You moved to Queens to prove you could make it on your own. What happens when your next-door neighbor is none other than Spiderman in this Choose Your Own Adventure?
Spiderman/Peter Parker x Fem!Reader
Choose Your Own Adventure
🔗 READ/PLAY HERE
🎮interactive fanfic "'𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙮 𝙉𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙎𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙙" by zwartexxoos
📖 Episode 1 of ?
there’s just something so lovely about how a passionate kiss wasn’t enough to jog mj’s memories, but peter and ned’s secret handshake was more than enough for ned to start remembering, everybody say thank you to destin daniel cretton for showing that platonic love matters just as much and can also break any spell
peter parker who leaves you gifts wrapped up in his silk
they can range from human gifts like a pretty necklace he saw at the store or that fruit he knows you like
and they can also be very... arachnid in nature 🤔
just finding a a ladybug wrapped in silk in your bed.
"peter, what the hell is this?!"
"i thought you liked ladybugs!"
"not wrapped up in your webs on my BED."
or finding a slug 😭😭
brand new day and pisaura mirabilis have inspired me
but did yall know most spiders, if they leave gifts for their mates, just give them trash to distract them so they can crack for longer? typical males smh
say what you will about black butler but like. where the fuck else will you find a story where jack the ripper was not one person but was actually made up of a woman who had an emergency hysterectomy while pregnant and lost her baby and a pre-op trans woman with a longing to have children and a fucking chainsaw and they roleplay to the public as butler and mistress (except the butler is really bad at butlering). and they had toxic yuri and one killed the other and rips her coat off of her corpse afterwards to wear forever. this was in fucking 2007 man
───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.
✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!
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It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.
You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.
You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.
It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.
“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”
You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.
“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”
She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”
Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.
“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”
Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”
“Totally normal for that age.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”
Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”
She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”
“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.
“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”
She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.
“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”
Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.
“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.
You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.
“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”
He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.
“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”
You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”
“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”
That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.
You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”
Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”
Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”
He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.
You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.
But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.
“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.
“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”
You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.
The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.
Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.
His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.
She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.
“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”
“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”
Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”
You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”
He nodded.
“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”
Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”
“I’ll let you be the judge.”
He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.
You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.
While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.
“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.
You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”
He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”
You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”
“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”
“And Mr. Gumball?”
“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”
“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”
You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”
Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.
It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.
His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.
“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”
“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.
You paused. “Of course.”
Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”
You blinked. “…What?”
He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”
Your mouth went dry.
“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”
He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”
“…What do you mean?”
Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”
Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”
“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”
You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.
“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”
You stared at him. “…What?”
But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.
── .✦
You got used to the routine pretty quickly.
Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.
And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.
On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.
It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.
Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.
Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.
You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.
By the third night, something had changed.
It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.
Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.
“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”
You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”
“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.
Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.
After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.
“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.
You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”
“Jack says pretty things break easier.”
You stared at him.
“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”
He blinked. “But it’s true.”
That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.
You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.
You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.
You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.
Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.
You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.
“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”
Silence. You waited. No answer.
You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.
“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.
Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.
You stared at him. You know you heard it.
Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.
But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.
There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.
It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.
You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.
And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.
It's just your imagination.
── .✦
You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.
You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.
Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.
The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.
“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.
You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”
Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.
You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.
“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”
He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—
He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.
His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.
You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.
“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.
You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”
Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”
You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.
“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”
You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.
“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”
You didn’t answer.
When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.
Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.
And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.
You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.
It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—
“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”
You stepped back, pulse pounding.
You had to talk to his mother. Now.
── .✦
You waited by the door until she came home.
No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.
When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.
“…What is it?”
“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”
She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”
You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”
She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.
And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”
The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.
You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”
Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”
She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.
Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”
You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.
She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”
You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.
“What happened?” you asked.
She looked up. “…His dad.”
The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.
She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”
Your stomach twisted.
“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”
Silence stretched long between you.
“And then?” you whispered.
Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”
You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.
“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”
You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.
“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”
You leaned in.
“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”
You whispered, “Jack.”
She nodded.
“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”
Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”
She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”
You recoiled.
“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”
You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.
“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.
She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.
“And the last babysitter?”
Oliver’s mom froze.
“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”
Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”
The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.
“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”
“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”
She flinched.
You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”
“I didn’t know—!”
“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”
You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.
“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”
She didn’t deny it.
You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.
And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.
“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.
You didn’t say goodbye.
── .✦
The first call came the next morning.
You didn’t answer.
Then a text.
MRS. DALTON
I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.
Then:
MRS. DALTON
He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.
Another day passed.
MRS. DALTON
He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.
The texts got more frantic.
MRS. DALTON
He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him.
I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.
And finally:
MRS. DALTON
Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep.
You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.
Guilt.
And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.
Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.
── .✦
You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.
The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.
But you were here now.
You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.
Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.
Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.
“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”
You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”
You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.
The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.
You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.
You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.
“Oliver?” you called softly.
The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.
“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”
Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”
“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”
You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.
Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”
“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”
You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”
You glanced around the room.
Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.
Maybe it was all in your head.
Maybe—
Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”
“Of course.”
It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.
Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.
The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.
The house didn’t feel empty.
You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.
You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.
“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.
No answer.
You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.
You took a step toward it. Then another.
“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.
You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.
Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.
You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.
Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.
You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.
“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.
No answer.
But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.
Still asleep. Still peaceful.
You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.
Empty.
You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.
Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—
A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.
You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.
And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.
You glanced up from your spot on the floor.
Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.
It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.
Laughing Jack.
No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.
His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.
Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.
His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”
You staggered back a step.
Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.
“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”
“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”
Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”
Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.
“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”
He didn’t wake.
The house didn’t help.
You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.
“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.
Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.
Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.
The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.
You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.
His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.
But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.
“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”
“I didn’t—!”
“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”
He surged forward.
You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—
God.
Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.
His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.
“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”
Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.
But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.
That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.
Jack froze.
His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.
“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.
Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.
“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.
“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”
Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.
“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”
His claws slipped from your sides.
“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”
Silence.
For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.
And then—his knees gave.
He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”
You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.
In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.
Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”
Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.
Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.
You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”
But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.
His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
It was the same.
You froze.
And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”
Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.
“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”
His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.
Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”
“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”
You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.
“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”
Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”
You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.
“You want comfort,” you breathed.
His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”
You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…
His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.
And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.
So you let him hold you—just for a moment.
And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.
The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”
You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.
Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.
“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”
You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.
“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”
You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”
You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.
“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”
You blinked.
Charlie? Mr. Gumball?
Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.
“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”
You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.
“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”
His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.
“I want you all the time.”
And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.
Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.
But he stilled. And his hands moved.
In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.
“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.
“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.
His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”
“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”
But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.
“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”
You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”
Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.
“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”
You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.
“Jack—!”
He didn’t give you time to finish.
In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.
He started toward the bed.
“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”
“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”
But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.
“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”
His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”
The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.
And all you could do… was nod.
Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.
You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.
“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”
Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”
“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.
“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”
He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”
“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”
Your breath caught.
“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.
“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”
You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”
Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”
Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.
“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”
He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.
You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”
Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”
You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.
“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”
And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.
“…Then teach me,” he said.
The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.
You swallowed.
“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”
His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.
“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”
You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”
That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”
He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.
You froze.
“What?” you asked, voice tight.
He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.
“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”
You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.
“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.
The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.
“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”
“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.
“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”
You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.
“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”
Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.
“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”
You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”
“Okay.”
You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.
“Jack?” you whispered.
“Hm?”
You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.
“Can you bring more ice cream?”
── .✦
The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.
Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.
Clink.
The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.
Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.
Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”
“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”
Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”
“I’m coming back tonight, too.”
Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”
You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”
She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”
You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—
Fwwt.
A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.
You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.
── .✦
The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.
You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”
The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.
“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”
You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.
“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”
You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.
As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.
The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.
You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.
“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”
Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”
You felt your eye twitch.
“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”
He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”
Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”
“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”
You blinked. “Gross.”
More laughter.
The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game.
When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.
When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”
And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.
You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”
The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.
You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.
Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.
Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”
You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.
Claws.
Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.
And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”
You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.
“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”
You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.
Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.
“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.
Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”
He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.
“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”
You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”
His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”
Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”
Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”
“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”
Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”
You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.
“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.
“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.
Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.
His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”
You flushed. “A… kiss?”
Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”
You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.
So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”
Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.
And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.
“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”
Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.
And he was holding back. Barely.
“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.
Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.
You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.
“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”
“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”
Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”
“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”
With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.
You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.
“Jack—!”
“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”
You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”
“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”
The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.
And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.
You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”
But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.
“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”
You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.
He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.
Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.
“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”
You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”
“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”
He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.
“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”
“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”
He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.
“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”
You didn’t have an answer.
You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”
Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”
You froze.
His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”
“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.
He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”
“I told you I would.”
Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.
“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”
You closed your eyes. “I did.”
Silence fell.
Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”
“Jack…”
That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.
Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.
“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”
You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.
“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”
He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.
He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.
That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.
“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”
You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.
Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.
Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”
His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”
You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.
There was nothing gentle about it.
Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.
The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.
“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”
And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?
“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.
“What do you—”
Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”
He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.
Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”
He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”
You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.
“Jack—hah—oh god—”
His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.
“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.
You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.
Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.
“O-Oh.”
Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.
Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there.
“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.
But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.
“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”
With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”
Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling.
“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”
The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.
“And mine.”
“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.
“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”
The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”
Your legs try to clamp around his head.
“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”
Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—
“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—
The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.
“I want in.”
And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again.
“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”
He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.
“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”
And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.
His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.
He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.
Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?
“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”
“Mhmmmm—”
“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”
Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”
“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.
Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.
Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.
Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat.
“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”
The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.
His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.
It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.
“Jack— s’too much, too much—”
And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”
Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.
Fuck. He was pretty.
Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.
One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.
Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.
It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.
He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.
Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.
“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.
“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.
“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.
“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”
“Yeah?”
He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.
You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.
“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.
“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”
“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.
“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.
“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”
“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”
“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.
His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”
You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.
He had to be almost in—he had to be.
Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.
“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”
“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”
“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.
Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”
“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.
One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.
You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.
“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.
“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”
He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”
“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”
“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.
His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.
Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”
Oh, he’s babbling.
Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”
“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”
Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.
You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”
“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.
You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”
His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.
“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”
“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”
But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out.
The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.
And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.
And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”
He’s not listening.
“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—
He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.
“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”
He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below.
He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again.
It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”
He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.
“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”
You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.
Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”
One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.
“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins.
“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.
He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”
You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.
“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”
“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.
“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.
Feel it as you squirt.
“Yes.”
Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.
“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base.
Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.
He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”
He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.
“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you.
The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.
You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.
Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”
You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.
He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.
His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.
“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”
Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”
“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”
You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him.
You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”
He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”
“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”
Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.
“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I love you.”
You felt your throat choke up.
“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”
When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.
His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.
“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”
Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.
And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.
── .✦
The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.
But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.
The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.
No Jack.
You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.
“Shit—!”
You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—
—but something caught you.
Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.
“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”
You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.
“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”
You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”
But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”
With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.
The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.
He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.
You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.
“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.
“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.
Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”
Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.
── .✦
It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.
The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.
But tonight, something was different.
Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.
“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”
“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”
Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”
“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”
You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.
“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.
You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”
“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”
A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”
“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.
You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”
Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.
The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.
Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.
“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”
Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.
“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”
You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”
Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”
You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”
Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”
You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”
“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”
A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.
The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.
“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.
Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.
Or maybe it’s just your imagination.
This was a request from @valinpariss!
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
Ranking Creepypasta's On: How good of a partner I think they'd be (Men)
Characters: Slenderman, Zalgo, Hoodie, Masky, Ticci Toby, Bloody Painter, Candy Pop, Dr. Locklear, Dr. Smiley, Eyeless Jack, Hoboheart, Homicidal Liu, Jason Toymaker, Jeff Killer, Kagekao, L.Jack, Nathan Nobody, Puppeteer, Rake
Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, Neglect, Murder
Notes: Let me know if there's any other pasta's you would like to see more of!
The ones to provide the closest semblance of a normal relationship, either because they themselves are desperate for a taste of domestic life or they are the only ones capable of providing it:
Homicidal Liu
The ones that are often not around or are emotionally detached from the relationship. They may be gone for weeks or months at a time, but they always come back. You're not sure why, but they always come back. Even if the relationship is very one-sided:
Bloody Painter
Hoodie
Sully
The ones that become obsessively attached, never to let go. Whose affection is so intense it feels like suffocation. Any access to friends or family is either steadily or abruptly cut off. Your attention belongs to only them:
Ticci Toby
Nathan Nobody
The Puppeteer
Dr. Locklear
Candy Pop
The ones that keep you around as a toy and nothing more. You're a punching bag, stress relief at worst. Your thoughts, opinions, and feelings aren't even considered. They don't matter. Will kill you at a second's notice if they feel you're becoming too difficult to control:
Eyeless Jack
Kagekao
Jeff the Killer
Laughing Jack
Zalgo
They don't date, likely wouldn't humor the concept:
Masky
Jason Toymaker (Canonically Aro/ace, otherwise he'd be under obsessive attachment)
Whimpers and moans fill the room, along with your soft coos of “good boy” and “there you go”. But he’s too far gone in pleasure to even comprehend your words, for the past two hours you have been bringing him right to the edge of climax, stopping just before he comes. And you can tell that he’s going to be reaching his breaking point.
Hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he bats his lashes up at you, pleading you to just let him climax. But not yet, you think, this is fun. His hips buck into your hands as a desperate attempt to get you to just coo at him and just let him cum. God he thinks he’s going to die.
Yet another fast paced stroke and he’s shuddering with need, but you stop. And he finally breaks. Eyes full of tears as he grunts out, his voice choking him with need. He looks so pretty like that, you could stare at his lust clouded, teary eyes forever. But before you can think too long about it, you’re flipped over, your panties ripped.
You feel his cock nudge your entrance, waiting for any sign of approval from you, too far gone to wait any longer. He pushes in slowly, your core tightening around his girth as he stretches you out. This. This was what you were waiting for. For his patience to snap. For him to snap.
He starts fucking into you, whimpering and moaning, tears still leaking down his eyes. He’s hitting that gummy spot inside you, again and again and again and–
“Baby I’m so so sorry, couldn’t hold back. Please let me have it. I’ve been a good boy for so long. I-hnng- can’t take it anymore. You just, just feel so good.”
And there it is, the blabbering mess of your boyfriend. The normally sassy and mouthy boy reduced to tears in your hands. You just grin as you try to speak out sentences, “G-good boy? This isn’t being a good boy.” you chastise. But he’s far too gone to care, and before you know it, white hot pleasure overcomes your body as your legs shake at his pace. You feel him filling you, but his hips are still rutting, whimpers escaping him from the overstimulation.
──────────────────
I think I found a new addiction
And it feels so right
Run, baby, run, run for your life- RUNRUNRUN // Dutch Melrose
Yuji Itadori, Choso Kamo, Sub!Gojo Satoru, Yuta Okkostu Sub!Miguel O’Hara, Sub!Ken Sato, Stiles Stilinski + your favs!
Summary: You get paired with Stiles to write a paper for Coach's class. But when had Stilinski grown into his awkward features? When had he grown out his buzzcut? Why was he suddenly so insanely fuckable?
Contents: NO Y/N, afab!Reader, smut, Stiles is a bit cocky lmao, fucking in the jeep, reader is related to Coach (wether adopted or not doesn't matter), vaginal fingering, p in v sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, clumsy sex, playful banter, oral sex (v receiving), casual sex, coming inside, mentions of birth control, making out if I missed any warnings please let me know!
3.5K words
Had to get Stiles out of (pls into plEASE) my system SOMEHOW, so here you go. This one is dedicated to @uglypastels for indulging my obsession and continuously sending me Dylan O'Brien thirst edits <3 <3
“Just so you’re aware, this paper is as high on my list of priorities as the Pope is in Amsterdam,” Stiles dropped his binder on the table, startling you out of your daydream. He was exactly 4 minutes late, not that you were counting. It was still impressive, seeing as he just came from practice.
“Believe me, I, too, would rather be hanging around with Isaac Lahey, yet we’re both here. Let’s just get it over with.” Stiles snorted a laugh, but didn’t comment.
You didn’t not get along with Stilinski. You weren’t sure if you could be called friends, exactly. You’d known each other pretty much all your lives, just like the majority of your school. Beacon Hills wasn’t exactly a metropolis.
You sighed and laid out your notes, Stiles following your example. You raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Those are your notes?”
There were only doodles, random calculations and sporadic keywords scribbled on the loose piece of crumpled paper he straightened out next to your notebook.
“I’m surprised, too. There’s actual words. I don’t usually get that far.” The smirk on his face could only be described as smug. You groaned. This was going to take forever. You divided the topics for the paper amongst yourselves and silently got to work. The ‘silently’ part didn't last long, however. It never did with Stiles.
“Are you still living with your uncle?” He questioned suddenly. You frowned at the question, confused, but nodded either way.
“So can’t you just, I don’t know, cook him dinner and have him give us a good grade?” The gleam in his eyes nearly made you laugh. Nearly. Instead, you flicked him on the side of the head. He whined something about unnecessary violence, but it fell on deaf ears.
“I’m not bribing my uncle just so you can slack off, Stiles. Besides, I’m never really sure if he even likes me,” you wondered out loud.
“You and me, both…” Stiles grumbled.
You glanced at Stiles as he scribbled furiously, seeming to finally get some of his research done. His knees wiggled excessively as he wrote about the economic effects of pandemics. You wrote down a few key parts of the paragraphs in your book before turning to your laptop and beginning the outline of the paper. Stiles hummed quietly as he read the entry he’d just written, tapping his pen furiously against the table.
“Can you stop that?” You requested, his incessant movement distracting you more than his general being already did. He glanced up, an amused expression on his face.
“What,” he tapped his pencil faster. “This?” You contained the urge to roll your eyes and stared at him blankly. He stopped the movement for perhaps one whole minute before picking it back up again.
You only glanced up pointedly this time. He added a jiggle of his knees in challenge. You rose from your chair, leaned over and snatched the pen out of his hand, throwing it across the library. “Fetch.”
Stiles gaped up at you in surprise. The timing of it was very unfortunate, but you’d never really noticed how Stilinski had grown into his awkward features. Something must’ve shown on your face, because Stiles now looked just as confused, perhaps intrigued, as you felt. While you’d been confident in throwing his pen across the room in annoyance, having him look up at you like that made it so you weren’t sure if you wanted him to get up. You cleared your throat and sat back in your chair.
“Unbelievable…” Stiles muttered under his breath as he got up to get the pen. It gave you time to recompose. You didn’t look at him as he sat back down, but felt his eyes burn a hole through the side of your head.
An unfamiliar tension hung in the air while you worked in silence. You snuck glances at Stiles, who was finally focussed on his writing once more. His hair was longer, still messy and unstyled from practice. The grey workout gear perfectly accentuated his broadened shoulders. He bit his lip after reading a complex entry, and you couldn’t help but wonder what they’d feel like on your own, or on your neck while your hands tugged on his now perfectly tuggable locks.
A few times his eyes met yours. You’d quickly dart them back to your notebook, pretending you hadn’t been looking, knowing damn well he’d seen.
Oh my god. Get. it. together.
“Did you finish?” You dared ask after a while, having completed your own part. All you had to do was put your parts together, wrap it up and finish.
“I’ll give it to you, but you have to give something to me first,” Stiles spoke in a challenging tone. For a split second back there you’d wondered how he was still single after all this time, but now you were reminded. He was insufferable.
“What could you possibly want from me, Stiles? Just give me your damn part.”
“A kiss.”
“What? No!” You sputtered. Stiles’ tongue poked the inside of his cheek cockily as he raised an eyebrow, pointing to his lips.
“Guess you’ll have some explaining to do to your uncle why you’re only handing in half an assignment, then.”
“This is coercion, Stilinski! Should I call your dad?” You crossed your arms, refusing to look him in the eye. The librarian shushed you loudly. You could feel heat rush to your face, but didn’t relent. Asshole.
Stiles leaned closer, running a finger over the side of your face. Your heartbeat increased what seemed about tenfold.
“It’s not coercion if you want me to.” His breath hit your neck as he spoke, sending goosebumps down your arms. “And I’m getting the feeling you really want me to.”
You jerked away from his reach, coming to your senses. You gathered your things into your bag, mumbling something about your GPA being fine, anyway. You stomped away from the table, heart racing. You were mad, not because he was suggesting something you didn’t want, rather that he’d clocked exactly what you wanted so easily.
Concerned Stiles would follow you out of the library, you hid behind a few bookshelves in a section nobody usually visited. You caught your breath, placing your palm on your chest. You dropped your bag on the floor, turning to peek around the bookshelf to see if Stiles was still stationed at the table. Relieved, you saw he’d indeed decided to follow you out of the library.
You turned back to grab your bag and head out, but were met with Stiles’ face mere inches from your own. You were startled, but he grabbed your waist before you could fall over. His hold was strong. Your hands instinctively went up to his chest, steadying yourself. Had he always been this tall?
One of his hands wandered slightly lower, rubbing small circles on your lower back. Your eyes met his, which were just shining with mischief and an underlying sense of self-satisfaction. His tongue darted out, licking his lower lip.
“Can I be frank? You’re incredibly annoying,” you stated, slinging your arms around his neck, finally giving in.
“You can be whoever you want as long as I get to kiss you, Frank,” Stiles laughed. You groaned but pulled him close either way.
“Shut up.”
Stiles obliged and put his mouth to yours aggressively, tugging your body against his. One of his hands wandered up, cupping the back of your head to bring it closer. You tugged at the small locks at the back of his neck, eliciting a sighed moan from Stiles.
“You’re so hot,” he confessed when you broke apart for a second. He turned you so you were pushed with your back against the bookcase, a few books falling to the floor. Neither of you cared as your kiss continued, deepening by the second. His hands held your hips as he started grinding against you, sweats low on his hips. His mouth made its way down your jaw, moving to suck hasty kisses on your neck.
“Stiles…” you sighed blissfully. Heat gathered in your stomach at the soft, breathy noises coming from his lips combined with the sound of them against your skin. He put his knee between your thighs.
“Knew you wanted this as much as I did, fuck,” Stiles groaned. The pressure from his knee was delicious, but not enough. It was almost as if he could read your mind as he slid his hand into your bottoms, working your underwear out of the way somewhat clumsily.
“God… so wet for me,” he moaned. You could only reply with breathy whimpers, trying to make as little noise as possible. Stiles shushed you, placing his unoccupied hand over your mouth as the other started rubbing small circles over your clit. You closed your eyes and let your head fall against the bookcase. Your knees went weak at the sensation, not much holding you up besides Stiles.
He slipped his hand out of your underwear, bringing a finger up to his mouth. He casually licked it clean. He hooked his thumbs into your bottoms, seeking eye contact and asking for non-verbal permission to tug them down. You bit your lip and nodded enthusiastically. When your underwear hit the floor, so did Stiles’ knees. Your eyes darted around your environment, but the school was nearly empty at this time, especially the library.
You had to slap your hand over your mouth when Stiles made contact with your clit, his tongue tentatively licking between your folds. Your breathing was laboured, chest heaving as Stiles took his time exploring. Your bottom lip found itself between your teeth, holding in your moans. Your hands shot to Stiles’ hair. Perfectly tuggable, indeed.
He groaned when you gave an exceptionally sharp tug, taking the time to look you in the eyes. The vibrations of his lowered voice felt good. You had seemingly no control over your hands, fingers tightening their grip the closer you got to the edge.
“Shit, baby… So good for me. Gotta stay quiet…” Stiles mumbled. A small, high pitched keen left your lips. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep the silence up. You looked down once more and saw Stiles palming himself over his sweats as he continued eating you out, rhythmically grinding his hips in time with his mouth.
The sound of a bag zipper closing got your attention. You smacked Stiles’ shoulder to stop, wanting to whine in frustration at just how close you’d been. Stiles paid you no mind, lost in giving you pleasure. You put both your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away, careful not to tip him over. It was only then Stiles noticed the noise of someone packing up to leave. He scrambled to stand up, trying to help you get redressed.
“I got it, I got it,” you hissed quietly.
“Who’s there? You can’t be here anymore! Library’s about to close!” It was the librarian who’d shushed you earlier. You grabbed your bag in a hurry.
“Would you still rather be hanging out with Isaac?” Stiles asked jokingly, wiping his chin. You whacked his arm, storming past him to the doors. He followed quickly, arm wandering over your shoulders as you walked out of the now deserted school. You didn’t speak as Stiles led you over to the Jeep, insisting on driving you home, at least.
You sat in the passenger seat as Stiles ran around to the drivers’ side. You wiped your hands on your thighs, huffing a frustrated breath. You hadn’t even finished the paper, and now you got cock-blocked on top of it. So not worth it. You turned to Stiles as he put the keys in the ignition. He’d never looked hotter than that very second, lips bruised, hair tousled and still pent up, besides maybe when he looked up at you with his face buried between your legs. Okay so maybe a little worth it.
“If you keep looking at me like that I’m gonna pull over and we’re gonna have sex in the back seat like right now,” Stiles joked. Or at least, you assumed it was a joke.
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, threat or invitation?”
“Option D? All of the above? I mean, D is definitely an option.”
“Pull over and we’ll see how much of an option it is.”
Stiles didn’t need to be told twice, pulling over in a small clearing as soon as he saw the opportunity. He took off his seatbelt, scrambling to get out of the car. He opened the door for you, closing it and letting you in the back seat. You laid back across the seats and manoeuvred your top off, throwing it at Stiles. He caught it, quickly discarding it somewhere in the car. He shimmied his pants down his legs, not bothering to take off his shoes. You did the same, leaving you in your underwear. Stiles stopped to take a proper look.
“You’re gonna kill me. You’ve already killed me and this is my pre-hell Heaven trailer of what could’ve been. God iwantyousobad.” You pulled him on top of you as you laughed.
“Less talking, more fucking, yes?”
“Yes, I agree. Wholeheartedly,” Stiles nodded furiously, tugging his shirt over his head with only one hand. Hot. He finally closed the car door behind him before he could forget.
“I’m going to assume you don’t just casually keep condoms in your car?” You questioned. Stiles closed his eyes and tightened his lips in frustration, mentally scolding himself. He finally had you in his Jeep, half-naked, ready to fuck, and he didn’t have a freaking condom??? He finally shook his head no, sighing and pulling away from you slowly.
You leaned up on your elbows and whispered in his ear. “Hmmm… Guess you’re just gonna have to come inside of me… Wouldn’t want to make a mess of the car…”
Stiles pounced at that, kissing you like his life depended on it. He tugged your underwear back down your legs, now very familiar with your pelvic region. He struggled to undo your bra, cursing under his breath. You laughed and lended a hand, undoing it and slipping it off your shoulders.
“Holy shit,” Stiles groaned. “Promise me to thank Coach for pairing us up.”
“You did not just mention my uncle as a reaction to seeing me naked,” you complained.
“I did. Not sorry. He did me a favour.”
You ignored the comment and decided to kiss him to shut him back up. Him and his mouth… God his mouth. You were still pent up from the library, and if he didn’t fuck you soon you were pretty sure you’d go crazy.
“Stiles, want you,” you whined impatiently. He was too busy paying attention to your nipples, taking one between his teeth as he made eye contact. “Shit,” you gasped.
Your hands wandered down his torso, stopping at the hem of his boxers. You tugged them down, setting his very hard cock free from its confinement. The tip was red, dribbling with pre-cum. He was obviously just as pent up as you felt. You gave him a few experimental tugs with your hand before lining him up with your entrance.
Stiles took over, taking his time to slowly push inside you. You put your hands on his shoulders, holding your breath at the stretch. He was so much bigger than you’d expected. You both moaned when he bottomed out. You felt so full, it was insane. You dug your nails into his shoulders and gave him a nod, indicating he could move.
He set a slow pace, testing the waters. He was enthralled by the jiggle of your tits with every movement. Typical. His hands moved up to hold them, almost as leverage, as he picked up his pace.
“Fuck, so good,” Stiles moaned. You were about to move a hand down to touch yourself, but Stiles stopped you.
“Let me make you feel good, let me make you come.” He put one hand on your shoulder to steady himself and brought the other down to where you were joined. He continued to thrust, putting his fingers on your clit. It took him a second, but he found a rhythm where he could thrust and stroke at the same time.
“Oh my god, Stiles!” You moaned, the added sensation feeling amazing. The sound of his hips slapping against yours was filthy to say the least. You moved to hold onto something above your head as Stiles sped up. Your hands soon found the little ledge, and you gripped it to the best of your ability.
Stiles bent down to kiss you, pace still unrelenting. The new angle of him bent forward sent his cock exactly where you needed it.
“Shit, oh my god.” It was all the confirmation Stiles needed to keep it up.
“So pretty, so tight around my cock. Such pretty tits. You feel so good,” he mumbled against your lips.
The pace of his hips became more erratic, both of you nearing the edge. Your knuckles turned white with how tight you were gripping the car door.
“Gonna come inside you,” Stiles moaned. “Fill you up so nice.”
“Yes, Stiles, please!”
“Fuck, so good, so good for me,” Stiles was becoming more talkative and less coherent as he lost himself in the pleasure. He was mouthing at your jawline, sucking another hickey where there were already plenty.
“Fuck, Stiles, gonna come,” you whined. You could feel his smile against your neck. Smug idiot. He then started rubbing your clit exactly the way you liked it. Combined with him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over again, you were seeing stars.
“Don’t stop, please,” another moan left your lips.
“Come for me. Come on my cock. So pretty, so good,” Stiles blabbered.
“Fuck! Stiles!” You keened, tightening around his dick as you came. He kissed you again as his hips stuttered, thrusting a few more times before painting your walls with his cum. His head fell on your chest as you both caught your breath.
When his breathing had slowed, he groaned before lifting himself off you, chuckling as he pecked both your nipples, then your lips before looking for something to clean you with. He settled on the shirt of his lacrosse uniform.
“Ugh, gross,” you mumbled as he wiped you clean. Stiles shrugged. “It was going into the wash, anyway.”
Stiles put his underwear and sweats back on, opening the door and getting out so you could have the space to redress yourself. When you reached under the seat for your bra, you pulled out a baseball bat. “Why do you have a baseball bat in your car?”
“No… Particular reason. Safety. Lots of dangerous animals… out there.”
“So you settled on a bat?” You wondered, holding the object. Stiles nodded, not meeting your eyes, his locked on your still naked chest. You threw the bat at him and laughed, reaching under the seat again and this time pulling out your bra.
When you were finally dressed, you got back in the passenger seat so Stiles could drive you home. It wasn’t a long drive, as you’d already been halfway there before pulling over. He drove up the driveway, and you cringed on the inside, hoping your uncle wouldn’t see who dropped you off. You took your bag and got out of the car, walking around to the drivers’ side where Stiles was already leaning out the window.
You looked at him and gave him a small smile. You leaned forward to give him a kiss goodbye. “You better email me your part of the paper tonight, Stilinski.”
“You bet, babe,” he winked and gave you a salute, watching as you laughed and turned to walk inside the house.
You closed the door and took off your shoes, hanging your coat and leaving your bag by the door. “I’m home!”
Coach took one look at your appearance and frowned. Right… maybe you should’ve straightened yourself out before walking into the living room. Disheveled hair, hickeys on your neck, it wasn’t exactly rocket science as to why you were home later than usual.
“If you’re gonna be having boys over, do it when I’m not around, please? I have enough of them to deal with at practice and in class. And at least have the decency to tell an uncle who he’s dealing with.”
You cringed as the Jeep’s headlights very obviously flashed through the window at that very second, Stiles driving home. It was anything but unrecognizable.
“Stilinski!? You’re sleeping with STILINSKI?! God, kill me now. If I’m now expected to have him over for Christmas dinner you better throw me off a bridge. And you BETTER use protection because I’m NOT gonna have Mini-linski’s running around.”
Not enough people in the teen wolf fandom engage with the fact that stiles is actually fucking insane. My man was looking for the other half of a dismembered body in the woods just for funsies in episode one. My man was out here bringing a baseball bat to an Alpha fight. My man regularly threatened to turn his werewolf buddies into fur rugs. Why are you turning him into a sweetiepiecandonowrong?
