#creepypasta fanfiction

[darlingdreadwrites]

Awkward

pairing: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

summary: You had planned to hang out in the woods on your day off, but the sound of Toby training reminds you of an awkward encounter. Confronting him leads to other things.

contains: a nervous toby, a little bit of a confession, toby's in loooooove, kissing

warnings: toby walks in on you half naked (encounter is under the RED DIVIDER!! skip it if you don't want to read it cuz it is kinda NSFW), awkward talks

wordcount: 1.5k

masterlist

a.n: needed to feed my toby fiends (i missed writing about him). also, for the EJ request, i am working on it, don't worry babes

The dark blades of grass tickled you through your long-sleeved shirt. You could smell the crisp autumn air as the cold kissed at your skin. Today wasn't the worst, you noted. You even had the right amount of sun. The orange-red leaves were cushioning your head, and these woods had never looked more beautiful. It was perfect. 

Thwack. Thwack.

It was perfect. 

You try to ignore the sound of Toby practicing his aim. You want peace and not be reminded of the awkward encounter you two shared. You shiver internally at the memory.

Having been tasked with another mission, you wanted to throw the biggest tantrum. It felt like you had just gotten back from one. As much as you might've enjoyed hunting, your body would get so sore. 

That’s why you were petulantly - and very slowly - getting dressed. You timed it; how long you should put an article of protective clothing to drag it out as much as possible. You just had no idea that this wasn't a solo mission for you. 

You were new. At least, new to Toby. He was used to the timely manner that Tim and Brian would respond when on a mission. That’s all he would remember until his eyes glazed over, leaving him as little more than a puppet to the Operator. He honestly thought you had forgotten about getting partnered with him and about your kill. He was right about one thing. That's why, unbeknownst to both of you, Toby was rounding the corner to barge into your room and yell at you like he used to be yelled at for taking too long.

Your bedroom door had swung open, and a heavy silence came afterward. You - being in the middle of putting your shirt on - had stopped to whip your head in the direction of the now-open door. If only your reflexes had the decency to let your shirt fall all the way.

Toby floundered, his mouth opening and closing dumbly. He didn't know why he couldn't - or why he even needed to - say anything. He could just close the door and not stare at you like he'd never seen a half-naked human body before. A very attractive half-naked human body that belonged to a very attractive human he had a massive crush on. 

He realized that now as the two of you stared at each other for a comically long time. His throat felt like it was the dryest it had ever been, and he worked to stop a heart attack from ensuing - and his dick from getting hard. But his eyes were struggling to stay glued to your face and not the way that your chest was on full display. He wanted to rush in so badly and squish his face against your - nope.

“Ooooh, fuh-fuck,” he whimpered. From embarrassment, you hoped. He squeaked out an apology before slamming the door shut.

Toby almost messed up the whole operation that day. You knew it had something to do with the incident, but neither of you wanted to address it at all. 

That was the whole reason Toby was throwing his hatchets like no tomorrow. You had to stop Tim from beating him into a bloody pulp. He said that if Toby liked his hatchets so much, he should learn to not fuck up his throws. He had no idea of what nightmare he had unleashed for anyone in the younger man’s vicinity. 

You try to shut out the repetitive sound of steel meeting wood. And the heavy, breathy grunts that came out of him, but you weren't going to get into that. As much as your brain screamed at you to ignore his presence altogether, a very loud, small part of you wanted to talk to him. You only recognized that as wanting to yell at him for being annoying. 

After a few more grueling seconds, you sit up. You internally hype yourself up to confront him as you stand up. You reach behind you to brush off any leaves or dirt that stuck to you. 

You'd only made it halfway to him when he heard the crunch of leaves. He knew it was you. Jesus, had he memorized the sound of you walking? How pathetic could he be? He contemplated scrambling in the opposite direction and leaving behind all his stuff for a moment. But when he saw your face come into view, he was stuck. Rooted, planted in his spot, and at your mercy. 

You offer a small, awkward smile before speaking up. “Could you –“

“I-is it the-the…” he trails off, glancing at the hatchets.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Yeah, it’s the… it’s pretty loud.”

“My…my bad.”

“No, it’s – it’s fine, really, just… ya’know…”

Toby nods, grunting softly as he dislodges a hatchet from a very abused stump. He – pretends – to inspect it for a moment. “I have to-have to practice. I can’t hhhhelp how loud it-it is.”

You blink, taken aback by his defensiveness. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“I’m-I’m just sssayin’ that if it’s bo-bothering you, you cuh-can go back to the-the cabin,” he almost mumbles the last part when he sees the look on your face.

“Ooo-kay,” you turn to leave, not wanting to deal with this.

“Wait – wait!” Toby drops his hatchet and takes two big steps closer to you. “Ssssorry, that didn’t-didn’t come… out right.”

“No, I understood.”

“Then why ar-are you making thuh-that face.”

“What – “ you can feel your cheeks start to warm up. “What face, Toby?”

He points at you with a gloved finger, his right brow twitches. “That-that face.”

“I don’t make any face.”

“Yeah, you duh-do. Happens a lot-lot when you talk to mmme.”

Oh, you need to get out of here. Like, right now.

“Won’t look at you again, then.”

You go to leave again but get stopped by a hand on your arm. It’s warm – he’s warm – and your brain almost short-circuits because of it. It’s gentle, more than you thought he could be. You can feel the involuntary movements due to his tics, but you can tell he’s being careful with you.

“It’s not-not a bad th-thing, or whate-whatever,” he lets his arm fall to his side like he just realized what he’d done. “Just… nuh-notice it, ‘s all.”

“You’ve stared at me enough to notice that?” You scoff, intending to tease him, but your voice comes off a little shaky.

Toby doesn’t respond immediately – he just shifts a little to get closer to you. He doesn’t trust himself to speak because he knows he would’ve immediately said yes.

Yes, he stared at you enough to notice that. Yes, he actually, really liked your face. Yes, he’d thought about kissing your face many times. Yes, he couldn’t stop thinking about the sight of you when he opened your door.

But he couldn’t just say that. You always seemed annoyed, or tense, when he talked to you. And even then, you two didn’t talk a lot. Toby, not fond of being in the cabin for too long, was always outside. He noticed that you mostly stayed inside – preferring the comfort of your room. Part of him wanted to experience that with you. He hadn’t had any type of comfort in a while.

Toby realized that he must be freaking you out with how long he was staring, but – wow, when had your face gotten so close? Toby couldn’t believe that not only was he leaning in, but so were you. It seemed like an invisible magnet was pulling your faces closer until he could feel your breath on his face and smell your heavenly scent. A scent that he would only be blessed with every time you walked by. But now it wasn’t a fleeting aroma. No, it was so much stronger than he ever hoped it could be.

For a moment, all you could hear was the wind and the rustling of the trees in response to it. You couldn’t help but feel it all be stripped away. As if everything had disappeared, leaving just you, him, and this moment. You both paused before any contact could be made. Your eyes flickered up to Toby’s, and he did the same before your gaze fell back to his mouth. You always admired how pink they looked, so kissable. Oh, god, were you going to kiss him?

He steps a little closer – he’s inches away from you now – his head tilting slightly. His lips part, and it causes you to swallow involuntarily. Your brows pinch together, and you look back up at him. The sight has him yearning to grab your face and planting a long, bruising kiss to your lips.

You feel your pulse thrumming as he leans in to close that last inch. His lips press onto yours softly – almost tentative – and then his hand finds yours. The rough texture of his glove rubs against your skin as he pulls you closer. You can just feel how much he’s holding back – holding everything in his power to not brush his tongue against your bottom lip.

When you finally break apart, neither of you speaks. He smiles widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he almost looks absolutely adorable. Until he opens his mouth, that is.

“I knew-knew you liiiiiked meee,” he sang, shimmying his shoulders a little.

You almost punched him.

But, in the end, kissing him again would satisfy the two of you way better.

[necroromantics]

How To Write ASPD / Psychopathy

half educational, half ramble. dedicated to the creepypasta fandom.

(check out my how-to-write bipolar + ticci toby here)

What is ASPD?

Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD) is characterized by a disregard for others rights and feelings. It's a personality disorder, which means the mindsets and behaviours associated with this condition are deeply ingrained and maladaptive.

The current DSM-5 diagnostic criteria states that to be diagnosed with ASPD, a patient needs to have a long-term (occurring since at least age 15), consistent, and persistent history of three or more of the following:

failure to conform to social norms; repeatedly breaking rules/laws that may be grounds for arrest

deceitfulness; lying, tricking others for personal gain

impulsivity or a failure to plan ahead

irritability and aggression; fighting, hostility, outbursts

reckless disregard for the safety of self or others

irresponsibility; repeated failure to comply to work or financial obligations

lack of remorse; being indifferent to or rationalizing having mistreated or hurt others

ASPD, by definition, can only be diagnosed in people who are 18+. Minors cannot have ASPD due to treatment and intervention reasons. A minor who exhibits traits of ASPD will be diagnosed with Conduct Disorder.

At it's core, though it may seem like people with ASPD are just hostile and insensitive and rude, is a defense mechanism formed in childhood, typically in response to an abusive environment. Self-preservation and a "dog eat dog world" mindset are very common in those with ASPD. Everything is about doing what it takes to retain social dominance, control, and ultimately safety. Boredom and risk-taking is also very common in people with ASPD, and many people with this condition have never had proper, healthy influences in childhood to teach them proper manners, social norms, morals, or how to regulate their emotions and aggression.

It is a chronic condition that affects about 1-3% of the population. Its very prevalent in the prison population as well. ASPD not only causes a person to potentially cause harm to others, but is a condition that very negatively impacts the patients themselves.

(Note: The term "sociopathy" is typically used to refer to an extreme presentation of ASPD. "Psychopathy" may sometimes be seem as a very very extreme presentation of ASPD)

What is Psychopathy?

Psychopathy refers to a set of traits/issues that might be seen in patients. It is NOT a diagnosis. If psychopathic traits cause dysfunctional behaviour in an individual, they will most likely be diagnosed with ASPD.

Psychopathy is now most commonly used in research settings to use it as a term that describes certain patterns and behaviours. It is something professionals study, not diagnose.

The traits related to psychopathy are:

manipulative behaviour; superficial charm, persistent lying, deceiving others

grandiose sense of self

lack of remorse or guilt; lack of empathy, callousness, shallow emotional expressions

reckless lifestyle; need for stimulation, parasitic (constantly takes from others), lack of realistic long-term goals, impulsivity

antisocial behaviour; poor behavioural control, early behavioural problems, trouble with the law in youth

Not all psychopathic people fit the criteria for ASPD, not all are disordered by their traits, and not all people with ASPD are considered psychopathic. But there is a very big overlap.

Psychopathy is typically only recognized in a forensic or research setting. It is often wrongfully used in the media to describe people who are serial killers, abusive, or used to dehumanize others.

Personally, I believe that media and creators need to move away from the terms psychopath/sociopath. They have far too much negative connotation that only exists to demonize people who suffer with unconventional traits. If you want to write psychopathy correctly, do your research on what it looks like in its presentation, and just drop the label.

What are some harmful tropes with ASPD/Psychopathy in media?

ASPD and Psychopathy have been tossed around in many different settings as ways to cheaply create an evil villain, or a cold calculated monster, or a reckless criminal. There has been only one instance in my lifetime of watching hundreds of movies and shows that I have seen an accurate, humanizing portrayal of ASPD. (That show is House MD by the way, I highly recommend if you want to see good representation).

So what are some of the tropes to acknowledge and avoid?

1. Psychopathic serial killer

Have you seen American Psycho? Great movie. Don't do that. While the character Patrick Bateman is commonly associated with the terms "narcissist" and "psychopath", he also is a satirical character who is a very dramatized and exaggerated presentation of some psychopathic traits.

I will be honest. A lot of real-life serial killers do suffer from various mental health conditions, but correlation is not causation. In the Creepypasta fandom we are surrounded by different characters who are almost all serial killers, and people like to make things easy and just throw the label of "psychopath" onto them and call it realistic. This is very cheap, and very harmful.

If you want to write a psychopathic serial killer character, then acknowledge how harmful, fear-mongering, and dehumanizing this trope is towards people who actually suffer from these traits.

2. ASPD synonymous with abusive behaviour

ASPD is a disorder that does cause people to do and say things that will harm others in some way. Cluster B personality disorders are commonly seen as 'social disorders', as in they cause dis-order in interpersonal relationships, and in response to society. Borderline personality disorder (BPD) for example may cause somebody to threaten harm to themselves in response to percieved abandonment, or to have intense fights due to emotional dysregulation.

ASPD in particular may cause someone to be insensitive towards others problems, lack morality, be aggressive or hostile, put others down, or get into reckless situations. This is why they are disorders. Because they cause significant and serious problems in the persons life.

It is not pretty, and it's not fair, and yes, people with disorders may cause harm to others due to behaviours associated with their condition. But there is a difference between causing harm, and abusing another person.

Lying to someone is not inherently abusive. Being reckless is not inherently abusive. Being an insensitive asshole is not inherently abusive. To not understand the nuance and the complexity of these situations is to completely demonize and stigmatize a serious mental health condition. You don't call people with BPD abusive for their actions inherently, because you acknowledge they are hurting and only doing what they know to cope with this hurt. Of course it's unhealthy. That's what a disorder is. That does not make someone abusive by default. Anyone with any condition, even neurotypical people can be abusive.

3. Cold, emotionless robot

People with ASPD can and do feel emotion. People with psychopathic traits can and do feel emotion. They get sad, disappointed, disgusted, happy, excited, jealous, hurt, angry. There is nothing in the ASPD criteria that states anything about emotional presentation or experience.

In psychopathy, it is mentioned that there may be a shallow emotional expression. This may also be present in ASPD. This means that while a person will feel emotions, it is either beat down or brushed off, or completely repressed. The emotional repression may come from childhood abuse where they were punished for expressing emotions, or expressing emotions had caused them harm.

Lacking emotions/emotional expression is instead highly linked to Schizoid Personality Disorder, and is apart of the criteria for said disorder.

Media protraying people with ASPD/psychopathy as cold, emotionless, calculating robots is another trope used to dehumanize people with mental health issues. It's used to make people with ASPD seem evil or not having feelings that could be hurt. In reality, nearly everything a person with ASPD does, is their dysfunctional way of protecting themselves from being hurt.

People with ASPD may lack the emotional capacity for things such as empathy and remorse, though. Its common that they are unable to care for, or feel upset for others suffering. They may also be unable to feel guilt. This criteria is seen in about 51% of people with ASPD and is associated with more extreme presentations.

Do you headcanon anyone to have ASPD?

Yes, but I don't like to use the label on them. I do write a lot of antisocial mindsets into my headcanons for Ticci Toby, and I heavily write ASPD into my OC, Tobin.

For Toby, his presentation of ASPD comes in the form of rebellion, not understanding/following social norms, recklessness, and a strong desire for power, dominance, and control. I write this as his subconscious response to the trauma he faced in childhood. As a child Toby was constantly put down and made to feel small and powerless at the hands of his father. In order to make sure his father abused only him and not his mother and sister, Toby would act out and be a troublemaker. I think that he would have a lot of ASPD behaviours and views on the world.

For my OC Tobin, he's pretty similar in presentation in regards to power/control, and not following social norms. He is very prone to justifying and rationalizing his behaviours to the point he doesn't feel remorse for the harm he causes. Tobin grew up in a very unstable and abusive environment where, like Toby, he did what he needed to do to get by. He never learned proper morals, norms, regulation, etc. But Tobin does care about others. He takes care of his little sister, and loves his girlfriend, and is very protective. Tobin is still a complex human being with more to him than just being an antisocial insensitive prick.

How can I write a character with ASPD?

Do proper research. Not on Reddit, or Quora, or WebMD. I mean go find trusted, scholarly articles and read real scientific papers and studies on ASPD. Do research into how/why it forms, the mindsets, the symptoms and their presentation, the neuroscience even.

Humanize your characters. While it's fun to throw around a bunch of negative and toxic traits to a character you want people to see as 'bad', it's lazy character development. Give them good, positive traits as well. People are very complex, and nobody will fit in to the mold of good or bad. Make them human enough where someone wont look at your character with ASPD and assume everyone with ASPD are monsters.

But also, don't water down the disorder. ASPD does cause harm to the patient and the people in their life. I've seen it a lot where people will try to fight against stigmatization by completely glamorizing the disorder. "People with ASPD aren't inherently bad! They don't actually hurt others or act hostile or say insensitive things"... Yes we do. And it causes many problems. And that is why its a disorder.

Personally I don't like to throw the ASPD label onto my characters even if I do write them to have ASPD because I feel like it just boxes them in. If you write a character with ASPD, try doing it in a way where a professional would be able to tell they have ASPD without you even mentioning the label.

Remember that ASPD is COMPLEX. It varies vastly in its presentation, its a disorder that is life-consuming and the dysfunctional beliefs and behavioural patterns are deeply ingrained and consistent throughout many different areas in someones life. It's a label to describe preexisting issues. It's something that is highly associated with childhood trauma, and drug addiction, and general suffering for the person dealing with their own chaotic mind.

The biggest problem I see that frustrates me is the way people throw around the terms "psychopath" and "sociopath", especially when someone just wants to add a layer of edginess onto their character. Remember that you are dealing with a condition that real people suffer from every day. If you can't handle it respectfully, and if you would demonize someone with ASPD in real life for acting as your character does, just don't write it in. Keep the label separate. We don't need any more stigmatization and misinformation.

I know this was very long, but it's such a multifaceted and complex issue and I've seen it enough times in the fandom to be frustrated enough to write this. If you have any questions, want more advice or information, please feel free to ask away in my ask box 🔥

[darkromanceenthusiast]

3 a.m. fights

Jeff the killer x GN! reader

Contains: angst, substance use, toxic relationship mentions, blurb

It was nights like this that reminded you that Jeff was… well… Jeff. You loved him so of course you had an idealized version in your head.

You shakily wiped the tears from your face and stood up, looking at the multiple shattered beer bottles on the ground, a chair that was thrown onto the coffee table and the door still open from not shutting with the force of how hard he slammed it storming out.

You walked towards the broom, taking comfort in knowing it could all be fixed… mostly.

Your mind drifts as you begin the monotonous motion of sweeping the floor, you tried to remember what set him off at the start… what made him explode… the drinking… he had started doing it more lately you tried to ‘jokingly’ say he was drinking a lot and well… this happened. Jeff was mentally ill. It’s always a bit easy to forget that when he’s sort of your only constant and contact.

The sound of the glass dumping in the bin pulled you back into pilot of your body, you looked at the cleanly swept floors and nodded, the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway pulled your attention, the lack of headlights could only mean Jeff, you tensed a bit and stayed there as he stood in the doorway.

“Hey… I uh.. got you something.” He says, motioning you to come closer, you walk up to him, arms crossing as you do. He stares at you for a moment before lifting something to your lips.

“Suck n breathe, babe.” He instructs, and you simply obey, a dank but slightly sweet taste fills your mouth as you inhale the vapor. He chuckles and places the small vape in your hand.

“A… cart,Jeff? Really?” You ask, eyebrow raising as the dark haired male shrugged.

“Well… I also wanted to take you on a drive… maybe.. talk.. and uhm… get some food?” He said, his tone was shockingly kind for once and you sighed, looking at the pen in your hands and shrugging as you took another hit.

“I suppose…” you said and he smiled, holding you his hand. You slipped yours in his and enjoyed the comfort of his warm, slightly calloused hand. You got into the passenger side and he started the car back up and began driving, he turned on the radio to some alternative station and sighed.

“I love you.” He said, and your head snapped over to him, his face was serious as he stared ahead, his carved grin a stark reminder of the facade he pushed. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I don’t… I don’t like doing that. I don’t like throwing things and storming out… but I’m so scared I’ll hurt you if I don’t break something.” He said, brows furrowing as he gripped the steering wheel, his hind coming over to rest on your thigh, you instinctively grip his hand and he sighs.

“I just… I need you to know I love you. I do. As much as I am capable of loving… you have it.” He says, his hand gripping yours, he leaned his head back for a second before lifting your hand to his lips, they press against your hand and you can feel the slightest hint of those scars on the back of your hand. He places your hand back on your thigh and resumes gripping your thing and you nod.

“I love you too, Jeff.” You said, gripping his hand, you’ve never seen him be this vulnerable, then again he almost never takes you on “dates” either. He gave a soft smile and lifted the pen to your lips, you took another hit and he nodded.

“Now… what do you want to eat?”

[seas1mping]

For Jackmas I wanted to submit my redesign for LJ teehee I've never really redesigned any characters before but I felt like it because they're like my absolute favorite so I hope you like it!! And then I'll ramble their backstory under the cut <3333

(If you wanna hear about my polycule let me know they make me ill I love oc x canon)

Tw for domestic violence, violence in general, and fanon representations of canon :3 starts with their backstory and then goes into random hcs

What?! Max, they/them pronouns??? NO ACTUALLY!!!! SHE/THEY!!! INTRODUCING THE FIRST EVER TRANSFEMME LJ!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

Her name didn't change, she just moves mostly to LJ instead of people calling them Jack.

My LJ follows pretty much canon? With the exception of the motive behind the death of Isaac

My LJ recognizes the concept of death, he knows what it is and he understands things like grief and depression exist, but they have never experienced them, because she's around a child who searches for the good in everything!!

Until Isaac is sent to boarding school, and this time he lets LJ roam around the house, but asks that he stays in his room whenever his parents are home

LJ abides by this rule for the first couple of years, but grows impatient and tired of staying in the boring room. So she ventures out.

LJ knows what Isaac's parents are like. They've seen it firsthand the abuse and damage that his mother and father did to Isaac, and he quickly realizes where it stems from.

Isaac's father is a drunk, LJ frequently watches from the shadows as he beats on his wife, drinks himself to sleep, comes home late, and repeats this cycle. LJ feels nothing as she watches this, however. She doesn't have any idea how to feel.

It isn't until a few days before Isaac returns home, that LJ feels it. That awful twinge in her chest that makes her feel this buzzing under her skin. Watching Isaac's father only makes the buzzing louder and worse. So they go back upstairs.

Isaac comes home, LJ is ecstatic, watching him exit his car, but he's stumbling, and he walks around to the other side and pulls a girl out.

I'm getting rid of the "Isaac murders a girl for not sleeping with him". Villain or not that's fucking disgusting. /gen

She's already dead by the time he got home with her. LJ is hiding in their box, waiting to surprise Isaac when they see him start to pull the girl apart.

LJ gets out quietly, asking what Isaac is doing. Isaac doesn't look at her, just says "This is that bitch that recommended me to go to that damn school."

LJ notices the scars on Isaac's arms, but doesn't say anything. That buzzing twinge is back, threatening to escape from her skin, she doesn't know what she's angry at, but she's angry at something.

LJ asks if Isaac is having fun, and he gets an enthusiastic yes. So LJ wants to have fun too!! After all, they like what he likes.

So LJ goes downstairs and grabs Isaac's father. She lays him out on the floor of Isaac's room and begins to cut into him.

Isaac snaps out of his trance when he hears his father yelling. He finally notices LJ, having thought she was just another voice. Scared shitless, he backs against the bed where the body he was carving was. His father is still screaming.

LJ continues to dismember the father alive, giggling with glee as his screams are becoming weaker by the minute. She looks to Isaac for reassurance, and as their eyes lock, LJ feels a new emotion.

Fear.

Isaac is looking at them like they were wrong. LJ let go of the limb that was now detached and let it fall into the pool of blood underneath the wound. They called Isaac's name, and was immediately met with pain blooming in his face.

The wooden toy bounced off the floor and down the hallway, having smacked and bounced off of LJs cheek. They lift their hands up off of his dad, rolling their tongue around in their mouth to check for damage.

Isaac screams, asking what LJ thinks she's doing, and that's not even funny. Just like that damn cat they killed and got blamed for. Isaac became enraged, launching off the bed and trying to hit LJ once more.

LJ caught his fists, digging their claws into his hand and making him bleed. They leaned in close, and in all their newfound anger and fear, they whispered something to him

"Why don't we see who gets blamed for this one then?"

---

LJ doesn't know where she's going, but she can't stay there. Not after what she did. She mourns the boy she cared for, despite being his end.

They escape into an abandoned lot just down the road. Their only possession is her box and a small wooden train.

The shadows begin to move, they concentrate into a small figure in the corner. It's weak, LJ can tell, and it beckons LJ closer.

It begs LJ to use their newfound freedom and unstoppable urge for violence to get it food. Souls.

LJ doesn't know the first thing about killing they just know that Isaac is dead and it's their fault.

"WHAT IF IT DOESNT HAVE TO BE? WHAT IF YOU COULD HAVE MORE FRIENDS THAN YOU KNOW BECAUSE YOU APPEARED LIKE MAGIC TO KIDS IN NEED?"

---

LJs carnival is full of spare souls. They keep all the souls for a rainy day or their master needs one. LJ can quit at any time, but she needs the protection over her box because it's the only thing keeping them alive.

LJ will say that she hates children, but they love seeing that little gummy smile do teehee

LJ loves being around people, she's like a mirror for social energy, if you want to chill they'll chill, but if you wanna get wild they can get wild.

LJ is immune to drugs and alcohol, they just drink it to fit in.

My LJs voice claim is Alex Brightman, think Beetlejuice and Fizzarolli specifically.

[sinshinelennypops]

creepypasta drabble + headcanons

some fanon influenced headcanons for various pastas + Marble Hornets characters. A friend and i have been doing an rp for like 2.5 years at this point and have made quite a few headcanons, feel free to add some

-Tim cannot stand cheesecake, instead his favorite food is pineapple pizza

-Toby desperately wishes he could play guitar but due to his ticks no one trusts him, until his 21st birthday where everyone pitches in and buys him a guitar and amp

-Jeff wears an eye mask to bed because of his eyes being super sensitive

-Smile Dog can and will speak to you and try to manipulate you into giving him food, but otherwise acts like a normal dog just with the ability to speak

-Sally and BEN often play Just Dance and other older games on the Wii and Playstation while the others are out on missions

-Tim and Brian have kissed at least once in the decade they've been in the Slender mansion

-Nina stopped crushing so hard on Jeff at around 18 and instead began to enjoy women (Jeff hates this)

-Brian's favorite movie is Legally Blonde

-Bi weekly adult only sleepovers and weekly movie nights keep morale up across the mansion

-Generally, everyone gets along pretty well, especially since most of the proxies and other people in the mansion have been there for years now

[static-scribe]

Thing that’s been in my head for a while:

Could you write about Toby meeting someone else with a tic disorder,? Male reader, please! Reader is also kinda of a romantic, he likes roses and other red things, like blood and hearts!

(This is kind of self-indulgent but shhhh it’s fine….)

Hi! Thank you for being my first request, I would absolutely love to write this for you! I hope I handled it to your liking! As someone who has a tic disorder this request kind of made me super happy and I had a lot of fun writing this!

Upon meeting you, Toby is instantly infatuated with the fact he’s met someone like him. I doubt he had met another person with tics before and meeting you makes him feel like he has someone who can understand him.

You two are like instant best friends and nearly impossible to separate from each other. Whenever he has free time from proxy work he is usually by your side. Before you even start dating, people already assume you are just from how much you are together. 

He would go out of his way to try and appeal to your romantic side. He’d bring you gifts in your favorite colors, stuffed animals, things that remind him of you, sweets, and obviously roses. Don’t ask where he gets some of this stuff as he is perpetually broke. He may go a bit overboard and leave shit like human hearts in places for you to find but he’s doing it out of love.

You make him feel comfortable enough to tic freely around because he won’t have to worry about any judgment that might come from other people. This is one of the things that made him really fall for you. It wasn’t just about the tics it was the fact you wouldn’t judge him, and he would do his best to provide that same comfort for you.

Be warned that your tics would probably bounce off each other and you’d pick up the other’s tics. He finds it strangely sentimental. For him it's like carrying a piece of you with him. If that makes sense.

When he eventually would ask you to be his boyfriend, he’d probably show up to your place with some sentimental gifts to give you and a handwritten letter describing his feelings for you cause he gets awkward/nervous expressing big feelings verbally. He’d be barely able to stay still/contain himself while you read it. He would probably end up blurting out his feelings for you halfway through you reading the letter.

If anyone ever said anything rude to you about your tics, he would probably kill them or just hurt them at the least. He doesn’t want you to feel insecure about your tics but he knows insecurities are hard to deal with. Afterwards he’d repeatedly reassure you that you're perfect the way you are.

For a first date, Toby might take you on a picnic in a secluded place in the woods. (Don’t worry he didn’t prepare the food.) I could see it being a specific part of the woods where he goes to decompress from stress and him showing you that place would be quite the show of trust for him. He is willing to let you see parts of his life nobody else can and you’re very special to him.

[corcarel]

Play with ur food <3

(Wanted to upload it by itself too!)

[crystalgastles]

How I see clockwork

She’s one of my favorites, I’m putting some general headcannons about her down below

From Phil Campbell Alabama, small podunk town nestled in the northern parts of the state. Nothing out there but a piggly wiggly , high school, and a dollar general

Her daddy was a hunter, her mama died when she was little. She doesn’t remember her much but she does have her old watch that doesn’t work.

Only girl out of three boys raised by a single father. She loves her family, her youngest brother to be specific.

When she was little her daddy would take her hunting with him and her two older brothers. She shot a deer in a way that didn’t kill it instantly and watched it take its last breath while she cried. She still sees that deer in her nightmares

Lesbian. She has a girlfriend that no one knows about.

Bonfire parties are almost the only thing to do in this town, besides getting drunk in the Walmart parking lot and riding four wheelers up and down the abandoned trailer park roads. She’s the one who usually throws them.

A boy that wasn’t educated or intelligent in any way crashed one of these, revolver in hand because he heard of her and her girlfriend.

Natalie can fight. Brass knuckles and pocket knives are always on her person. It’s best not to provoke her after years of rough housing with her brothers

He grazed her eye with a bullet and shot Rebecca in the head before she could manage to wrestle the gun out of his hand, to push him into that huge bonfire, to watch him take his last breath, to see that same deer with a bullet hole in its stomach.

The angel shows himself in different ways. He knows she can fight. He knew of the boy, he knew if he whispered the right words he’d go to that party. He has shown himself as that deer to her for years.

People had scattered and left her there to watch his body burn up in flames. She took his truck keys and attempted to drive with one eye and hand, the other holding a shirt to it to stop the bleeding. Vodka burns like hell on an open wound.

She’s Toby’s companion after Jeff is too unstable to be around anybody. She’s no stranger to guns and knives, blood and carnage.

She can’t figure out who the man in the suit is that Toby’s always talking about. All she can see is that damned deer.

My face claim for her is Hayden Anhedönia (Ethel Cain)

[kupkate04]

A Hapless Endearment || Creepypasta x F. Reader || Ch. 1 - To Grandmother's House We Go

—Quick author's note—

I'm sure you all know the drill by now, but for those of you who don't, here it is:

Y/n = Your name

L/n = Last name

N/n = Nickname

H/c = Hair color

E/c = Eye color

F/c = Favorite color

B/m = Birth month

S/t = Skin tone

B/s = Body shape

B/c = Blush color

L/c = Lip color

H/l = Hair length

Also, I try to leave Y/n up to interpretation as much as I can, although some things will still be assumed about her, whether that be the kind of food she likes or her style of clothing, etc. It's difficult for me to fully write for a character who's a "blank slate", just thought you should know! Enjoy reading~

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

She exudes an inaudible sigh, propping her jaw in her palm and gazing through the somewhat smudged surface of the glass. Trees and houses of varying sizes whiz by, blurring together and composing an evanescent of greens, browns, whites, and yellows. The sun sits high on its invisible throne above. Its warm, golden rays break through an army of fluffy clouds, capturing the atmosphere in a brilliant, cheery radiance.

Struggling to imagine the clouds morphing into fun, inspiring shapes due to her current lack of concentration, she frowns, letting her discouraged eyes fall. The engine hums, the AC whirs, and wheels scrape the asphalt below, bringing the passengers closer to their destination. They've halted a few times to allow everyone a chance to stretch their legs and collect themselves, which has been Y/n's saving grace. Still, after ten hours of riding, her muscles are stiff and she is more than eager to be free from the confinement of this chatter-brimmed bus. Nestled in her lap is a backpack, and below the seat, directly behind her legs, lies her duffel bag; both have been stuffed with an assortment of clothes and other items she deemed imperative to bring along. 

Headphones have been diligently positioned over her ears, the tunes that flood from which manage to block out most of the incessant noise surrounding her–including the ungodly snores of the man to her left. She fiddles with the wire, twirling it absentmindedly around her finger as she stares at the window frame, her mind wandering aimlessly amidst a blanket of fog. Languidly glimpsing to the side reveals her seating buddy has his head resting on the back of the bench, eyes closed and mouth hanging wide open. It's a wonder he hasn't caught a fly in there yet.

Ah, well. At least he doesn't stink.

She lets the dirty glass support her temple, her eyes threatening to seal shut. She's barely seized a wink of sleep throughout the course of this little road trip and her body is beginning to feel the full effects of it. Pondering momentarily how much longer it will be until they reach the station, a fleeting peek at her phone screen informs her of the time: 6:44 in the evening. The bus left at 6:30, so there shouldn't be much time remaining. Gosh, she can't wait to stand again. She's not even sure she remembers what her feet feel like.

She succumbs to the temptation to yawn quietly, giving her drooping eyes a reprieve. She thinks about what she's going to do when the bus parks and she saunters through the folding doors to reunite with her grandparents. It's been so many years since she saw them last. She was...nine? 

Memories of her childhood have grown faint, but she can recall how happy she always was around them; how much boundless joy they brought her simply by existing. They were never neglectful, impatient, or spiteful, no–only caring and affectionate and overflowing with love. She's missed having that kind of positive influence in her life. It's been hovering in the distance for so long, just out of reach. Taunting her. 

But now it doesn't matter, because she's coming back. She's finally going to see them again. 

It's unfortunate that it took seven years to convince her father to let her return. He's so swaddled in his needless resentment and self-pity that it's blinded him. She doesn't understand how he could care so little–be so detached from the two people who raised him with every ounce of adoration they possessed because of some silly disagreement a few years prior.

She isn't certain what transpired exactly; all she knows is the vague comments she was told by her mother. It was likely an argument based around the roads he was traversing to make an income, as it seems highly in-character for him to get offended by something so trivial. Knowing him, he blew their moral concerns out of proportion, pitched a hissy fit, and vowed never to speak to them again, dragging his daughter and wife into the crossfire. 

It was that reason and that reason alone why Y/n had to wait until she was sixteen to pay dear Nana and Pops a visit. He only relented because she wouldn't stop bothering him about it for two weeks straight after she found out both her parents would be out of the country during the summer for their jobs. She didn't want to be stuck at home for three months without any friends to spend time with, and she didn't want to go back to camp either, so traveling to Alabama for a summer vacation seemed like the only logical solution. They dropped her off with some money on their way to the airport, she bought a ticket, boarded the elongated vehicle, and that was that.

Her father had been less than enthused on the matter, and she recalls his torpid, irked expression reflecting in the rear-view mirror of the car as they pulled up to the bus stop. Her mother, on the other hand, was rather indifferent; far too invested in whatever messages lit up the screen of her phone to concern herself with domestic conflict. Y/n could only imagine which one of her flings she was texting this time, as situations involving her work certainly never gained her attention so fiercely.

A melancholic indignancy bubbles up within the girl's chest at the countless encounters she's had with her mom as of late that involved puny excuses, middle-of-the-night departures, and poorly-disguised secrets. She's never outright confirmed it, but her behavior is undeniably suspicious. She smiles more at her phone than she does when she's ever with her husband, and her 'husband' in question doesn't even seem to notice—or, if he does, simply doesn't care. Y/n hates it. Her family is falling apart at the seams and she's powerless to stop it. 

A bitter sensation grabs at her tongue and she desires to spit the foul taste out, though only swallows and chews the inside of her cheek, attempting to rid herself of the disconcerting concept. She searches the hollows of her mind for something, anything lighthearted; a memory that contains laughter, joy, fondness. However, she finds nothing. She’s unable to remember a delightful moment between herself and her parents that took place recently. A time when her father outwardly expressed happiness or her mother was shamelessly candid.

It's a distressing realization to approach, that her family hasn’t acted as a true family since she was twelve years old; only still a child when her clinquant life slowly came crashing down before her. She isn’t sure the exact minute that it happened, nor does she have a specific reason as to why it happened. All she knows is that her parents steadily grew more and more distant, drawing themselves out of her sight until the feeling of inevitable abandonment seeped in.

She tried to communicate with them, collapse their walls and get them to allow their only child back in, though each time without fail, they forced themselves farther back into the cold, bitter darkness and left her desperate, longing for their love and affection. It became apparent she was getting nowhere with them, so after many fruitless attempts, she threw her hands up in surrender.

The example they set was not a good one, yet she couldn't help but subconsciously follow their lead. She grew emotionally drained, jaded—bordering depressed, even. Suddenly, maintaining any relationships outside of her home became a chore; a nearly impossible task that needed more energy than what she was willing to sacrifice. The more her friends noticed her inner turmoil, the more they tried to help, and the more she pushed them away. After all, if her parents didn't care, why should she?

She would get over this miserable hump eventually, and she would do it alone. Cutting contact with her dearest companions was an easier feat than one would expect, as it was accidental and gradual and she always affirmed herself with the fact that it wasn't permanent. She could always get in touch later. But weeks passed, and then months, and she made no effort to do that. At some point, she convinced herself that they wouldn't take her back now anyway. It had been too long, and she had treated them coldly. She wouldn't want to be friends with her, either—there was too much drama and emotional baggage.

It feels as if the person she once was fades from reality a little more every passing day, becoming invisible among people and society as a whole, including herself. Somewhere in the back of her troubled mind lays her positive outlook on life, and it's been locked in a box with the key thrown away. 

Now sixteen years of age, she still struggles with these ill-fated circumstances and her dilapidated mental state but has learned to drive a vast majority of it into the chasms of her brain, leaving her an empty, aggrieved husk.

She blinks, reemerging from her thoughts of deep disdain as she registers the large vehicle she sits in turn off the main stretch of road and park in front of a building—the Fairfield bus station. She's here.

Despite the otherwise displeasing series of events that lead up to this, she feels a glint of excitement, pausing her music and gingerly removing her headphones, being careful not to tangle the wire as she unplugs it from the MP3 Player and wraps them around the f/c object. She then takes hold of her backpack, still open from where she retrieved the source of entertainment, and shoves them inside, zipping it closed after finishing.

Eagerly, she bends over to reach below the seat and lift up her dufflebag in preparation before glancing out the window, e/c irises gleaming in the rays of sun. The bus brakes, the door is slid open, and several of the passengers rise. She isn't far behind, throwing her bags over her shoulder and squeezing past the man's broad legs, being careful not to thwack him upside the head with her luggage as she does so. He's barely disturbed, stirring for a few seconds before drifting off back to the realm of dreams. Merging into the middle aisle, she tries to control her rapidly-beating heart as she treads to the exit, being mindful of the people surrounding her in every feasible direction. 

How will Nana and Pops react to seeing her again, after all this time? Will they still love her? She has changed in significant ways, and not necessarily for the better, either. Surely that won't deter them, right? Of course not. I'm one of their only grandchildren. They won't stop caring about me just cause I've grown up.

Though her pep-talk does little to soothe a new wave of anxieties that wash over her like an angry tsunami. 

Oh gosh. What if it's super awkward?

She maneuvers down the stairs and makes distance between herself and the mode of transportation, scanning the crowd to locate the elderly pair her thoughts center around. A whirl of nervousness penetrates her stomach, her brows knitting together subtly. 

What if they've changed? What if they're just like Dad?

But as she meets the warm brown eyes of Nana from afar and notices the giant, surprised smile stretching across her features, all doubt withers away, and she offers a meek wave. The lady bumps the arm of the hefty man sitting next to her to gather his attention before she springs to her feet and sprints to greet Y/n, her expression contorted into one of pure bliss. A small grin tugs at Y/n's face, and she stands idle, taking into account Nana's appearance as she hurries forward. 

She’s adorning a floral dress, patterned with tiny petaled flowers of all different shapes and a skirt that drapes down to her shins. Her shoes are simple beige sandals, and her grey, fine hair is tied back into a Chinese-inspired bun. Her eyes are kind and welcoming, though sunken with age and life experience, and the wrinkles that crease her forehead and cheeks only clue Y/n in on how old she must be getting, now.

"Y/n!" Nana calls out, voice brimmed with exhilaration as she dodges other pedestrians before reaching out and enveloping the h/c in a tight embrace, her frail arms wrapping around her frame and reeling her in as close as she can. Her actions almost knock both of them to the ground, but Y/n balances herself before she can stumble and reciprocates the gesture. 

"Hi, Nana," she says, tone more genial than it's been in a long time. A pleasant scent wafts up into her nose; a peaceful aroma, a mixture of strawberries and cinnamon. She hugs back with her free arm soon after, squeezing her grandmother’s scrawny torso with as little force as required so she doesn’t somehow injure her. 

Pops joins his wife with a notably calmer pace and snakes his arms around the two smaller individuals, his slightly yellowed teeth apparent through his beam. A stout man of classic tastes, he wears a 1950s fedora, a baby blue collared shirt, and suspenders. His hold is strong and secure and Y/n feels an almost overwhelming sense of comfort slam into her without warning. She chuckles—a soft, elated sound—and her chest is flooded with gleeful fuzziness. It's certainly an odd, foreign type of feeling, but she accepts it nonetheless. "Welcome home, kiddo."

"We've missed you so much," Nana chirps, pulling away after what has to be a solid two minutes and prompting Pops to do the same. Her wrinkled hands grasp her shoulders before sliding up to cup her face, gently tilting it upward to get a better look. A stunned expression crawls across her attributes before it’s replaced by a wider—if it’s even viable—smile. “Oh, you’ve grown so much!” She turns her head. “Phil, do you see her?”

“Aye. I sure do,” he says with a proud nod of his head. “She’s just as pretty as she was the last time she visited.” Blush dusts itself along the apples of her cheeks and she averts her line of sight, embarrassed. He chuckles. “Just as bashful, too.”

“Leave her alone.” She pivots again to face her, excitement dancing in her faded brown eyes. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear before giving her another hug. “We’ve missed you, sweetie. It’s been too long.” Y/n nods timidly, not accustomed to being so doted on. Behind her, the wheels of the bus grind against the asphalt as it leaves shortly after the doors close, and she twists her head around just in time to see it drive away, leaving her there for the summer. There's no other place she'd rather be, and their presence is only confirming those feelings. "We have so much catching up to do! I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl.” She looks back at the old woman and feels her squeeze her arm. “How old are you now? Fifteen?”

“She looks more grown-up than that,” Phil comments, and Y/n shrugs, biting her lip.

“Uh, I...turned sixteen in B/m.”

“My word!” Nana exclaims, cupping a hand to her mouth to emphasize. “You’re practically an adult, already!”

“Only a few years older than that darned cat of yours, Farrah,” he says, and Y/n’s eyes light up at the mention of the familiar feline.

“Marshmallow?” she questions, astonished enthusiasm coursing through her, once again. “He’s still alive?”

“Why, yes, he is,” Farrah laughs as if amused by her inquiry. “Getting on up there, though. I’m a little shocked to know you remember him.”

“Of course I remember him,” she says, the volume of her voice increasing with glee. “He’s my little buddy. I wonder if he still remembers me...”

“I’m sure he does,” Phil says. “He was always followin’ you around. Probably cause you spoiled him all the time with leftovers.” The corners of her mouth pull upward and she rubs the back of her neck.

“Well...he needs to be spoiled. Too sweet not to be spoiled.”

“Very true.” Farrah smiles.

“And yet I can’t even have a dog in the house,” he grumbles playfully. “You cat lovers don’t make any sense.”

“We don’t have to ‘make sense’,” Farrah says. “Cats are gorgeous, wholesome creatures, and they deserve to be treated as such.”

“Sure, sure.” He waves her off. “You treat that cat better than you do me.”

“Well, you’re not covered in angelic fur and lay on my lap to cuddle, now do you?” She raises a thin eyebrow, and he scoffs.

“I can lay in your lap if that’s what you want.”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, c’mon woman, make up your mind!”

“My mind is made up! Now, come on, dear.” She tugs Y/n to her and begins walking toward the grey-blue Toyota Corolla that sits motionless in the parking lot, and the teenager follows, readjusting the bags hanging on her shoulder. 

“You want me to carry those for you?” Phil asks, and she glances over at him, her eyes widening, taken off-guard by the abrupt offer. But she collects her bearings rather quickly and shakes her head with a grateful smile.

“N-no thanks, Pops. I got it.”

“Whatcha got in those things? They look heavy.” 

“Um...clothes and stuff,” she replies quietly as they reach the 2007 vehicle, Nana shuffling into the passenger's seat and Pops opening the back door for her. She tosses her luggage to the opposite side and climbs in, smiling up at him to signal that she's done. He nods in acknowledgement and shuts the door, soon claiming the area behind the steering wheel and cranking the engine. The interior of the car smells like lavender, thanks to the cardboard air freshener swaying below the rear-view mirror, and the beige-toned leather lining the seats is torn in various places, no doubt because of how many years it has under its belt. 

"You got any'a that modern technology that kids use nowadays?"

The air conditioning blasts through the vents to cool the space as he puts the car in reverse to back out of the lot before shifting the gear, navigating between other automobiles, and driving onto the highway. Y/n clicks her buckle into place and twiddles her thumbs, jerking her shoulders up lightly, though she knows he won't be able to see it. "I—I mean, I have a cellphone, if that's what you're asking..."

"A cellphone, huh?" He eyes her in the mirror and she shrinks away meekly, unsure of how to react to the sincere attention. "We have one of those. Don't really know how to work it though."

"You sure do know your way around Solitaire for someone who doesn't know how a phone works." Nana's light jab makes him scoff playfully as he stares through the windshield observantly. 

"You know what, Little Miss Sassypants? Yeah, I do. That app is the only reason I ever even pick it up."

"And when you do, you're playing it for three hours straight."

"It's enjoyable!" Huffing, he shoots her a glare of faux annoyance. "Don't act like you ain't got things that you spend hours at a time doing."

"My hobbies are productive, as opposed to yours, so that excludes me from this discussion."

"That sounds like code for 'I know I'm losing so I'm gonna back out now before I'm called out on it'."

"False." She flattens out her skirt and narrows her eyes at him. "I don't speak in code, dear."

He laughs gruffly at that sentence, plainly not buying her words. "Keep thinkin' that, sweetheart." 

The frisky banter has Y/n failing to suppress a grin, having forgotten how well her grandparents get along, and why they've stayed married for almost sixty years. If only Mom and Dad had that kind of chemistry. Maybe then their home wouldn't be so void of love and life every waking moment. 

"So how was the trip, Y/n?" Nana twists around to the best of her ability to catch a glimpse of her granddaughter, seeming to completely brush the mini argument aside and spare Y/n her undivided recognition, eyes touching base with her own. 

"It was okay," she mumbles, voice just loud enough for them to understand her. "I'm ready to stop riding for a while, though."

"I'm sure. You traveled a long way. I'm glad you stayed safe."

Pops decides to contribute to the conversation. "How's your dad doin'?"

Her face scrunches up faintly as she racks her brain for a suitable answer that won't draw any concerned feedback. "Uh... He's busy. Him and Mom both."

"Figured that much. Probably why they're leaving the country in the first place, huh?"

Her gaze drops to her knees. "Yeah..." 

"Do they do that often?" Nana asks, her tone curious. "Take trips for their job?"

"That's like, forty percent of what they do..." She registers the car turning left sharply, onto a dirt road that leads into a capacious patch of forestry. They pass a faded blue and white sign, and the letters in bold printed across its surface reveals: Oneiric Lane, half a mile.

Wow, almost there already.

"But, um...it's usually not so far away," she continues her previous statement as they drive over gravel and rocks in their path, making the ride a little bumpy. "Not usually for such a long time, either."

"They still workin' for the same company?" Pops says. If Y/n were to listen extra closely, she'd be able to detect the tiniest hint of enmity masked within his voice. She blows a bubble into her cheek.

"Yeah, but it got sold to another corporate body a couple years ago and they changed a lot of things. So both of them have been on duty a lot more since then."

"I bet that's been stressful." 

"It's..." She could speak the truth, but the truth would dampen the mood, so she goes for a lighter alternative. "It's fine. They don't mind some extra work. Just means more money in the bank."

Pops mutters something under his breath, but Y/n can't decipher it. She can only assume it isn't anything particularly nice, based on the conversation that elicited it. 

Before she can dwell on it for too extensive of a period, a familiar, Victorian-style cottage becomes visible, and a ghost of a smile sweeps across her features as she perks up. Around the house lies a white picket fence, fringed with beautiful flowers of all different colors, their stems having grown tall and coiled themselves around each individual post, giving it an engagingly untamed appearance.

At the gate, about ten feet from the front door perches an intricate white arch made of wicker and intertwined with more vibrant plants, and the house itself is a muted shade of cyan, with an ornate wooden roof that sparkles like tiny crystals in the glittery stream of sun. The window frames are white, their shutters open to allow optical access inside of the home, and stained glass roses rim the transparent pane.

The whole architecture makes it look as if the words from a book of fairy tales crept out of its pages and sprung into existence, staying hidden between the trees until someone comes across it. It takes her breath away, and she stares in awe, waiting anxiously for Pops to guide the Toyota off the road so she can jump out and get re-acquainted with it all.

I forgot how incredible this place was... She unbuckles, practically leaning against the glass in building anticipation as the car comes to a stop in their driveway, a few feet from the gate and underneath a willow tree. She extends her hand hastily to grasp the door handle and swings it open, the early summer breeze caressing her skin as she hops out, the bottom of her shoes making contact with vivid green grass. She steals a big whiff of the unpolluted air, natural scents swirling through her nostrils as she drags her belongings out of the car and slings them over her shoulder once again.

Nana copies her movements and Pops isn't too far behind her. She gives her an encouraging pat on the back, then motions for her to trail after her as she moves toward the arched gateway, unlatching it to grant her entrance. "Wait till you see the dinner I'm whipping up, Y/n," Nana says as they walk along a neat path of polished stones and white marble. "You still like pineapple casserole, right?"

"Yes," Y/n says with no hesitation, the very image of the dish making her mouth water. Although she hadn't had the privilege of eating it in years, one thing she can remember clearly is how delicious it was—then again, everything Nana cooks is delicious, so maybe that point is moot. On either side of the orderly pathway are two rows of tulips, comprising pink, white, red, and violent, perfectly maintained. It astounds her how her grandparents can keep the garden so alluring while also making sure the house is in tip-top shape. They surely tidied up before she arrived, but they're also the kind of people who like a neat living space, so she doubts they had to do much. 

"I'm so happy to hear that!" She claps cheerfully as they reach the painted oak door, and both females make room for Pops as he conquers the porch stairs and wrenches the screen toward him, the creaking of its old and unoiled hinges evoking a sound similar to a screech. He rifles around in his pocket, pulls out the keys, and unlocks the entrance, holding it open as his wife and granddaughter stride through. 

Y/n examines the property in wonder. Along the floor lies a hand-knitted rug, shaped like a rectangle with additional ruffles at its edges. On her left is a vacant doorway to the living room, with a vintage floral-patterned sofa resting against the wall, and next to it, facing the front door are two chairs; one matching the couch and the other a darker, less feminine material. A frosted glass coffee table sits in front of them, and beneath it is a hickory plank floor.

Past the living area is a small dining room, with a wooden table and four chairs slid neatly on every side, and behind that is an antique China cabinet with double doors and several drawers, all of which are transparent and hold various cups, platters, and knick-knacks that have been collected over the years. Straight ahead is a linear staircase;  she remembers it leading up to the bedrooms and the second bathroom. To her right is a kitchen, with a white, ceramic-tiled floor, a long countertop that curls around the edges of the room; the refrigerator and the oven both fit snugly.

Hanging overhead is an oven light and cabinets with crystal knobs, and in the center is an island, with a vase of lemon yellow roses, a casserole dish, and a couple of pots.

The fragrance of honeysuckle crawls into her nose, as well as the smell of a currently-cooking turkey, mixing and creating a rainstorm of nostalgia. She almost cries from raw mirth. I really missed it here...

“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” Farrah chirps from behind her, giving her a few moments to get used to her new—but amicable—surroundings. “If you need me, I'll be finishing up dinner.” Y/n gives a soft hum in response, stepping farther inside and allowing herself to succumb to the wave of memories that bombard her.

Her eyes sweep over everything in reverence as she comes to a halt in front of the staircase, glimpsing back at her grandmother with a sheepish demeanor and parting her lips. “Um...am I staying in Aunt Darcy's old room? Or somewhere else?” A flash of realization shimmers in Farrah’s eyes before she steps forward and nods her head.

Farrah nods as Pops shuts the door, blocking the bright sunlight and capturing the area in a bit more darkness. “Yes, that's where you can sleep, store your things, anything. Of course, your dad's room is available too, but I didn't figure you'd want to stay somewhere with all those ugly band posters."

She breathes a quiet laugh. “Y-yeah, Aunt Darcy’s room will be fine." She spins on her heel and begins her small trek up the dozen or so stairs. The concept of being in her father’s childhood bedroom doesn’t sit right in her stomach. “Thank you, Nana.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help with your bags?” she questions from below, her soft voice echoing upward and easily extending to Y/n’s ears. “They look awfully heavy.”

“No, it’s okay, I got ‘em,” she reassures, attaining the top step and taking a moment to pilot the somewhat narrow space before her. On the floor is a thin white rug that stretches the length of the hallway; to her immediate right is a small, polished table that supports a dainty-looking bouquet of petunias in a glass vase. On her left is a door that's been left ajar, divulging a bit of the interior and reminding her that this is indeed where she’s going.

She uses her free hand to push it open, lighting up when she wanders inside. The walls are a pristine, rosy pink, with a floor crafted out of ash wood planks that complements the design and hues nicely. On the opposite side of the room is a bed, made as a sort of cubbyhole into the wall and at a direct angle next to a window. Built into the wall are two bookshelves, both on either side of the bed and filled with colorful books of assorted sizes.

Beneath the mattress is a long drawer which she recalls to be a trundle bed. Attached to the ceiling above is a set of turquoise sheers, slid to either side of the sleeping niche, and loosely tied to the wall with some twine. In one corner, next to the other window, hangs a basket swing, with two pink pillows placed inside to cushion it. To her right is a closet, the door shut and a shoe organizer clinging to its top edge. Inside the pouches are several pairs of footwear, each separated and easily discernible.

A white, fluffy rug lays spread across the floor, underneath a clothes hamper, a small, cushioned bench, and a cotton bean bag chair. A chipped desk sits pressed against the wall, with several drawers inside and a stool of the same color pushed neatly beneath it. A reading lamp stands atop the surface, along with a couple of minuscule baskets to hold diverse writing tools; a notebook and binder stacked onto each other, a glass paperweight, and a mirror.

She releases an inaudible sigh, the corners of her lips quirking up into a content smile as she walks further inside, depositing her bags on the bed and doing a double-take of her temporary bedroom. A giddy sensation arises within her chest; one she hasn’t experienced in far too long. She turns her head and gazes through the open window, viewing the yard of green grass and colorful flowers below and admiring how the sun’s stunning yellow beams peer down through the towering trees.

She unzips her duffle bag and removes a pile of clothes from the main compartment, busying herself over the course of the next thirty minutes. The walk-in closet isn't huge but still larger than she remembered, meaning there's plenty of space to store all of her clothing pieces. She takes note of the fact that a vast majority of her aunt's stuff is no longer here, and she presumes Nana removed them to create space or Darcy herself came by and collected everything. Y/n hangs a good half of her items and keeps the rest folded, stuffing them into the shelf of drawers across from the door. She refrains from unpacking her art supplies and other accessories just yet, as it would feel weird and wrong to get so comfortable here after so little time. 

After throwing her—now empty—bag into the corner, her stomach rumbles and she concludes that the last thing she ate was a honey bun, and that was hours ago. Yearning to ease her mild sense of famine, she pivots, leaves the room, and descends the stairs, once again being swathed by the pleasant smell of food, only this time, it's much more intense.

Farrah sends Y/n an affectionate smile as she turns off the oven and waves her in. “Hi, sweetie. Are you settling in okay?” The teenager nods, letting the smell lure her, and steps inside.

“Yes, ma'am. I had forgotten how nice this house was.” The woman chuckles in response, grabbing one of the three plates on the counter and passing it to her. She takes it in her hands and shoots her a look of gratitude.

"It isn't as clean as I would like it to be, but oh well. I'm too old to dust away every little cobweb." She sighs in disbelief, eyes twinkling. "Maybe I should hire a maid."

"That might be a good idea. You don't wanna overdo yourself." Nana occupies herself with making a plate of food for her husband, listening to Y/n talk and humming along. "But, uh...while I'm here, I'd be happy to help you with anything you have to get done."

"How sweet of you to offer, N/n." She grins as she scoops a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto the dish. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, please—eat something. It's all ready."

"Thanks for this, Nana." She finds her way around the woman and gets a serving of everything—potatoes, turkey, rolls, pineapple casserole. The thought of indulging herself makes her want to melt. "It smells delicious." 

"Oh, you're so welcome, dear." She pours a glass of milk for Pops and offers a toothy smile. "I hardly ever get to cook for anyone besides your grandfather and myself. This is an honor."

Y/n feels compelled to hug her again, but ultimately resists the urge, not wishing to take a chance on spilling the food being held in both sets of hands. Tears threaten to rim her eyes, her grip tightening on the plate. Such displays of selflessness is a stranger to her, but she cherishes every second of it. "I love you, Nana."

She fails to see the way Farrah's heart swells at her words, her face contorting into one of deep adoration. "Oh, I love you too, Y/n—me and Phil both. So much. And we're so happy you wanted to come visit us."

After a short exchange of smiles, Nana departs and Y/n finishes gathering her meal, fetching a bottle of water from the fridge and heading into the dining room, noticing Pops already sitting at the table, silently awaiting his own share of food. She lowers herself into the chair opposite him, the steam from the hot meal floating up into her face and making her eager to taste it. 

“Hello, young lady,” he greets, and she meets his copper-brown eyes. “This house treatin' you okay?”

“Yes, sir,” she replies with a slight dip of her head.

“Is it cozy enough for ya? I know you’re used to all those fancy items and rich city life, so I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet your expectations.” Her eyes widen almost a comical amount and she stares at him as if he’d attempted to behead her. Taking a scoop of mashed potatoes with her spoon, she swiftly shakes her head before taking a bite.

“No, Pops, it does. The country’s amazing.” She brushes a strand of h/c hair behind her ear and swallows the flavorful vegetable. “City life isn’t that good. Honestly, I’d rather be here than in some hundred-thousand-dollar penthouse.” A large, satisfied smile takes residence on his wrinkled features and his eyes crinkle up before he laughs blissfully.

“You hear this, Farrah?” He regards the said woman as she enters the dining room, taking her rightful seat to the side of her spouse and passing his plate to him. “This girl hasn’t been tainted yet. We should keep her here, make sure she stays that way.”

A kind grin etches across her lips, though she dismisses him. “I don’t think her parents would approve of that, Phil.”

“No, they wouldn’t care,” Y/n murmurs in response, noticing the pitying looks being thrown her way, and she eats a forkful of casserole to fill the somewhat tense silence that’s fallen over the table. She keeps her eyes trained on the platter in front of her, suddenly finding it much more interesting.

“I’m sure that’s not true, sweetie.” Farrah’s voice is tender and reaffirming. Y/n only shrugs.

“They'd probably forget I was here at all, after a while. Too caught up in their own lives to really remember something like that.” Her tone drops within each word, embarrassment creeping up into her mind and flushing her cheeks a pale tone of b/c. Phil shakes his head disapprovingly while Farrah just watches her with sympathy.

“That’s shameful,” he starts, his voice flooded with disdain. “You're their daughter. How could they just forget about you?"

“I...I don't know. They just can, and have gotten pretty great at it, too.”

“When did all this start, sweetheart?” the old woman questions, sipping her drink.

“A few years ago, I guess...” It’s silent for several moments and Y/n wishes she wouldn’t have even interjected at all. Perhaps she just feels that she can tell them anything. Way to ruin the mood, genius.

“Hun, they’re not...abusing you, or anything, right?” The teenager can sense the reluctance in her words as if she’s afraid to hear the answer, and Y/n is quick to shoot her inquiry down.

“N-no, Nana, don’t worry. Nothing like that.” She releases an audible huff of air, relieved.

“Don't they spend time with you or anything?” Phil asks, leaning forward and facing her with agitation. She scours her brain for a coherent reply.

“Uh...no, not—not really.” She glances up briefly to meet his eyes, trying to shroud the hurt found in her own. “They hardly even talk to me. They don’t even talk to each other anymore. Dad’s always too busy and Mom is...” She swallows, probably a little too hard, and subconsciously taps her foot against the floor; a nervous habit she's taken to whenever her anxiety levels rise.

Her mind flashes with images of her mother sneaking out in the dead of the night. When asked about it, she'd snap at her, insist it was for 'business', and leave it at that. She remembers that one time she borrowed her phone to email her teacher, since hers had stopped working the previous day, and instead got notified of a message, received from a man with an unknown name. Initially, she believed it was a coworker or friend, but the contents of said 'message' involved raunchy flirting and, upon opening his contact, these advances were heavily reciprocated, and he wasn't the only one. It made her sick to her stomach. Sure, she was aware that Mom and Dad weren't exactly at a healthy place in their marriage, but she never thought one of them would actively cheat on the other. Those actions were guaranteed to ruin a family, yet her mother didn't seem to care in the least. 

Her foot makes a soft thump noise each time it collides with the floor, though her mind blocks it out as she tries to draw herself back into reality. “Uhh... Keeping secrets.” Phil and Farah share a glance.

“What kind of secrets, darlin’?” her grandfather asks, and her grip tightens on the fork in her hand. Does she really want to say this?

“I—I think, well, uhm... She’s cheating on Dad.” She doesn’t look up to see the startled expressions on their faces, afraid that they’ll judge her and her parents. “I mean, the way she's been acting, texting people all the time, sneaking out of the house, e-especially at night, and I’ve caught her before but she just got mad and said it was ‘business-related’.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Plus, Mom and Dad haven’t gone on a date in forever. And I don’t know, it’s just...worrying.”

“Sweetie,” Farah starts, and Y/n internally winces at the strict tone that her voice adopted, “that kind of behavior is unacceptable.” She shakes her head in agreement, taking another bite of her food though finding that her appetite is steadily decreasing. “We need to talk to them about this.”

“No,” she interjects, finally meeting Farrah’s eyes with frightened e/c ones. “They can’t know I told you all of this. They—they’ll hate me.”

“If this is true, something needs to be done,” Phil says, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in distaste. “You don’t need to be in a house with two people that are so unstable. We could call them and you could stay with us.” Although the thought of living in a house with her loving grandparents sounds fantastic, she refuses by shaking her head again and speaking in a tremulous voice.

“N-no, it’s alright. I can deal with it.” Although her parents don’t seem to care about her anymore, she would most definitely shatter whatever remnants of a relationship they still have between the three of them if they were to find out what she told Farrah and Phil, and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want her parents to despise her; that would be a horrid feeling. And she wants to avoid experiencing it.

The rest of the dinner goes by at a leisurely pace for the girl, with her grandparents attempting to talk about more lighthearted subjects to cheer her up, and it moderately works. They ask her about school, her friends, whether she’s in a relationship yet, to which she responds with valid answers: “It’s good”, “I don’t have friends”, and “No”. It makes itself more apparent to them with every reply she isn’t living a normal, decent life. But they figure it’d be best not to pry too much. After all, she’s here for a break, not to be harassed with questions and pity.

She stands with her plate and bottle of water in her hand after swallowing the final bite, pushes the chair back under the table with her foot, and walks past Farrah and toward the kitchen, feeling full and tired. Her gaze shifts to the window, perceiving the orange and pink mixture in the sky through the leaves of the trees, signifying that the sun is setting below the horizon and darkness will soon replace its blaze of light.

“Marshmallow is probably waiting outside if you wanna let him in for the night,” the woman hollers from the dining room as Y/n discards her dishes in the sink and rinses them off under warm water. Thinking about seeing the furry feline after such a long time causes her heart to skip in excitement, and she nods, knowing Farrah won’t bear witness to it.

“Okay, Nana.” She finishes washing the porcelain and silverware and props them in the plastic drainer resting on the counter-top before walking a little quicker than normal, unlocking the front door and nudging it open, being welcomed by a cooler evening gust of wind.

She glances around the small porch and can’t help but smile when she lays her eyes on the white and grey cat sitting on an old chair, swiping his paw over his face to clean himself. He peers up at her curiously, and she approaches at a gradual pace to avoid scaring him.

“Marshmallow? You remember me?” She sticks her hand out and lets him sniff her fingers before fondly rubbing his head. “It’s Y/n. I haven’t been back for a while.”

He stands and lets out a small meow, rubbing against her palm and enjoying the affection he’s receiving. She moves forward and wraps her arms around him, deeming it safe enough, and lifts him to bring him inside. He bumps his head against her neck and she can hear distinctive purring; a sound she hasn’t heard in years.

“Aww,” she coos, unable to stop herself from coddling the furry creature. “I missed you, too, little buddy.” She turns, walks back into the house, and shuts the door behind her, nearly colliding with Farrah as she goes into the kitchen, holding two plates and a glass with a few droplets of liquid remaining.

She takes notice of Y/n and grins at the sight. “Ah, see? We told you he’d remember you.” The girl scratches Marshmallow under his chin, eliciting another meow of content from his mouth. His tail swishes and bumps her on the arm, making her chuckle.

“Yeah. He’s just as soft as I remember, too. And cuddly.” As she says this, she hugs him closer to her chest, and Farrah smiles warmly as she places the plates in the sink. “Do you need help cleaning up?”

“No, thank you, hun.” She parts her lips to object, but Farrah shakes her head. “You just spend some time with the fur baby. Finish settling in.” Y/n feels Marshmallow struggle against her hold, so she crouches and loosens her grip, allowing him to jump down and sprint to some area on the first floor, presumably his food bowl.

“Are you sure? You know I don't mind.”

“I can’t believe you’re the spawn of my son,” she says, chuckling and wiping down the surface of a saucer. “It’ll be fine, sweetie. I’ve got it covered for now. You go and relax.” Y/n figures that as stubborn as she is, her grandmother is much more so and it won’t do her any good to argue about it. Emitting a sigh, she grabs her water bottle from where she laid it on the island in the center of the kitchen and hesitantly ambles toward the staircase.

“Okay...but, tell me if you need help?”

“Stop worrying. You’re the guest here.” Without another word, she heads up to her temporary bedroom, unaware that she’s being followed by a certain feline, and sets her bottle on the desk before grabbing her backpack to move it off her bed. As she twists around to walk to the desk, she stumbles over Marshmallow, who's rubbing against her leg, and just barely catches her balance before falling on the poor cat.

It takes a short moment to calm herself and get over the unexpected adrenaline rush that swamps her system, but once she does, she scoffs. “Trying to trip me already?” She reaches down and scratches his head, and he momentarily stands on his hind feet as a response. “Silly cat.”

Marshmallow finds a bed on the cozy-looking beanbag as she finds a place for her bag and goes to sleep rather swiftly, his body curled in around itself as his shoulders gently rise and fall with each breath he takes. She strokes his cheek tenderly with her index finger, admiring the ivory and light grey fur that graces his small frame. She can barely remember the last time she pet an animal of any kind because it was so long ago, and many grim things have happened since then.

Sitting on the bed, her eyes drift out the window, where the sun has almost completely vanished and a full, bright moon now replaces it, dozens of stars beginning to litter the sky, all surrounding the miraculous white orb. I never get a view like this from the city.

She can’t help her entrancement of the scenery and feels a trace of disappointment that she hasn’t seen more of it. All because of her selfish parents. She leans her head against the windowpane and surveys it, blended emotions making her feel conflicted. But she assures herself that it will be fine. She will be fine. Everything will work out in the end.

Yeah. There's nothing to worry about.

[darling-i-read-it]

Window Cracked Open

Jeff the Killer x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: god where do i start, reader is clearly deranged in the sense that she finds love in fear (yes that was a jab at me), blood, a knife, jeff lighty threatening the reader, overall scary writing?, mentions of jeff being too skinny and unhuman, descriptions of jeffs scarring (let me know if i missed any!) 

Author’s Note: i was trying to watch a romance show and it made me so deranged and sad that i wrote this because i feel more comfortable in fear than i do in love sometimes. 

Summary: Literally no plot just Jeff showing up one night 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

He always came in without warning. His limbs sprawled out, always gangly and white. Even in the dark, there was something illuminating about them. Monstrous. They moved too slow, with too much precision. Predatory. You never would have guessed he was once a human. Despite the two arms and two legs, he always seemed something otherworldly. You never knew when he would show. Sometimes it would be months without so much as a peep. Sometimes he would be gone mere days, mumbling something about the cold, pretending he felt normal feelings. 

The air coming through the window was chilly. It was crisp and comforting. Summer had finally started to dissipate. The sun had started to set sooner. The leaves started to turn. They fell to the ground, being run over by cars with the heater blasting. When the darkness fell over the night you could feel your muscles start to relax. The tenseness in your body rested when you got under warm blankets, a candle lit by your bedside. 

It had been weeks. The sticky sweat of the summer had Jeff on the run. You never knew where he went when he was gone for long periods of time. It just made you antsy. Even after plenty of time, you could never go to sleep at peace. You left the window cracked open, always prepared for someone to come climbing in, something that looked like a monster under your bed. 

You could have shut it. Locked it. Bought double locks or something, gone to the local hardware store and asked for better protection or cameras or something. It would put you at ease. Jeff would get the message. 

But God, where’s the fun in that? 

You were in between consciousness. You could still hear everything around you, make  note of the normal noises as they came and went. The fan blowing, causing your curtains to slightly move. The sound of your clock, ticking. The familiar fabric moving with the wind from the window. 

A creak on the window. 

At first, you didn’t even open your eyes. You dismissed it as something in your dreams, something you could almost touch. The comforting feeling of sleep was about to overtake you and honestly, you were ready to let it. You could ignore something that echoed far away, nothing more than a simple abnormality. 

Then a longer creak. Weight shifting on the sill. 

You opened your eyes. It was dark. You had a little night light in the corner of your room by the door. You could see the edges of it from where you were laying. Your body stayed still. Listening. Waiting. You could see your digital clock on the bedside table. Nearing the witching hour. 

Finally, there was a footstep on your carpet. You could barely hear it. If it wasn’t so quiet otherwise, you would never have noticed it. 

You put your palm against your mattress. You used it to shift your weight, sitting up. 

Jeff was standing by the window. You could see him only by his silhouette. Your eyes weren’t used to the darkness yet but you the gentle night light illuminated against his striking figure. All sharp. The connection between his limbs seemed stagnant. Holding themselves together only by the sheer need to. You recognized him by his familiar motifs. 

There was a long moment of complete stillness. Jeff stood at the window. You could imagine his eyes scanning the room, feverishly taking in his surroundings, understanding each and everything you had changed since he had been there last. You sat on the bed, watching him, breathing shallowly. You recognized that this was like a still from a horror movie. You knew that the fear in your chest was only narrowly alarming. There should have been a flight or fight guard behind it. Instead it was just a fear that was welcomed. A feeling you understood, one that you knew well. It paralyzed you from anything else. God, it was a nice feeling. 

Jeff moved. He walked towards your bed, putting both his palms on the comforter and crawling towards you. You could see more of his face as he moved, the night light flashing off his features in different ways. 

His permanent Glasgow smile was stained with dried blood. You lifted your hand towards him, putting it on his cheek. He sat criss cross applesauce in front of you. You had brought your legs towards your body to make room. You wanted to clean the wound, an innate instinct. You wondered how many times you had cleaned it. How many times he just returned it to its idle state. 

His eyes were wide. They always were. It showed no inclination of surprise, just a natural gaze. 

“Why the frown sweetface?” His voice broke the silence. It literally felt like it shattered, waking you from some sort of trance. You hadn’t realized you were frowning. How could he see your expression at all? You could hardly see his.

“You're bleeding.”

“Always.” Your hand dragged down from his cheek. It brushed over his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then onto his hoodie. It looked like it had once been white but was now stained. Dirt. Blood. Guts. You left your hand against his chest. If he had a heart, it would be there. 

“Where have you been?” You wouldn’t get an answer you wanted. You asked anyway. 

“Here, there. No where.” His voice was raspy. Almost playful. “Didja miss me?” His voice remained just above a whisper. You swallowed hard.

“Yes,” you said, honestly. He smiled, as much as he could. “Do you wanna get some clean clothes?” You couldn’t even think twice about how long he had been wearing this set. 

“Sounds like a lotta work.” You half snorted. 

“Couldn’t be any more work than killing someone.”

“That has an end result.” 

“So does changing.” 

“You better watch your tongue,” he threatened, though it felt fake. He took his knife out from an unidentified face, flashing it in your face. It glistened in the night light. “You could be the next one on the other end of my knife.” 

“Is that a promise?” His version of a smile returned. You climbed off the bed, going towards your dresser. You had kept some things that looked mildly like Jeff’s size. You grabbed a different hoodie, a shirt and some slacks. He was watching you. You could feel it. 

You turned back to him. Large eyes watched your movements. 

You threw the clothes at him. He caught it, quickly, easily. 

“Get dressed.” 

“So demanding,” he muttered. He slid off the bed. His movements were always too easy. Too graceful. 

He had no qualms of getting dressed right there. He tossed his things to the side and you watched, climbing back into the bed and leaning against the wall. You watched him. His slender body, white as a sheet, moved like a ghost. He was impossibly skinny. Always cold to the touch, like a corpse. 

Once he had changed, he turned back to you. 

“Happy?” he snarled. 

“Very.” 

He crawled back onto the bed. Jeff sprawled onto the comforter. He pretended it was his, that the warmth and the safety was something he could live in. He knew it wasn’t what he wanted. But it was something he could enjoy, in small doses. 

“Do I get a space?”

“Sleep on the floor.” You scoffed. You shoved him aside, grabbing the top of the comforter and pulling it down. You climbed underneath it and he took the moment to also enjoy the warmth of the blankets. You faced him, cheek against your pillow. It was colder now that he had opened the window gap a little larger. You were going to get blood on your pillows. He likely wouldn’t be there when the sun rose. This would feel like nothing but a dream. 

He grabbed your hip, pulling you closer. He was freezing. Cold blooded, you swore. After a gasp you stifled your emotion. His hair smudged over his face, the tips of it touching your skin. He had pulled you to his chest, his grip like iron. 

Your eyes started to close. Sleep would come easily. You were still in the in-between of consciousness. 

You could feel his lips (or lack thereof) against the top of your head. He buried his face into the pillow so that his nose would remain in your hair, breathing in your shampoo. You would wake up with blood on you more than likely, the feeling of his kisses leaving you before you could comprehend them.   But you slept better with Jeff here then you did without him. All fear and anticipation dissipated. The knowing was far better than the unknown. You fell asleep in his arms, a crazy loopy reasoning in your head about the boy in your arms.

[darlingdreadwrites]

I read your Toby fics, and I really love your writing:D

I see your open with requests and I wanted to ask a Toby x final girl reader?

They just kept fighting against him, and he somehow gained a crush on the person he is supposed to kill? It's fine if you don't ;D

I WAS SO EXCITED TO WRITE THIS I SQUEALED WHEN I READ IT!! i hope i do right by you, my lovely anon.

pairing: Ticci Toby x Final Girl F!Reader

part: 1, 2

summary: Toby thought you'd be an easy target since you were just a girl. He should've gone with the easy kill when he had the chance.

contains: getting chased by a man wielding two hatchets, slight pov switches but it's still in second person, idk what else to put

warning: violence, gore (more like imagery is gore-y), MEAN TOBY, reader gets hurt, toby gets hurt, me not knowing how to write fight/tense scenes and the logistics that go with them, barely any talking cuz i think toby would be too embarrassed by his stutter

word count: 1.6k

masterlist

a.n: when i read final girl in the request, i pictured reader wearing those outfits that female japanese horror game protags wear (picture fatal frame). i’m gonna keep the end ambiguous for you because my freak brain wants it all to work out perfectly for them, but the other part of my brain wants to keep it realistic cuz there’s no way in HELL i’d let someone forcing me to run live. if you want me to continue where i left off i’d be so glad to (and you can pick whichever type of “route” you want). ENJOY!!

The cool, night air gave you chills all over as your feet pounded against the soft forest floor under your feet. With every quick step you took, another short burst of breath escaped your lips. It felt like you were being pushed back by a sudden gust of wind, but the trees continued to look blurry in the corners in your eyes, and that was a good thing. You kept your pace – even if it felt like the breeze kept poking needles into the cuts on your skin.

You had decided to actually dress up today but stayed mindful enough for the fall weather. So, you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Maybe next time you decide you want to get attacked by some psycho swinging hatchets; you’ll be a little more fucking prepared. 

The whistling of said hatchet reminds you of why you were running. The sound of his weapon whirred by as it lodges itself deep into the bark of a tree. It’s already behind you as your mind yelled at your body to keep up. His other hatchet thwacks into a tree too close to your head and you scream involuntarily. You stumble to a stop stupidly, stabilize yourself, and drag your body to pivot and sprint to the right.

You weren’t sure how long you could keep going. But - as much as your lungs burned - that buzz that came from fighting for your life nagged at you like a bitch. You don’t care how much your body hurts because you will deal with the consequences later.

You’re not going to let yourself die.

Toby grunted as frustration and anger seethed in his veins. Wrapping his hands around the handle of his hatchet, he kept his eyes trained on you as he struggled to pull the thing free. He’d all but forgotten that the other one was a few feet away. He wasn’t normally fond of losing his favorite toys. He wouldn’t lose you either.

You were a stupid, stupid girl, after all.

His head violently twitched to the side compulsorily when he finally dislodged his weapon. A few wood chips flew out and landed on the muddy leaves below. He stood there, taking and letting out deep breaths.

He thinks about what might be going through your mind as you keep running. Maybe about how you were gonna get out of here, call the pigs, and have some nurse tend to the wounds he gave you. He smiled and tightened his grip on his hatchet as he fantasized about your naïve hope. He knew these woods like the back of his hand.

You wouldn’t make it out of here in one piece.

You slow down as the structure of a house comes into view. It fits the eerie atmosphere perfectly – chipping paint, broken windows. You’re not here to admire the neglected building, though, and you stomp up the small steps. The door lets out a low groan as you practically shove it open using your shoulder.

Slamming it behind you, your head whips around for the exit or some type of weapon. In the distance, you can hear the shrill whistle of the man outside, an involuntary thing, you’ve noticed. Just how long have you been fighting this freak? Enough to learn his quirks, that’s for sure. 

Delving deeper into the house with hurried steps, you look around for a kitchen. Find a weapon, find a weapon, you repeat to yourself, the sound of your quick gasps filling your ears. You catch yourself on the doorway when you almost rush past it.  

You barely stepped foot into the room before crying out when you felt something make impact with your back. The dull, heavy pressure sends painful shockwaves through you. Having the wind knocked out of you, the muscles in your back spasm and you buckle forward. He shoves you, and you wheeze as the edge of the rusted stove in front of you digs painfully into your stomach.

Your eyes immediately land on a cast iron skillet, and you think you have less than three seconds. You smash the pan against the side of his head, your grunt and the metal clang the only sounds in the room. You were confused as to why he wasn’t yelling out in pain. But your arms jerked upward, the heavy iron bludgeoning into his chin and he stumbles back.

Toby can hear the ringing in his ears with each blow to his head, his world spinning for far too long than he would’ve liked. He snarls and grabs your arm, throwing you in the direction of a wall hard - causing you to drop your makeshift weapon.

He looks at you, at how your legs shake as you try to steady the world around you. Look at you - you looked like a fawn. With your wide eyes and trembling form. Guess he’ll be your coyote, right? He’d sink his teeth into the side of your neck and stain his maw with your crimson flood. You were just pretty enough that he couldn’t wait to watch your eyes roll back when he greedily kept the air from inflating your lungs.

No, but you weren’t a fawn, were you? He’d seen more fight in you than any of the losers he was tasked to kill. They sobbed – they fucking begged on their hands and knees – to keep him from tearing them limb by limb. You were stronger than he thought you’d be, but you weren’t as agile as he was, he thought.

His face stretched as another wide, sinister grin spread across his face. His gloved hand tightened around the hatchet’s handle. He could hear the leather creak if he focused on anything other than your breathing.

You duck and stumble out of the way as you hear the spitting of wood above your head. He yells out a loud “fuck!” and attempts to yank the weapon free. You run out of the room and almost collide with another wall. You pivot on your heel because there was no way you’d run away from the front--

Gasping, you caught your balance before you could fall through the gaping hole on the floor. No time to jump, you told yourself, and you spun once again. Sprinting down the hall, you were met with the door to a room rather than any kind of exit.

You’d remember to set this house on fire when you made it out alive.

The room stunk of decaying carcasses and a thick powdery smell – the former outperforming the latter. You make your way to a second door and find yourself in a bathroom. You think there’s nothing here heavy enough to hurt him until your eyes land on a towel rod that hung loosely from the wall.

With a determined tug it comes out and you know he heard it. You can tell by the way you hear his heavy boots scramble in the direction of the room. You take a deep gulp of air and press your back against the wall next to the door.

The air was heavy with tension as the door creaked open. His shadowy figure stretched on the floor, and he walked right in. Would he turn around? Would he sense where you were before it was too late?

While he twisted around, you slam the rod into the side of his head. He’s disoriented for a moment, his head rolling to the side. Before he could react, you lifted your right leg, and the bottom of your shoe made contact with his stomach – sending him hurtling back.

Toby lets out a groan as he loses his balance and falls into a tub. His limbs sprawl out, legs and arms dangling from the sides. He attempts to move when a raw, guttural scream that causes his chest to tighten makes him stop. His eyes dilate as he stares at you wildly. Something about your scream has shaken him to his core. His head was still dizzy and a little numb from the force of your hit. And yet he couldn’t help but admire your resilience. He should be livid – breaking all your fingers and pulling your pretty little teeth out of your mouth one by one.

The man’s tics overtook him, his eyelids squeezed shut with a sudden intensity. He opens them again, and you’re still rooted in the same spot – breathing heavily. He’d never seen a girl look as hot as you did right now. He didn’t think that was even possible in your state. Your clothes, hair, and face were caked in mud and blood from your gashes. A girl like you should’ve been screaming in pain and crying for her mommy. But you stared at him with a burning defiance that caused his heart to pound violently against his chest.

His hatchet lay at your feet, and he realized that you had gotten him. You won. He could try attacking you again – he was bigger than you – but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He can’t fight back anymore; he just stares in what he can only assume is awe. Years of taking lives and witnessing more gore than anyone ever should, could not have prepared him for this moment. You didn’t stop – you just couldn’t. It was… admirable. Beautiful, even, if he was a more sentimental person.

You piqued his curiosity like nobody had ever done before. He wanted to know what made you tick. He wanted to study every movement, sound, and judgement you’d ever make. You could break all the bones in his body, and he’d come running back to watch you do it again when the Operator put him together again.

You astonished him.

So, what’ll you do now?

[necroromantics]

🎥 — NinaKate Headcanons

your beauty never ever scared me

- after a messy, rough, break up with jeff, and nina realizing he never truly wanted or cared for her, she was completely broken.

- toby couldn’t help, natalie didn’t know how to handle her. but at her worst, nina found solace in kate.

- she had known her prior, due to their mutual acquaintance with toby, but nina never thought much of her due to kates strong dislike for jeff

- plus, kate was always a loner. she was animalistic, feral, she didn’t care much for others and wasn’t even aware of her ability to form relationships with others

- but nina found kate, and kate was so grounding, so rational and tough. she helped snap nina out of her lingering attachment to jeff. kate taught her how to stand up for herself, how to find strength in herself, whether she knew it or not

- and nina was one of the only people who would treat kate as a human being. it was a weird sort of tenderness and care kate hadn’t experienced in years. something she silently yearned for, but beat down so ruthlessly

- but as nina dragged kate to her apartment, the low purple led lights doing well for the ferals light sensitivity, she felt weirdly at peace. she felt like this girl was treating her as if she wasn’t rabid, as if she was something worth fighting for

- kate hated showers, she hated baths. she hated feeling clean. maybe a deeprooted feeling that with losing her humanity, she lost her right to take care of herself as well. nina wasn’t having it. she would run a warm bath, and hum along to kates favourite alice in chain song as she washed out kates matted hair and it felt nice

- nina takes care of kate, shows her kindness and fun beyond what she had ever experienced. and kate keeps nina safe, grounded in reality. if ninas emotions get the better of her, kate is a perfect pillar for her to lean on

- neither of them understood the deep feelings of peace. ninas previous relationship was a warzone, and kate was currently fighting in one.

- so on those late nights with nina resting her head on kates lap as she plays through silent hill, just as she did all those years ago. it was if maybe, just maybe, there was a world waiting for the two girls beyond the destruction

- they weren’t just good friends, they didn’t just understand and help each other. there was a deep love forming, and it hurt when one of them got too far. nina would ask herself if it was okay to kiss a girl, to love another girl like she did, and kate had absolutely no idea what a good relationship looked like

- kates masculinity eased the other into her acceptance of her feelings. but when nina helped bring out kates femininity, it made her a flustered mess. to be able to hold kates rough, calloused hands in hers, and paint her nails a fitting black. to be so close. nina could barely hold herself back from showering the other in hugs and kisses

- kate would find herself adoring the sound of ninas voice, listening to her senseless rambles. she even found herself liking kesha and other pop bands she never thought much of before. she felt so human, so full of the life she thought she had lost so long ago

- an unexpected pair, but ultimately one that worked out for the best. a perfect harmony, a perfect love.

[darkromanceenthusiast]

slender with reader whos easily startled?? so he doesnt even realize when he teleports to them it would be a problem..been on my mind

Pairing: Slenderman x reader

Contains: fluff, Slenderman is the eldritch horror we love, you think he cares or understands human emotion? That's cute.

Unfortunately for you… Slender doesn't care about his own proxies getting slaughtered, so I doubt he'd care if he startled you.

If anything he's glad because those precious seconds you spent gawking with your heart pounding gave him an opening to grip one of his tendrils around your waist.

Now you're dangling upside down with you're face 0.2 inches from his featureless one.

“You smell delicious when you're scared, Darling.”

If you faint that's fine, its easier on him.

Once he's sure you wont run away he will become less antagonistic with his teleportation, usually choosing to appear in front of you rather than jump scaring you from behind.

That is assuming you're let out without him.

I always think Slenderman would easily be one of the most possessive creeps due to the sheer amount of inside knowledge you'd have on the operator because Slender doesn't like letting you go too far from him.

There was absolutely a stretch of time he had you chained to his desk.

Masky, Hoodie, and Toby are all there actively trying to ignore their rising annoyance at the crying/terrified person their boss is currently trying to coax into his lap.

Masky would probably end up whacked upside the head with one of his tendrils because he made a comment about killing you.

Toby would low-key just feel bad for you but keeps it to himself.

Slenderman sometimes forgets about the whole “humans have basic needs” things y’know cause he's not human so imagine his surprise when you tell him you cannot in fact eat raw meat.

He also realizes how careful he has to be with those static headaches after he nearly gave you a brain bleed :(

If you're not a captive but rather one of his proxies you'd be one of the only one he gives a shit about.

Expect near constant jumpscares, your only warning is how silent the forest gets before he materializes.

He almost always puts you in those bullshit page posting duties and you know each time he's gonna try and blend into the trees until he catches you.

Honestly, it's probably his idea of a fun date.

Its even worse when his voice does the telepathy thing, so there's nothing anywhere and then you have a voice IN YOUR HEAD and you STILL CANT SEE ANYTHING.

He genuinely, deeply, adores your fear almost as much as he wants your love.

[seas1mping]

Nobody is ready for this headcanon

LJ listens to Mitski

Slender listens to Mitski

Tim and Brian listen to Mitski

I listen to Mitski

[macabrelinguine]

Hi I was wondering if you could do yandere Toby with an s/o who follows him around like everywhere he goes there behind him :>

This ask is amazing. I love writing for (especially yandere) Toby, thank you anon &lt;3

He’s suspicious at first, not trusting that you wont try to escape. But after a while, he’ll start trusting you more. Letting you follow him everywhere, even being happy with it. He’ll hold your hand so you don’t fall behind, or just to hold you. He loves being around you, and if you want to be closer to him? That’s even better. He’ll hold you closer and closer as time passes, putting a hand on your waist to guide you. He might start taking walks in the woods with you at this point, he trusts you so much. Try to escape on these walks? Distract him then run? Oh, that’s laughable, really! Even with a few minutes head start, Toby is a master tracker, with great hearing. Then it can go one if two ways. He’ll either simply leisurely walk towards you, letting you see him, causing you to try and run faster. But he always catches up in the end. Then he’ll hold a blade to your neck and coldly ask you if you’re really that stupid. Then he’ll drag you home, to where you’ll be treated much worse than before. Or he’ll chase after you, pushing you down and screaming at you, asking why you left him. Better to stick to the rules.

Backtracking a bit. What if you decide he’s getting too close? What if you don’t want him at your shoulder? What if you tell him all of this? He’ll get quiet, looking at the floor. You’ll hear a small, sad voice asking if you hate him. No matter what you say, Toby won’t be convinced that you didn’t mean anything by it. He’ll be certain that he needs to force you to stay with him. Best case scenario, you’re locked up in a room for a week and Toby is colder and more snappy. Worst case scenario? You lose a limb. To keep you from escaping and all that, you know. Toby loves you, loves seeing you happy, but as a yandere, he secretly loves seeing you in pain more. Your pretty tears will make him feel better.

[sinshinelennypops]

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