whisper. Her head lolled against his chest, her eyes barely open, distant.

"Don't you dare leave me," he whispered, his voice raw, barely holding it together as he smoothed her wet hair, rocking her back and forth in the rising water. "Don't you fucking dare."

The sloshing water, the sound of his ragged breathing, the cold creeping up his legs—it was all a blur as he carried her out of the tub, the water spilling onto the floor in waves. He laid her gently on the bed, but the sight of her pale face, the blood pooling beneath her, sent a jolt of terror through him.

Grabbing his discarded hoodie, he pressed it hard against the gashes on her wrists, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding. "Stay with me, come on, please," he muttered, his eyes scanning her face, her skin a sickening shade of gray. He lifted the hoodie for a second, just to check, and let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thank god, no major arteries.”

But it wasn’t enough. He needed to act fast.

"You're not allowed to leave me," he barked, though his voice cracked with desperation. He fumbled for the first aid kit on the nightstand, his hands slick with blood as he rummaged for the needle and thread. He’d stitched himself up enough times, but this was different. This was her.

His hands shook as he threaded the needle, biting the cap off the super glue. He worked as fast as he could, pulling her skin together, sealing the wounds with precision born from desperation, not care. "Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking leave me," he whispered over and over, as though repeating the words would make them true.

Finally, he pressed his ear to her chest. Her heartbeat was faint, but it was there. His breath hitched, relief crashing into him like a wave, though it did little to ease the ache clawing at his insides.

"Please…" His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the fading sound of the dripping faucet. "Please don’t leave me."

Her pulse was weak, but it was still there. And for now, that was enough

[tipsynight0]

Puppet master //part TWO

Laughing Jack x mother reader

Word count - 2.3k

Author's note - please look at the tags, I tried to make this less gory but like this is creepypastaaa so I’m sorryyy.

TRIGGER WARNING - Graphic violence, gore and blood, body horror, murder, torture, domestic abuse, Infidelity, strangulation, drugging, suffocation, dismemberment, death by asphyxiation, dehumanization, object insertion.

Synopsis- part TWO jacks family, Jack kills (y/n) husband and mistress.

Jack's plan was working out seamlessly.

Tomorrow evening, the only people in the house would be (y/n)’s husband and, judging from his behavior, his mistress too. (Y/n) had decided to spend a few nights at her mother’s, exhausted by the endless arguments that had turned increasingly hostile. Just the night before, her husband had shoved her into the beloved rocking chair where she gently cradled their son Lucas every night. It wasn’t just his infidelity—it was the endless stream of pictures his coworker kept sending him, her smiling face mocking (y/n) from his phone.

That was the night Jack nearly leapt from his box. Rage coursed through him as he watched her husband’s hands shove her down, the urge to wrap the black tie around the man’s neck so overwhelming that his hands twitched. Jack could have ended it right there—snapped the husband’s spine like a twig and silenced his pathetic existence. But Jack knew better. Patience. Timing. Tonight wasn't the night, but it would come soon. And when it did, (y/n) would never suffer again.

The next morning, Jack observed with steely anticipation as (y/n) packed Lucas’s bag. Her hands trembled as she folded her son’s tiny pajamas, tucking them into the suitcase as though each movement might break her. Jack’s insides roiled, every fiber of his being burning with the need to protect her. From his hiding place in the box, he watched her every move, his breath shallow with anticipation.

She paused, turning toward the dresser. Her eyes met the box—met him—and for a moment, Jack could swear she saw through the wood, through the darkness, straight into his soul. Her delicate fingers hovered over the lid, her touch so gentle it made his heart ache with longing. Don’t turn the key, Jack silently pleaded, swallowing hard. If you do, I don’t think I could stop.

But she didn’t. Her fingers slipped away as the door opened. Her husband entered, cradling Lucas in his arms with a smile so empty it made Jack’s stomach churn. “Have fun at Grandma’s, buddy,” he cooed, handing the child to (y/n) as though he hadn’t spent the previous night making her life hell. Then, without so much as a glance in her direction, he grabbed his phone and left the room.

(Y/n) lingered for a moment, her gaze once again settling on the box. That final look was all Jack needed to know. Tonight was the night.

As evening fell, her husband set the stage—a candlelit dinner, soft music playing in the background, the sickly sweet smell of red wine filling the air. He had to make everything perfect for his mistress’s arrival. The room was immaculate, a perfect lie. But Jack had already added his own touch—a small dose of something special slipped into the wine. Something that would ensure the night unfolded exactly as he had planned.

By 9 PM, Jack's excitement was barely containable. Her husband had just hung up after a brief call with Lucas, promising to talk more later. The doorbell rang right on cue. Jack smiled from inside his box, his mind buzzing with anticipation. Oh, this is going to be fun.

An hour later, soft rustling and stifled giggles drifted down the hallway. Jack emerged silently from his box, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight as he quietly stepped down the hall. He paused at the bedroom door, peeking inside. There they were, naked and tangled together on her bed. The sheets—her sheets—twisted around them as they moved, oblivious to the nightmare creeping toward them.

The scene was almost too perfect. Slowly, he slipped into the room, the shadows swallowing his massive, seven-foot frame. His painted grin widened, the edges of his lips cracking with glee as he approached the bed. The air smelled thick with sweat and sin. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in Jack’s throat.

The mistress noticed him first. Her eyes snapped open, widening in sheer terror as she let out a weak scream. Jack moved swiftly, his hand lashing out to snatch her throat, silencing her cries with a bone-crushing grip. From the folds of his tattered costume, he pulled out a long, coiled string of black and white handkerchiefs, wrapping them tightly around her mouth and throat. The fabric dug into her flesh, muffling her whimpers as her face turned a sickening shade of blue.

Michael—(y/n)’s husband—stirred groggily, his senses dulled by the drugged wine. He turned just in time to see the towering clown standing over him, and panic flooded his eyes. He scrambled backward, naked and vulnerable, desperately trying to escape the bed. But Jack was faster. With a grin that stretched too wide, he yanked Michael’s ankles, dragging him down the bed.

“Well, well, well,” Jack purred, his voice like nails on glass. “Nice to finally meet you, Michael. I’ve been dying to play.”

Michael’s body trembled as Jack pulled a spray flower from his chest and blasted him in the face with a thick mist. Within seconds, Michael’s eyes rolled back, his body slumping as he lost consciousness.

Dragging their limp bodies into the living room, Jack whistled a cheery tune, his grin never faltering. He hummed to himself as he worked, securing their limbs with thick fishing wire, tying it tight enough to cut into their skin. The wire sliced deep, blood seeping from the wounds, painting red rivers down their pale, exposed flesh. Like grotesque marionettes, putting on a show.

Slowly, they began to stir, groggy and confused, their bodies twitching as they regained consciousness.

Jack grinned wider, his eyes glinting with malicious delight. Their mouths, stuffed with candy, muffled their cries as they tried to scream. He yanked on the wires, the tension causing the fishing line to bite deeper into their skin. Blood oozed from the cuts, dripping onto the floor in thick, dark drops. Their bodies convulsed with each movement, the pain sending waves of terror through their veins.

“Good, you’re awake!” Jack chirped, stepping into view, his oversized shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. Their eyes locked onto him, wide with fear, pleading silently for mercy. But Jack wasn’t here for mercy.

“We’re going to play out a little story,” Jack said, his voice dripping with twisted glee as he clapped his hands together. He pulled on the mistress’s string, causing her to jerk forward violently, blood spurting from beneath her arms as the wire bit deeper. She whimpered, her mouth overflowing with candy, the colorful sweets spilling from her lips in a grotesque parody of innocence.

“Once upon a time,” Jack began, his voice mockingly cheerful, “a beautiful young woman visited an antique shop. She found a delightful little jack-in-the-box, a lovely gift for her precious son, Lucas. A thoughtful mother, indeed.” His eyes glazed over, the memory of (y/n) buying him flashing before his mind.

But then his gaze darkened. His focus shifted to Michael, his lips curling back in disgust. “But you, Michael,” Jack sneered, pulling his strings tighter, the fishing wire carving deep, red lines into Michael’s flesh, “I wasn’t brought here to just watch you ruin everything. No, I was brought here to fix this family. To remove the real problem.”

Jack’s face twisted into something more monstrous as he leaned close to Michael’s ear, his breath cold against the man’s skin. “Spill any of my candy, and I’ll rip your lungs out and make her eat them.”

Michael’s eyes rolled back in terror, his body convulsing uncontrollably, urine soaking the floor beneath him. Jack laughed—a high-pitched, deranged sound that echoed through the room like the screech of nails on glass. “Pathetic,” Jack spat, pulling harder on the strings.

Tiring of the mistress’s pitiful whimpering, Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a bouquet of fake flowers. Grinning maniacally, he shoved the flowers down her throat, forcing her mouth open wider, candy spilling everywhere as her face turned blue. She gurgled one last time before her body fell limp, her skin taking on a deathly pallor.

Michael choked back a scream, the candy clogging his throat as Jack stalked toward him. “Oh, Michael,” Jack crooned, “you’re as stupid as they come. (Y/n) is mine now. Lucas is mine. This is my family.”

Jack pulled out a long balloon, inflating it slowly as Michael’s eyes widened with confusion. Twisting it with practiced ease, Jack formed a crude hammer and held it up for Michael to see. A flicker of hope crossed Michael’s eyes—a balloon hammer? That couldn’t hurt him, could it?

Jack’s grin stretched wider, his eyes darkening with malevolence. “Don’t look so relieved,” he sneered, bringing the balloon hammer down with a sickening crack on Michael’s leg. The bone snapped instantly, protruding through the skin as blood spurted across the floor. Michael’s scream, muffled by the candy, was animalistic, raw.

With a vicious snarl, Jack swung again, the balloon hammer smashing into Michael’s other leg. Another sickening crack echoed through the room, the bone shattering under the blow. Michael’s entire body seized in pain, his scream rising in pitch, but the candy stuffed in his mouth choked him, turning his cries into desperate, garbled gasps.

Jack tilted his head, studying the man’s broken body with a mixture of boredom and curiosity, like a child disappointed with a toy that didn’t break the way he expected. “Oh, Michael,” Jack mused, stepping closer. “You’re falling apart far too quickly. I was hoping for a little more fun.” He twirled the balloon hammer lazily, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Michael’s head lolled, his body slumping forward like a ragdoll, blood pooling beneath him in thick, viscous streams. But Jack wasn’t done. His fun was just beginning.

With a wild cackle, Jack swung the hammer again, this time aiming for Michael’s stomach. The balloon seemed to grow heavier with each hit, as though feeding off Jack’s malice. The sound of flesh and bone tearing apart reverberated through the room as the hammer came down again and again, pounding Michael’s body into a bruised, mangled pulp. Blood and gore splattered across the walls, mixing with the colorful candy that continued to spill from Michael’s mouth in grotesque bursts.

Michael’s chest heaved, his eyes rolling back into his head as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, his body twitching violently with each strike. His skin was torn, his insides a twisted mess of shattered bones and blood. He was nothing more than a human piñata now, strung up and broken for Jack’s amusement.

Jack stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Michael hung there, barely alive, his body twitching in spasms of agony. The fishing wire had cut so deeply into his skin that it seemed to blend with his flesh, as though he had become part of the grotesque puppet show Jack had orchestrated.

“Look at you,” Jack sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You thought you could have it all, didn’t you? The wife, the mistress, the lies. But all of that ends now.” He leaned in close to Michael’s face, his breath icy against the man’s sweat-slicked skin. “This is my family now.”

Satisfied, Jack wiped the blood off his hands onto his costume, leaving streaks of crimson on the tattered fabric. He turned to leave, his mind already buzzing with thoughts of how he would take (y/n) and Lucas and make them his own. But just as he reached the door, a noise stopped him dead in his tracks.

The front door creaked open.

Jack spun around, his eyes wide with alarm as he saw (y/n) standing in the doorway, frozen in horror. Her eyes scanned the scene before her—her husband’s mutilated body hanging limply from the ceiling, the mistress dead and blue-faced on the floor, the walls streaked with blood and candy, and in the middle of it all, Jack, his costume smeared with gore, a balloon hammer still clutched in his hand.

(Y/n)’s mouth opened in a silent scream, her face pale with shock as her mind struggled to process the horror before her. Her eyes locked with Jack’s, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. Jack tilted his head, his painted grin twitching, a flash of hesitation flickering across his eyes. This wasn’t how he had planned for her to see him. Not like this.

“Well,” Jack said slowly, his voice tight as he spread his arms wide in a twisted mockery of a greeting. “This is… quite the scene, isn’t it?”

(Y/n)’s chest heaved as her breath quickened, her mind racing as she took a step backward, instinct telling her to run. But Jack was faster. In a heartbeat, he lunged toward her, closing the distance between them in an instant. His long, blood-streaked claws wrapped around her wrist, pulling her into the room with a sickening force. The door slammed shut behind her with a deafening bang, sealing her fate.

She let out a choked sob, her body trembling as she stared up at Jack, her wide, tear-filled eyes reflecting nothing but terror. Jack’s grin stretched even wider, his face contorting into something monstrous, a grotesque parody of the joy that should have been there.

“Oh, (y/n),” Jack cooed, his voice soft, almost gentle as he ran a hand down the side of her face. His touch left streaks of Michael’s blood on her cheek. “You were never meant to see this. I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

(Y/n) gasped, pulling away, but Jack held her firmly in place, his grip tightening like a vice. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice taking on a cruel edge. “This was all for you. Everything I did was to make us a family.”

[tipsynight0]

The predators prey

Paring - Jeff the killer x (y/n)

Synopsis- On a stormy night, Jeff playfully harasses (y/n) while she reads, sparking a chaotic chase that leads to a muddy showdown.

Words - 900

Author's note - hiii!! I’m back lovelies, it was Canadian thanksgiving so I was working and celebrating. Thank you for all the love and support, I’ll be off work for the next month so send in some requests!

Rain pattered against the window, each drop sliding down the glass in uneven paths, while the harsh wind rattled the hinges of the old house. Inside, the warmth of the room stood in stark contrast to the storm outside. Jeff lay sprawled beneath his plush comforter, resting against a pile of pillows, his gaze flicking toward (y/n), who was engrossed in a book, the soft rustling of the pages the only sound cutting through the storm.

Jeff’s restlessness was apparent. A whole day of doing nothing, lounging around, wasn’t his style. The need for the hunt, for the thrill of a chase, itched at his mind. His fingers twitched as he glanced over at (y/n), who was still absorbed in her novel, seemingly indifferent to his growing impatience.

With a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, Jeff reached over and bent the corner of her page. He felt her body tense beside him, but she said nothing, merely adjusted her posture and continued reading as if his antics were inconsequential. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, clearly displeased by her calm demeanor.

He leaned in, his chin almost brushing her shoulder as his eyes darted over the words of the romance novel she was so focused on. A single line caught his attention, and his brow furrowed. “His abs were like mountain peaks as sweat dripped down them, god Kane was a delicious man…”

Without hesitation, Jeff snatched the book from her hands, raising it high out of her reach. “What the hell are you reading, (y/n)?” he asked, eyebrows knitted together in a mix of confusion and mild disgust. His long legs draped over hers, effectively trapping her beneath him as she struggled to reclaim her book.

Her face flushed, not just from frustration but also from embarrassment as she reached up, attempting to snatch it back. “For fuck's sake, Jeff, give me the damn book!” she growled, her voice edged with annoyance.

But Jeff was having too much fun now. He stood up, towering over her as he read aloud from the cringeworthy prose. “‘And then he pinned me against the wall, his muscular thighs holding me in place,’” Jeff groaned in exasperation, his tone mocking. “You’re reading porn,” he accused, tearing a page from the book with deliberate slowness.

(y/n)’s face turned a furious shade of red, both from anger and humiliation. She lunged forward, her small fists pounding against his chest in protest. “That was my favorite book, you asshole!” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage.

Jeff stared down at her, the glare in his eyes both predatory and amused. Her defiance only fueled his urge to torment her more. “Maybe the guy could pin you against a wall, huh?” he teased, but before (y/n) could fire back with a retort, Jeff lunged for her again.

But she was quick, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers. With a sharp turn, she darted toward the bedroom door, fumbling with the handle as Jeff's laughter echoed behind her. She barely made it through the door and down the stairs before his heavy footsteps thudded behind her, each one a reminder that he was gaining on her.

“You think you can just say that shit and get away with it? You’re going to regret it!” Jeff called after her, his voice laced with both threat and amusement. His footsteps echoed off the walls as they sped through the house. The other proxies, well used to their antics, barely spared them a glance as (y/n) bolted through the living room and out the back door.

The cold night air hit them both as they tore across the wet grass, their bare feet sinking into the mud. (y/n) ran with everything she had, but Jeff was relentless, his long legs quickly closing the distance between them. Finally, with one last lunge, he caught her by the back of her sweater, pulling her to the ground. They both slid through the slick mud, (y/n) letting out a screech as Jeff's victorious laughter rang out in the night.

“Oh, the things I’m going to do to you for reading that garbage,” he growled playfully, his voice low and dangerous as he leaned down, his calloused hand brushing over her jaw. “Just be ready, doll face.”

Still breathless from the chase, (y/n) looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest. With a sudden burst of defiance, she scooped up a handful of mud and smeared it across his face. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips as Jeff blinked, momentarily stunned.

His expression darkened, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Rubbing the mud back into her face, he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. “I wasn’t kidding, you know,” he rasped. “I’ll show you what it feels like to be pinned against a wall. Rope, zip ties… maybe even a meat hook.”

(y/n) gave him a cheeky smile, despite her flush of embarrassment. “Yeah, whatever,” she muttered, her heart racing as she stared up at him.

[tipsynight0]

Jack’s family// part one

Paring - laughing jack x female mother reader

Word count - 1.1k

Trigger warnings - stalking, infidelity, implied violence, supernatural horror, demonic clowns lmao, mentions of death involing children.

synopsis - (Y/N) picked Jack up from an old antique shop to decorate her son's nursery, unaware of the clown's growing obsession with her and her family.

Author's note - I'm branching out y'all, might be a part two of Jack killing her husband and holding her and her child hostage?? He just wants a family.

It had been ten years—ten agonizing, silent years—since Jack had last been free. He sat entombed in a dusty corner of an old antique shop, his once vibrant black-and-white box now dull, the wood cracking like an ancient relic. The jagged edges frayed with time, a reminder of the decades he’d spent as an instrument of terror, leaving a trail of broken families and dead children. And yet here he was, trapped, abandoned on a forgotten shelf, nothing more than a curiosity in the eyes of passing customers. To him, it felt like an eternity in purgatory.

Every day, the same routine. The dull chime of the shop's bell as strangers drifted in and out, oblivious to the dark history hidden in his box. He heard their idle conversations, their polite laughter—so blissfully unaware of what he could unleash. Jack sat, coiled tight in the suffocating darkness, waiting, his patience wearing thin with each passing second.

Then one day, the bell chimed, and something was different.

The air shifted as she entered the shop. Jack felt her presence immediately—a softness he hadn’t sensed in decades. The scrape of her shoes on the wooden floor was delicate, careful, and when her fingers brushed against the dust-laden surface of his box, he felt a shiver race through him. A voice, sweet and light, like a distant melody, reached his ears. "This Jack-in-the-box will be perfect for my son," she said, as if sealing Jack’s fate.

Freedom. His prison was lifted from the shelf, and as she blew the dust away, Jack could barely contain the excitement stirring within him. Finally, After all these years, he would get to play again—he would torment, terrorize, and destroy this new family. And this soft-voiced woman? She had no idea what she had invited into her life.

The gentle rumble of the car’s engine soothed Jack as he peered through the slit in his box. He watched the world pass by, noting how much it had changed. The cars, the buildings, the people—everything seemed new. But some things were always the same.

When the car stopped, she carried him inside, cradling the box as if it were precious. She placed him carefully on the dresser in the nursery—a room filled with warmth and light, a place so alien to Jack it almost made him recoil. The walls were painted with bright, cheerful stripes, circus animals danced in frames, and a mobile of tiny elephants spun slowly above the crib. The air smelled sweet, like lavender and baby powder, a scent that made Jack’s stomach twist.

For a moment, his resolve faltered. This wasn’t like the other homes. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t sterile. The love in this room was palpable, and it sickened him.

But then he saw the photograph.

A family portrait, framed and sitting on the dresser, caught his eye. The woman—his woman now—stood smiling with her son in her arms, and beside her was a man. Instinctively, Jack’s gaze darkened. He recognized that kind of man all too well. The same hollow smile, the same empty eyes that Isaac, his original owner, had worn. A man filled with deceit. A liar. A traitor. A knot of fury twisted inside Jack. This was a man who didn’t deserve his family.

The door creaked open, and Jack slipped back into his box just in time. Through the crack, he watched as she entered, holding her baby, her face glowing with maternal love. The sight of her rocking the child in her arms, singing a familiar lullaby, filled Jack with something he hadn’t felt in years—desire. Not the kind he was used to, the hunger for fear and chaos. No, this was different. He wanted her for himself.

Later, when she was gone, Jack crept out of the box, his claws tracing over the photograph. His sharp nails slowly scratched out the image of the man, carving deep grooves until his face was nothing but a blur of ruined paper. Jack’s gaze lingered on her face now—her, and the baby. A family. A perfect, broken family, waiting for him to fix.

The days passed, and Jack’s obsession grew like a cancer. He watched her through the small hole in his box, never tiring, always waiting for those quiet moments when she would slip into Lucas’s room alone. She was always alone. No husband to help. No man to protect her. Jack learned the child’s schedule by heart. He knew when Lucas woke, when he napped, when she fed him. But his favorite moments were the late nights—when she would shuffle into the room, barely awake, her robe slipping from her shoulder, her hair falling messily around her face.

Those were the moments Jack lived for.

On nights when Lucas wouldn’t stop crying, Jack found himself wanting to silence the boy himself—just to keep her all to himself. The temptation to suffocate the child with his own stuffed bear crossed his mind more than once, but Jack refrained. No, Lucas was a part of this, too. Jack could… tolerate the boy. After all, a family needed a child. And when the baby would giggle at Jack’s twisted face peering over the edge of his crib, it was almost bearable. Lucas even reached out, tugging playfully at Jack’s long nose, giggling at the black curls that draped down his shoulders. The boy didn’t fear him.

But Jack's true focus was always on her.

He could see the sadness etched into her features during those quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. The loneliness. The frustration. Jack understood. He had seen the husband’s phone calls—heard the lies. The cheating, the excuses, the late nights at "work." Jack's fury boiled beneath the surface. That man didn’t deserve her. He was hurting her, breaking her spirit.

Jack wouldn’t allow it.

He had scratched the husband out of the photograph, but soon, Jack would erase him from her life entirely. He would wait for the perfect moment. And then, when the husband was gone, there would be nothing standing between Jack and his perfect family. Just him, her, and little Lucas.

Jack’s grin stretched impossibly wide. His claws twitched with anticipation. Soon, she would see. Soon, they’d be together.

They’d all be a happy family.