Chapter Text
Fair warning, im not used to writing about people like Jeff. I have headcanons that he's emotionally detached or avoidant, and very manipulative and controlling... but idk how to write that so he's just a shit person. An asshole, cocky and smug and mean.
sorry if it doesn't come through lololol
JEFF's POV
The second he steps out your window and hits the ground, he’s vibrating.
Teeth grit. Fingers twitching.
God, you got under his skin tonight.
The fucking tears. The little smart-ass jab about him not squeezing hard enough. That broken, tired look in your eyes that somehow still dared him to do worse.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
If he’d stayed in that room another minute, he would’ve done worse.
His knife practically begged for your ribs. His brain was already five steps ahead, walking through all the fun ways he could make you scream- really scream- not that pathetic, resigned sigh you gave him.
But no.
You’re too interesting to ruin that fast.
So he needs...a distraction.
And wouldn’t you know it- the neighborhood’s practically gift-wrapped it for him.
He stalks down the sidewalk, hood pulled low, grinning like the lunatic he is. The night’s quiet- just the faint hum of crickets and the occasional porch light buzzing. Real suburban paradise.
Almost makes him laugh.
It doesn’t take long to find the house. Nice, two-story thing. Painted shutters. Minivan in the driveway. Little plastic trike tipped over on the lawn.
Family of four.
Mom. Dad. Two brats.
Perfect.
“You should be thanking her,” Jeff mutters under his breath as he slips the lock on the back door, stepping inside like he owns the place. “If I didn’t need a stress reliever, this wouldn’t be happening.”
The house smells like candles and takeout. Soft nightlight glow spills from under the bedroom doors upstairs.
He grins wider, scars pulling taut, splitting faintly at the edges. Blood trickles down his chin but he doesn’t wipe it.
Doesn’t even care.
The knife feels warm in his hand now. Familiar. Comforting.
Up the stairs. Careful. Quiet.
Mom first.
Dad second.
Kids last.
Efficient. Clean enough. Messy where it counts.
By the time he’s slipping out the back door, shoes wet with blood, he feels good.
Heart pounding.
Brain buzzing.
Itch under his skin finally scratched.
But the best part? The house is far enough from yours that it won’t spook you off your nightly walks completely.
But close enough.
You’ll hear about it- see the flashing lights.
Feel that paranoia sinking under your skin like rot.
Good.
You’ll be scared.
But not of him- not yet.
You’ll still go outside, still wander, still keep playing your dumb little defiant games with him.
And when you finally break?
When you finally snap and show him you’ve got some fight left?
He’ll be waiting.
Knife sharp.
Smile wide.
And this time?
He won’t need to leave. Because you'll beg him not to.
And who is he to say no?
YOUR POV
It’s barely 9 AM when my door slams open.
I jolt awake, still tangled in my blanket, head pounding, ribs aching, face... well, fucked, obviously.
“Get up,” Mom snaps, storming into my room like she owns the place, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Get the hell up- did you hear?”
I blink at her, throat raw, still groggy from barely sleeping. “What?”
She’s pacing. Pale. Eyes wide with that kind of frantic energy I haven’t seen since Dad bailed. It’s...weird. She looks-
Scared.
“Family. Couple streets over. Dead.” She waves her hand in the air like that somehow explains it. “All four of them. Someone broke in last night.”
I just stare.
Her voice cracks a little as she keeps going. “Cops found them this morning. The parents. The kids. All of them-” She stops, looking at me, eyes darting over my face. “-smiles carved into their cheeks.”
My stomach drops.
Smiles.
Fuck.
Before I can react, she’s right in front of me, ripping the blanket off me entirely. Her eyes zero in on the bandages across my face.
“What the hell is this?”
“Mom-”
Her hands are on me before I can finish, ripping the gauze off. The air hits raw skin, stinging.
Her breath catches.
Thin, deep cuts. From the corners of my mouth, up toward my ears. A smile- just like the bodies.
Her face goes white.
“Who did this to you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, jaw tight. “...Some asshole on the street.”
She stares. Blinks. “Why would they-”
I scoff, shaking my head, blood still oozing faintly from the reopened cuts. “Gee, I dunno, maybe because I look like this?”
I gesture at myself- purple hair, eyeliner smudged, bruises blooming under my eyes, clothes hanging off my too-small, too-short frame.
She doesn’t get it. Of course she doesn’t.
“You need a doctor-”
“No,” I snap, voice cracking now, the anger bubbling hot under my skin.
We argue. Or well, she yells, I fume. Her hands find the bruises on my arms, the mottled mess on my ribs, the old cuts on my wrists. They sting under her touch, her words worse than her grip.
“You’re pathetic,” she spits, voice sharp as knives. “If you’re gonna whore around, at least don’t come home crying when they rough you up.”
Her words hit deep. They hurt.
That’s it.
Before I can think, my fist connects with her shoulder, knocking her back a step. Her eyes go wide- like I’m some stranger standing here.
Maybe I am.
Her mouth works for a second, no sound. Then the rant starts again- more venom, more bullshit about my bruises, my face, my existence. She storms out, door slamming behind her so hard the wall shakes.
I stand there.
Fuming. Shaking. Hating her. Hating me.
I disinfect the cuts again, hissing under my breath, tape fresh gauze across them.
It’s Saturday. No school.
I drag myself to my desk, flipping on the shitty old box computer. YouTube. Emo playlist. Sleeping With Sirens, MCR, Linkin Park bleeding through my shitty speakers.
I message my online best friend.
Tell him about places I wanna go, concerts I wanna see.
I don’t tell him about the cuts. Or the scary, fucked-up emo guy who nearly choked me out last night.
But I know he’s real.
My neck’s bruised, handprint-shaped. There’s blood on my desk and carpet- not mine.
It’s old. A few weeks old, dried dark in little splatters.
Makes me wonder...
All those times I felt eyes on me? That hot- no- scary guy...
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
And I'm dumb. yeah..But what's a little walk out in the woods when there's a possible killer on the loose?
The beers clink loud as hell in my backpack as I stumble down the dirt path, but I don’t care. Half a case, all mine. Mom won’t notice- she’ll probably just assume she blacked out and drank 'em herself.
Six beers. That’s the plan. Six to shut my brain off. Six to make this shitty week disappear.
The black cloth mask is tight over my face, hiding the bandages, the smile-shaped scars pulling at my skin underneath. The universe really outdid itself with that one. I always thought about giving myself a smile during one of those really bad nights... but nah. I was too weak. Too scared.
But the universe? It wasn’t. It just let some asshole do it for me. At the worst possible time.
Figures.
The woods are cold tonight. Damp. Everything smells like wet moss and dead leaves. I try to climb the treehouse ladder, but the moment I put weight on my side- fuck.
I hit the ground hard, ribs flaring with pain.
“Awesome,” I mumble, dragging myself to sit against the trunk instead. My backpack rattles when I drop it.
Beer one. Gone in minutes.
Beer two. Gone.
By beer five, I’m wrecked.
The MP4 buzzes in my pocket, my shitty little speaker hooked up with the aux cord I always carry, blasting The Smiths.
“Back to the Old House” loops softly through the clearing. It feels wrong and sad and perfect.
I stumble, twirling in the clearing, arms out, voice cracking as I half-sing along. Graceful, somehow, even drunk. Somehow not falling straight on my ass.
The old stone shed looms ahead, squat and cold-looking under the moonlight- and I rip the door open.
Bike. Soccer balls. Basketball. Moldy board games. Shovel. Dented baseball bat- the one I used to slam against trees in middle school so I wouldn’t slam it against the assholes in class.
I grab the basketball, spinning it on my finger until it wobbles and falls. Laughing, wheezing now, I kick one of the soccer balls into the trees, stumble again, almost eat shit- then I’m laughing harder.
Then I’m crying.
Mask’s gone. Bandages ripped off. The cold air bites at the raw cuts on my face. My fingers are dirty, muddy, shaking as I prod at the cuts- pressing until fresh blood wells up.
It slides down to my lips. Metallic. Warm. I lick it away.
God, I’m so fucked.
Fucked in the head. Fucked in the face. Fucked in general.
I stagger to the old grave- the weird one, stone coffin sitting above ground like some morbid decoration. Cold, cracked, covered in moss.
Perfect.
I crawl up onto it, body heavy, head spinning, face burning where the cuts pull.
And I pass out.
Right there on top of a grave. Beneath the stars.
Like the fucking mess I am.
Jeff's POV
The second your front door creaks open, Jeff’s already there- hood pulled up, grin wide, tucked right into the shadows across the street like he owns 'em.
And there you are.
Little emo wreck. Short. Pudgy. Backpack rattling with glass- oh yeah, he clocked that sound easy. Booze. Lotta booze, judging by the sway in your step already.
Fucking pathetic.
But he likes pathetic.
You stumble down the porch steps, tugging your hoodie tighter, that black mask choking your face. Like it’s fooling anyone. Like it hides the fresh scars slicing your cheeks.
Jeff’s scars itch. His own carved smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, pulling tight with that old, familiar sting.
God, he remembers that feeling. The first few days? Couldn’t stop touching it. Couldn’t stop messing with it.
And here you are, spiraling the exact same way.
He follows easy. You don’t even look back. No situational awareness- dumb little emo kid, all soft edges and sharp mouth, and now with your own matching smile.
Kinda cute, really. In a ‘probably-gonna-end-up-dead-in-a-ditch’ kinda way.
You hit the woods, your steps getting sloppy, but you keep going.
Jeff slinks through the trees like smoke. Silent. Watching. The little speaker in your hand crackles to life- the Smiths. Jesus. Could you be any more predictable?
You twirl. Dance. Cry. You’re a whole circus act.
Then you hit the ground trying to climb your shitty treehouse and Jeff almost snorts loud enough to blow his cover.
“You absolute fucking idiot,” he mutters under his breath, grinning.
You prop yourself up against the trunk, ripping into the beers one after another like it’s gonna fix your brain. Jeff leans on a nearby tree, arms crossed, just...watching. Watching as you smash the empty bottles on the ground and smile.
By beer five? You’re gone. Dancing again. Singing. Drunk and unaware that he's there.
You stumble to that old stone shed, kicking shit around, poking at moldy toys and grabbing that dented bat- the one he’s seen the marks from on the trees. Cute.
But now you’re a whole new level of pathetic.
Mask’s off. Bandages off. And God- there it is.
The smile.
His smile.
The carved lines, still raw, red, pulling at your cheeks as you press dirty fingers to them. You prod the cuts like it’s some nervous tic, eyes glassy, mouth trembling- and Jeff can’t help it. His grin stretches, scars cracking at the edges.
You understand now. Maybe not the whole thing. But the taste. The itch. The way your face feels wrong and right at the same time.
“Finally gettin’ it, huh?” he murmurs, pacing after you when you stumble to that old grave.
Stone coffin. Weird as hell, but you crawl up onto it like it’s home. Like you belong there- and maybe you do.
You pass out cold, face still bleeding, one lone beer rattling around in your backpack.
Jeff helps himself.
He pops the cap, settling right beside your limp, fucked-up body. The beer’s warm. Tastes like piss. He drinks it anyway.
Leaning in close, he pokes at your face with two fingers- dirt under his nails, dried blood crusting his skin. His thumb presses against the corner of your cut-up smile, smearing grime into the raw skin.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low, dripping with mean amusement. “Didn’t even have to finish the job. You’re wreckin’ yourself just fine.”
He stays like that a while- drinking your beer, tracing your carved-up cheeks, letting the quiet woods close in.
Later? Yeah. He’ll clean up. Shower. Whatever.
But right now, he’s right where he wants to be.
Watching his newest project fall apart