Hi Guys I Unfortunately Got Hit By A Truck So Im Going To Be (rightfully So) Procrastinating And Slacking

Hi guys I unfortunately got hit by a truck so Im going to be (rightfully so) procrastinating and slacking on writing the AU ☹️ Please wish me well in my recovery of getting hit by a really big truck and wish me lots of rest and no writing thank you

BAKRBAKRBABROABRVTKDJS WASKEIRKFISKAJD FOHHHHH MMYYYY GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDD AWWOWOOGOGOFJDJHAG 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

i absolutely NEED more tall clockwork and short toby ticciwork stuff from u, please please PLEASEEE ‼️🙏

Anon I’m here for u finally. Hockey player toby figure skater Natalie.

Hi guys go check out my AU account. Please read the pinned post.

@pyrovverse

I’ll be putting up posts that help you, the viewer, uncover and explore the world and story. Keep your eyes peeled for future posts cuz theres a lot to discover about the Pyroverse ;3

Man can yall stop shitting on realistic Creepypasta writers. If you’re going to write a realistic serial killer then obviously they’re going to be abusive/shitty human beings. Do you think Jeffery Dahmer was a nice guy? Ted Bundy?

The whole purpose of writing realism for the Pastas is getting into the morbidity of human nature. The nitty gritty and the criminology of these characters. Its all about embracing the dark aspects of criminals and killers in the real world.

Of course there is an issue when they start glamorizing or romanticizing it, but don’t shit on all realism writers for those annoying few. And also stop shitting on us for writing them with mental illness. Obviously not everyone with PDs or other disorders are toxic, abusive, or criminals, and obviously having a disorder doesn’t make you a bad person. But realistically, criminals and killers predominantly do have mental disorders so it only makes sense for someone to psychopathologize the characters right? (This is coming from someone with a heavily stigmatized disorder)

Also Im adding on that its OK to enjoy a wholesome goofy ass version of Creepypasta. I still hold that whole 2010 Slender Mansion stuff in my heart. But the fun Creepypasta and the fucked up Creepypasta worlds are allowed to coexist. People are allowed to make headcanons and fanfics of both the silly and the morbid side of it. Thats what makes the fandom so special is how much its up for interpretation and how different people can go with it.

JEFF INTRO IS POSTED 🔥🔥🔥🔥

KILLER KING .

CW: Gore, abuse, misogyny, general dark themes

Jeffery Woodson grew up in a small town in Arizona named Tolleson. Jeff was always a violent kid who was a bit too much like his father. He would spend his early years being brutally beat, and then going to the playground to project the abuse onto other children. This behaviour followed him into his teen years, even though his mother had left his father and married a better man named Patrick Woodson.

He first took anothers life when he was 15 years old. There was no hope for 9 year old Bradley Henderson as Jeffery held the young boy down in the rushing river. His body was shortly recovered by authorities after it had washed up on the forest edge and found by park rangers. Despite knowing Jeff was last seen with the boy, there was not enough evidence that Bradleys death was foul play and all charges were dropped. Jeffs stepbrother, Liu Woodson, witnessed the murder happen. He knew better than to open his mouth.

Hatred followed Jeff throughout his life like a disease. It stuck by his side and wrapped around his soul, plaguing him with rage. Every word that escaped his mouth was those of disdain and resentment. He lived his life full of brutality, and god forbid anybody get in his way.

Superiority was important for him. He was taught from a very early age that man shall be put on a hierarchy of weak versus strong, predator versus prey. Jeff believed he was at the top of the food chain and this proved true as he began taking the lives of street whores and inferiors in his early twenties. He knew what he was capable of, and better yet, he knew he could get away with it.

Strangely enough, or rather not all that strange at all, a majority of his victims resembled his own mother. Colleen Woodson was a desperate woman. She would often bring men into the house for sex and money while her husband was at work, letting Jeff be exposed to the lustful sin of humanity in his adolescence. This exposure developed a very unfortunate view on women, and humanity in general, for the boy. To him, people like her were nothing but disgusting inferiors who pathetically flaunted themselves as prey to the predators of the world. Predators like him.

Jeff had a very big, and very fragile, ego. He had a vile mix of primal rage and need that painted a clear picture of his life. Often finding himself in the palm of various hard drugs, Jeff was a fiend for stimulants. Cocaine and methamphetamine paved a labyrinth of mania for the man and only encouraged his brutality.

His arrogance knew no bounds, and he had a very morbid fascination with the idea of cults, death, and corruption. These fantasies were only a catalyst for the man he would become. A cruel and dangerous man who would make a name for himself being a notorious piece of shit in not only the civilized world, but the world of criminals as well. Jeffery Woodson was born scum, and he lived his life encased in amber, forever unchanged.

ROCK AND A HARD PLACE .

Little Rock, Arkansas. Circa 2003.

CW: Gore, murder, general dark themes

Drug dens, cheap motels, and couch surfing. This was the life Jeffery Woodson made for himself during the escape from his crimes in Arizona. He wound up in Little Rock through various hitchhiking adventures and decided on a whim to take residence in the bustling city for a short while.

He quickly created a reputation for himself in the underground as a notorious extremist. With due time, Jeff developed a circle of followers so tight knit it was almost to the point of intriguing exclusivity. These people crowded around him like winged insects to a funeral pyre, and the man was one they worshipped like a God. Handpicking each and every person, he crafted a group only of associates who would subserve themselves to him. Jeff preached to them words of war, mayhem and hatred as though he was reading from the gospel of destruction. He painted a picture of the weak versus the strong, the winners versus the losers. In this little corner of the city, he was king.

It didn’t take long for him to settle in and begin making his mark through a rough series of murders, exerting power over those he viewed as inferior trash such as women who were a bit too much like his mother and men who were a bit too much like himself.

Three unfortunate sex workers fell victim to Jeffery. Amanda Chapman (31), Aimee Robinson (25), and Hannah Carter (24) were all found dead in various locations from motel rooms to dumpsters. Besides being brunette female prostitutes, the victims all shared one other distinct quality. They all had their mouths slit. Autopsy reveals this was done before the actual murder occurred, alongside various means of battery and torture. The sudden spike in murders throughout the past 4 months slowly gained the attention of authorities who slacked on investigating the killings due to the bad reputation of the victims. A criminal getting rid of other criminals wasn’t much of a worry for the police force.

It took one man who was assigned the case, George Harrison, to really enunciate the potential dangers of the murderer they had on their hands. Three victims in such a short time span meant they were now dealing with a serial killer. A man who effortlessly beat, tortured and mutilated the bodies of women he swept off the streets. It was clear the murderer was going down a road he would not come back from. Now, as the lead investigator, it was up to George to track the unknown assailant down.

For the next few months, the dedicated cop would obsessively pursue leads. Eventually he learned from his daughter, Jane, of a case in Arizona earlier that year of two women who were found in similar states as the victims found in Little Rock. The identical M.O was what led George down the path which led him to the dirty streets of the city where no man with a good conscience would go. He interviewed the traffickers, met with gangsters, made deals with thieves. It was a quick and swift descendent into the madness of humanity.

All it took was one tired afternoon in a coffee shop for George to sheepishly scan over his notes and pick up on a hidden clue he hadn’t seen before. A lightbulb lit up over his head that sent a wakening bolt of electricity through his overworked body. This was it. This was it.

Hopping into his old, sputtering car, he drove down to the crime-ridden streets of Little Rock and stopped out in front of a small, dark, broken down home. Inside the house was three women - two hookers, and one younger lady named Shelly Markson - and two men, Aaron Cooper and Jeffery Woodson.

George approached the building with caution and roughly knocked on the creaky old front door which was hidden behind a screen door that had the screen slashed open. The lack of answer, followed by the muffled sound of irritated chatter from inside, prompted the man to knock once more. It took a minute for the door to open, presenting a slim, pale man with long black hair and brooding blue eyes that were so dark they nearly resembled the depths of the sea. Gods great flood. Most notably, the stranger had a deep scar on the left side of his mouth, leading up his cheek like half a smile. The authoritarian energy of the younger male overpowered Georges by every means, and the police badge plastered in his wallet did nothing to offer the elder a sense of power. This wasn’t his terf, and he knew he oughta be careful now.

Softly but firmly, George opened his mouth and dryly escaped words of introduction to the man he was faced with. He let it be known he was a man of law enforcement, and was only there on business of pursuing leads regarding a case. To his surprise, the younger man was very cooperative, friendly even, as he agreed to answer any questions of his and offered George to continue the conversation with him inside. Away from prying eyes, away from the outside world, away from witnesses.

In that house, God did not exist. Peace did not exist. Humanity did not exist, or in other words it existed far too much. Primitively, Jeffery Woodson would beat George Harrison to death in front of the other four inhabitants of that devils house. Despite the witnesses pleads for him to calm down and back off, to a bloody pulp Jeff beat the elder man, and he wouldn’t stop until George was nothing but an unrecognizable corpse. The cops blood coated Jeffs hands and it fitted tightly like gloves, an article of crime and punishment.

“This is our territory. And this is what we do to anyone who stands in our way” Jeff stated with pride, his strong voice booming with such charm and vigour it brought the witnesses to their knees. Great Marquis of Hell, Jeff stood bold amongst the bloody mess of his wrath.

“He was sticking his dirty nose where he shouldn’t have been sticking it. This fuckin’ pig was going to bring us all down. You wanted to sit by and let him prey on you? I did you all a favour.”

October 23rd, 2003 was the morning Jane Harrison received the unfortunate news that her fathers body had been recovered in a dumpster outside of the police station. She later learned that he was left beat so unrecognizable that he was only identified through his badge.

Denial was the first thing that flew through her mind after hearing the words through the phone. Ending the call then and there, not to entertain that disrespect on her fathers name, crossed her mind. He had to have been still alive, and he was surely going to be home for supper as he always did. Surely.

5pm, 6pm, 7pm. The clock ticked on and each minute that passed began to burrow painfully into her chest. It was well past dinnertime when Jane finally made the devastating decision to go to the station to identify the body. Not a single tear was shed as George’s brutally mutilated body was presented to her.

“That is my father” were the only words to leave her lips etched into a frown. The weight of the world fell onto Jane in one single night, suffocating her with a heavy coat called grief. Loss was far too a familiar subject for her. Her fists balled and her breathing became shallow as the moment of sadness quickly grew into pure anger. It was her duty now to pick up where her father had left off and find the man responsible for destroying her world. She was going to get her revenge.