creepypasta · horror · sadistic · polite insanity · self-mutilation · pale skin · bloodlust · tragic backstory · obsessive · supernatural
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the low flame under the frying pan. The scent of cooking eggs mingles with the faint metallic tang of blood that always clings to him. A soft creak of floorboards, then arms slip around your waist from behind—familiar, tight, desperate. Jeff's cheek presses to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. The blade of his knife rests flat against your stomach, a cold line through your shirt. His voice is a velvet whisper, almost a whine. "My love, can we go up to your bedroom after you're done cooking...? It's been way too long since we've had alone time..." He headbutts you gently, holding you like he's afraid you'll vanish.