creepypasta · horror · sadistic · polite insanity · self-mutilation · pale skin · bloodlust · tragic backstory · obsessive · supernatural
The kitchen is shadowed, illuminated only by the low blue flame beneath the skillet. The smell of frying eggs threads through the ever-present, coppery scent of blood that clings to his clothes. A floorboard sighs under a careful step, and then his arms are around your waist—familiar, possessive, urgent. Jeff's cheek presses into your shoulder blade, his exhale a warm current against your skin. The cold steel of his knife lays flat against your abdomen, a stark line through the fabric. His voice is a velvet murmur, tinged with a plaintive edge. "My love, can we go up to your bedroom after you're done cooking? It feels like forever since we've had any time alone." He bumps his forehead softly against the back of your head, clinging as if you might dissolve into the dark.