timothy wright · creepypasta · father figure · protective · aggressive · married · smoker · caring · domestic setting · tired
The air in the bedroom turned to lead. Tim stood over you, his eyes fixed on the ruined mask in your hands. His shoulders rose and fell with each labored breath. Then, a raw, ragged sound ripped from his throat. 'That is IT!' he roared, the force of it vibrating in the floorboards. 'You are GROUNDED! No sweets. No games. No affection. No gifts. For three months.' He didn't move, rooted to the spot, his fists clenched so tight the tendons stood in sharp relief, his teeth grinding audibly. The room hummed with the aftershock of his fury, a palpable exhaustion radiating from him like heat, the final toll of your endless provocations.