Bink Bonk Boink

What's up im plum Im 23 and I never fuckin learned how to read. Pro HOA (home owners association)dni.

[caroline-draws-stuff]

40th anniversary :)

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

Heart In The Box Kind of Romance ˚ ༘⋆🃏︎⋆｡˚

────୨ৎ────

In hindsight, your type in men was always extraordinary. So when something starts slamming doors in your home, you get curious. A stray hand print and one closet void later—

It was love at first haunt.

!! Laughing Jack x F! Reader !! W/C: 4.5k

-> Including: Riding, overstim, slight sub/dom dynamics, choking, sadist adjacent reader, perv! LJ, pathetic LJ and brain washing that clown into a boyfriend :p this is also the lore for how LJ met his reader in my smaus HAHA ->

────୨ৎ────

— ^ ^ —

You think the monster in your closet has a crush on you.

The sentence would’ve sent you into hysterics a month ago, but now? You were completely, utterly and unshakably sure that it was the truth.

You’d moved in about a year earlier, choosing the old house for its affordability. The wallpaper had been peeling, the wood panelling on the brink of decay, and the roof rickety. It sat on the very end of your street, separated from the neighbouring houses by a rusted metal fence. Definitely a fixer-upper, but it’d fit in your budget. Simply a home in need of some loving.

What they hadn’t told you was that it came with a resident poltergeist—

Clown?

Or something.

Well, you actually didn’t know what he was or what category he belonged to, but he made his presence known the first night.

You had been brushing your teeth when the lights overhead flickered.

The bulbs' hum grew louder, then they burst, leaving you in darkness. You were frozen in the spot, with all sorts of scary images flashing in your mind.

However, you were always quite the logical one, and you brushed it off. The wiring was ancient- was it really that surprising if it didn’t run like brand new? So you moved on, only to be bothered the next weekend by creaky footsteps in the hall.

Then it was your papers scattering randomly. A door slammed, an attic hatch swung open, followed by a loud crash.

Yet you stayed.

The deal you’d gotten was far too good for you to give up, and where else would you find a place with amenities included at this price? Though whatever was haunting you seemed determined to scare you off.

From nightmares to shadows in your periphery, he used every trick in the book. Except that over time, there had been a shift in his tactics.

You couldn’t say exactly when it happened, but one day- he just… stopped. No more sleep paralysis, no weird dread that sparked randomly either. For a moment, you thought you’d somehow scared him off.

During the transition period of your move, you’d met his intimidation with obliviousness. Ignoring his silhouette, sleeping in the daytime, and taking night shifts. When that didn’t work, you tried befriending him.

Attempting to make peace with the house by talking to him as if he were an odd roommate, on top of leaving out little snacks for him. And that’s how you got here.

He’d ceased his reign of terror on you for about two weeks before raising the stakes. This time, with a strangely romantic edge.

It began with a single daisy being placed on your bedside table. Naturally, you assumed it wasn’t the resident demon and that you’d gotten too drunk the previous night. Except that way of thinking flew out the window when he became much more straightforward.

The fogged mirror would serve as a canvas, with the words “Pretty” or “Hello, doll !! :)” He’d also roll unlabeled candies through your ajar closet door and scutter back into the darkness when you checked. Speaking of your closet, you didn’t understand how the thing functioned.

When the lights were off, it appeared like there was a void behind your clothing rack. A never-ending pitch black that you could fall into. If the lights were on, you’d be able to touch the back wall in one stretch. It hurt your head, and you decided not to investigate. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist, though.

He used that portal for all kinds of antics.

If you were digging for a sock, it’d only appear slightly out of reach when your room was dim. You’d have to crouch down, crawl from the barely lit space on the carpet to snag it. Sometimes he’d let you grab it; other times he’d continuously tug it farther and farther until you yelled from frustration.

It’d always be returned to you eventually, with you finding the stray sock at the foot of your bed a day later. Or it’d be thrown at the back of your head when you’d given up and stepped away.

At this point, he was more of an annoyance than a life-altering evil. Yet one thing was clear, and it was that he liked you.

Last month, you discovered his name was Jack. Specifically, “Laughing Jack In The Box.”

You’d finally gathered enough motivation to clean out your neglected attic and stumbled upon a music box.

It sat tucked into the corner, layered with dust and looking as cursed as ever. The object was evidently the source of whatever he was, so you were as respectful as you could be. Placing it neatly aside while you tidied the room. This is also when you learned about his clown situation.

While you were elbow-deep in mop water and disinfectant wipes, the music player rattled to life. The handle whirred, the chipped wood jolting as an off-tune melody filled your ears.

You were idle until the song came to a slow, and jumped a tad when the lid popped open. Inside, a porcelain monochrome jester was attached to a spring, about the size of a fist.

Upon further inspection, there was a photo lying at the bottom. An old portrait of what you assumed was him. The edges were faded, his form blurry, and he stood next to a popcorn stand. At first glance, it appeared normal enough- but if you stared, everything in the image was off.

He was too tall, with arms stretching past his knees. The popcorn stand, even in black and white, seemed like a prop. Not one on a movie set or anything of the sort, but as if it were desperately trying to blend in yet failing.

The background seemed almost flat, and his features sat unnaturally on his face. Too sharp, ill-fitting around his jagged teeth. He looked like he was only smiling because that's what people were supposed to do in photographs.

You had called out to him, saying you liked his get-up. Then you got back to work. Wiping down the floors with a Swiffer, organizing the aged boxes from previous owners, and by sunset, you were finished.

He hadn’t done anything else after the music box, so you were left to your own devices. Not a single noise or knocked-over cup in sight.

All that being said, he did a very bad job of staying quiet when it actually mattered.

And he was a pervert.

With the moon lit brightly over the clouds, you were getting ready for some much-deserved relaxation. Your love life was lacklustre, to put it mildly, and your vibrator was luring you in like a siren. You were sure most people would be uncomfortable being explicit in a haunted house, but you just couldn't find it in yourself to care.

The guy had to be at least a hundred. If he was going to loom threateningly in your halls and hide your socks, then he’d have to deal with your bookmarked tabs.

Opening your laptop, you clicked play on a recent favourite. It was basic, yet it fuelled your imagination just enough. The display lit up with a video of a man slouching against his couch, head out of frame.

He undid the drawstrings of his sweats, and you settled against the pillows. Your shirt was already off, panties pulled to the side as you spread your legs.

An important note: your bed was facing the closet.

Another important note: the closet doors were panelled and definitely did not cover the view in the slightest.

You would remember that fact when the glossy toy breached your cunt, and a very scandalized gasp echoed from beyond your wardrobe.

At first, you ignored it. Maybe he was a prude- he was ancient after all. Choosing to pretend you hadn’t noticed anything, you thrust the silicone deeper, sighing. It wasn’t as big as you’d prefer, but you hadn’t had the time to shop for another since your move. It would do for now, and you fixated on the screen. Trying to time your hand with his.

Though only a minute later, shuffling came from the other side of your closet.

Accompanied by panting, you could practically hear him swallow. Now that you were thinking about it, he was tall with big hands. His nose was pointy too, and he was clearly a sexually repressed loser of a demon. He probably hasn’t ever even kissed anybody- which could only mean one thing.

‘Laughing Jack’ had to be packing.

Puffing out your nose, you tossed your toy aside after pausing the video, and the room went dead silent. It was evident that he was attempting to conceal his presence.

Unfortunately for him, you were horny. Swinging your feet off the mattress, you padded over to the closet. Acting clueless so he wouldn’t flee. You moved as if you were reaching for your drawers, just to swing the wardrobe doors open. And there he was.

Scrunched up on the floor, his arms hovered awkwardly, legs folded under him, while he gawked up at you. His hair was longer than in the photo, his neck almost swallowed by a feather ruffle. However, it was the large tent in his patchwork trousers that caught your attention.

He stuttered, shocked. “W-Well, this is quite the first impression-” You dropped to your knees, crawling onto his lap. “Totally.” The purr of your voice wiped the smile clean off his face, and he stumbled back. Propped on his elbows when he tittered nervously.

“You’re very- uh- forward! Has anyone told you that?” His swirled pupils were glued to your face. He was a bashful pervert- who would’ve guessed?

Not answering his question, you hummed. “You ever fucked anyone, Jackie?” Trailing a finger down his broad chest, the nickname had him gulping. “Not particularly, no. Being a full-time entertainer takes work, I’ll have you know.” Attempting to joke, he was in disarray.

Jack had never been so out of his element in his life.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. You were straddling his thighs, bare-chested with only a thin layer of cotton separating your cores.

In all honesty, he hadn’t even touched himself before this, and the weight of you pressing down on his bulge was making his brain reboot. You were so warm- you couldn’t seriously blame him for being dazed, could you?

“Do you want to?” You hummed, running your tongue along your teeth. The faint glow of your lamp gave you a halo, far too angelic for the lust that swam in your gaze.

He stammered. “I’d definitely be open to it. Seems like quite the activi- mmph.” Your lips crashed into his. Jack’s nervous tittering had you soaked, and your patience had run out. You were going to milk this motherfucker dry.

Mouths slotting together, he tasted like watered-down hard candy. The sugar that was left over after you’d finished a lollipop. Your tongues swirled around each other, and he jolted under you.

The sensations made the wire ends spark in his head. Your hands were roaming his chest, his shoulders, up to cup his jaw.

You were squeezing everything there was to squeeze, releasing him with drool stringing between your lips. “Since it’s your first time, you can pick where we start. ‘Kay?” He nodded in response, hyperfocused on your touch. This was fine; he could handle this.

He’d been trapped in a box for years, dealt with horrific violence and mental strain- how intense could physical contact really be? However, as his self-assured pep talk settled, you ground your hips down—

Very intense. Physical contact was really, really intense.

He could feel your cunt mold around his cock, and he borderline choked. “Oh my! Hah, how enthusiastic of you, little human.” Claws shaking by his sides, you grinned.

Ignoring his rambles. “I could suck you off. Use my mouth to ease you into it.” You ran your thumb against his tip, continuing whilst he tried his best to keep eye contact.

“Or I could use my hands, touch you like this-” Your palm pressed against his length, making him gasp. You’d barely done anything, and the imagery was sending him reeling. “Or...”

Lowering your mouth near his ear, “I could just let you fuck me raw, fill me up till you can’t even think straight.” Your breath grazed him only slightly, but that was enough.

You didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. His eyebrows knotted together, lashes fluttering as he whined through gritted teeth. Jack’s spine curved off the wood, and he shuddered beneath you. “Haah- shit.” It was without a doubt that he’d cum untouched; the wetness leaking from his slacks was undeniable.

Slumping after a beat, he panted. “I didn’t- I don’t know what, ngh, happened.” Squinting at you, he looked like he’d genuinely fought for his life.

His hair stuck up in every direction, spit dribbling from his lips when you snickered. “You’re too cute- but I’m not riding you on the floor.” The confusion on his face was obvious, yet you didn’t explain further. Riding? What did that have to do with sex?

Though before he could question you, you rose to your feet, gesturing for him to follow. “C’mon-” You stood at the foot of the bed.

“Let me see you, Jackie.”

Sweat lined his back. Jesus, when was the last time he took off this thing? He didn’t need to shower, use the bathroom or anything of the sort, so undressing wasn’t really necessary.

Gulping, he gave you a strained smile. Undoing the straps over his chest, then his belt, he coughed awkwardly. It was funny to witness someone so uncannily unsettling be so shy, and you chuckled when he hopped to remove his pants.

Jack towered before you, completely bare. His lanky arms faded from an off-white to black at his fingertips, a sparse, happy trail lining his pelvis down to his cock. You almost couldn’t believe your eyes- you knew he was big, but this was something else.

A full nine inches, hanging heavy between his legs, the tip blushed a muted lavender. Your mouth was watering.

Plopping onto the mattress's ledge, you crawled backwards, holding out your arms as you lay against the pillows.

“Come here, gorgeous.” Cheeky, his face flushed, and he climbed over you. Hovering as you cupped his jaw. “You wanna’ help me take these off?” He nodded slightly, holding his breath, gaze flicking down. He hooked a thumb under your panties, tugging them down while you wiggled your hips.

You were being so nice, and your attention overwhelmed him. He’d been ready for you to scream, run, and cry in response. Fear him like everyone else- have him chase you to confess his obsession. He had gone over the scenario time and time again.

You’d see him in his carnage glory, screech at the top of your lungs before begging for your life. He’d be forced to hold you down.

Explain that you just didn’t understand, but you would once he showed you how much you meant to him. He prepped a speech, his persuasion and romance tactics. Yet, you didn’t react in any way close to what he assumed.

You kept giggling, flirty, when you caught him watching you like a degenerate. You called him gorgeous, and now you were offering yourself on a silver platter. He was not prepared for this. At all.

With your underwear removed, you circled his neck, bringing him close. “Do you know what to do?” He sputtered. “Hah- of course I do, my sweet! Just... um.” The pet name felt foreign on his tongue, but you had done the same. He really hopes it didn’t sound weird—

No. Focus.

He was going to ace this if it was the last thing he did.

Wracking his brain for memories, he had seen people participate in the act prior. He was sure of it! This couldn’t be too difficult. He was supposed to go inside you, then move back and forth... he thinks.

The last couple that moved in were decently touchy with each other; it’s just that he was never interested in staying for the whole experience.

He cursed himself. He was blowing the whole charming-you thing, and he couldn’t risk embarrassing himself further. What’s that saying? Fake it till you make it, right? “Okay, I’ll- ah. I’m going to... enter you... now?” Cringing, he lined himself up with your cunt, hissing from his own touch.

Okay, the dirty talk definitely needed work- but he was hot, and you needed the clown in tears.

You spread your thighs wider to make room, and his blunt tip nudged against your folds. Jack was huffing, attempting to find the opening. He missed twice more before you sighed, reaching down to guide him. “Now, push in-” You didn’t expect him to take it as a “slam forward without saying anything”, and you arched sharply.

He was only about a third of the way inside, yet the stretch had you dizzy. “Oh- fuck. Slowly, Jack.” You gasped while he shook above you. Nothing on earth could’ve prepared him for this. You were so tight. It felt like he could barely move, the pulses of your cunt making his eyes roll.

“You’re squeezing me, I- nngh-” He buried his face into your shoulder. “S-sorry, sorry, I can’t.” Then he forced his length deeper, biting down as you screamed. It was as if sopping velvet had enveloped him entirely, the squelch of your cunt ringing in his ears. “I didn’t think it’d feel so- haah-” He keened, his hands scrambling to grasp onto your waist.

His rhythm was sporadic. Moving too quickly, his pelvis thwacking against your mound thrice, before he’d become overwhelmed. His hips stuttered, his body freezing completely. You whined, palms flat against the plains of his back.

“Fuck me, Jackie- c’mon.” You had been pent up for too long, and his pathetic grunts next to your ear had you leaking onto the sheets.

Shivering atop you, he nodded shakily. Desperately trying to please you as he began humping into your cunt. Short, unsteady thrusts, with the pleasure making his eyes water. “Ah- ah- shit. Does it f-feel good? Please, want it to feel good- please.” He dragged his head out from the hollow of your throat, resting his forehead on yours.

You bit down on your lip, moans forced out with every thump against your cervix. “Mhm, so good. Keep- oh- keep going.” The praise made him twitch inside you, his cock weeping an inhuman amount.

Jack’s biology was a mystery to himself- he didn’t know why whoever created him even gave him genitals. The lubricant pouring out of him was constant, thin and milky, making you beyond slick. He couldn’t control it, his voice heightening in pitch when you clenched around him.

It was too good, too overpowering all at once. He wanted to hold it back, stave off the building tightness in his gut, but his willpower was laughably weak. “Sorry- 'm sorry, can’t—” Gasping, his tongue lolled out, pressing against yours as you panted wetly.

Not quite a kiss, your lips simply smushed together. Mouths hanging open, with your saliva mixing and dripping down your chin.

He shuddered violently, muscles tensing from head to toe. His cum painted your tunnel thickly, and you mewled, your nails raking down his back. There was so much.

Blisteringly hot inside you, spilling out to coat his base in an off-white. “Jack-” He slumped into you before you could finish your sentence, hips still faintly jolting. “Too much, sorry- ngh.” He slurred, his limbs boneless. You pouted, huffing. “Mmph, okay.” You should have just done this from the beginning.

You pushed at his chest, and he withdrew by an inch. “I- um, I’ll try again! I promise I’m-”

However, his maw snapped shut the moment you squinted at him. “Get on your back.” An order he rushed to obey, he shuffled to flip over, and you were swift to climb onto him.

Straddling his hips, you slid your sopping slit along his length. “We’ll work on it, but I wanna’ cum, so you’re just gonna’ be good for me and take it, okay?”

You cooed at his quiet sniffling. “I’ll take care of you, gorgeous. Don’t worry.” With that, you nudged his tip to sit against your entrance, sinking down on him only a second later.

The fullness had a blissed-out sigh escaping you, your clit now flush to his happytrail. He whimpered like a dog beneath you, and his claws sank into the fat of your ass.

Head thrown back, he squirmed. The new angle made it feel as if he barely fit, overly snug inside your walls and cramped enough to have his climax already stirring. His eyes rolled up into his skull when you started working yourself open on his girth. “Fuck.”

You were bouncing quickly, not wasting any time to let him adjust. Your pussy slammed onto his girth, and the lewd sounds of skin smacking echoed loudly. You giggled, drunk, while you used him. He hit the spot just right, stretching your hole in a way that had you addicted to the friction.

The ridges of his cock, the veins running up the length, would catch on your opening. Dragging in and out as you fucked down onto him. “Yeah- huuh- mm, yeah.” You moaned, drinking in his ruined expression. Jack was a mess.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, makeup smeared on your pillows. Babbling half-syllables and practically incoherent. He writhed nonstop, turning his face to one side just to jerk his head in the other direction.

“Don’t s-stop- please- pleaseplease- ngh.” His shoulders bowed, brows scrunched up, he bared his canines. His jaw clenched like he was in pain.

For an evil clown, he sure was a pretty crier. Trembling to the point his teeth chattered, tits squished together and dewy with perspiration. It made you greedy, had your hips slowing to a lazy grind before you trailed your touch up his chest. You snickered when a sad whine escaped him, his pout adorable.

“You wanna’ be mine, Jackie?” You murmured, and he nodded in return. “Mmh- y-yes- wanna’ be yours.” His bottom lip wobbling, his hiccups were quiet. Little soft sniffles that seeped into you like a drug.

You grinned. “How bad?” The sudden grip on his pec was firm, making him gasp. “So-! So bad, please.” You were groping him everywhere.

Kneading at his tits, his biceps, feeling him up to your heart's content. You were ravenous, your hunger never-ending and insatiable.

“Ugh, so cute. I’m totally keeping you.” Then you wrapped a hand around his throat, an iron hold on his windpipe. “Open your mouth, pretty boy.” His tongue swirled out, glistening while you pitched forward.

You spit a fat glob into his mouth and moaned when he gulped, picking up the pace without a word. He practically arched off the linen. “Fuck- please- huh, f-fuck me please- so good. Feels s’good.” Jack had no idea what the fuck he was saying, the begs clawing their way up, driven by pure need alone.

His whines were lewd, pornographic, like he’d never heard. He had no idea he could even sound like this. Raw and visceral as he watched you ride him to Heaven's gate.

Your pussy was so wet, your arousal coating his hilt- he choked. “Cumming- cumming- nngh—” Running out of air, he garbled, drool bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

But you were a sadist, and his pathetic nature was too beautiful to end now. You had to stretch it out, savour his tears as if you were parched.

You began humping his cock roughly, molding your lips to his. He laced your tongues together, the striped muscle elongating to explore your mouth.

His glowing pupils had formed hearts when you finally released him with a syrupy smack, and you hummed, cooing. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding from me.” You clamped around him, ensnaring him with your cunt.

“You’re so fucking big- I gotta’ milk your pretty cock to make up for how selfish you are, Jackie.” He sobbed at that, the pleasure having his head spinning like a carousel. He’d just poured a load inside you, and you were already forcing another one out of him.

He thinks he’s dying. Jack genuinely believed you were going to send him to the afterlife with your cunt. Immortality be damned, this would be his demise.

Sensations he didn’t know existed had him gagging on his own saliva like a whore, his body going haywire at every corner.

“Oh, haah- look at me.” You gasped, palm pushing down even harder. His gaze snapped to meet yours, his lids fighting to stay open. It felt like he was going to explode, the mattress squeaking, the headboard battering into the wall.

His face paint had stained your skin, white and black slathered across your cheek and lips, proof of how you ravaged him. You were ruthless, abusing his oversensitive length with abandon. “Uh- mmh-” The noises you made weren’t helping his restraint at all.

Sickeningly sugary, filthy as you chased your own high. Your free hand joined the one at his neck, a collar crafted out of lust and possession. His legs shook, his abdomen painfully tight. “Who’s pussy is this?” You drawled, constricting his airways, and he slurred in response. “Ah- nnh- wha-?”

You slammed your cunt down, extra punishing. “Who’s fucking pussy is this, Jackie?” Your eyes were ice-cold, hips mean. He thrashed, his struggle to escape the stimulation useless. “I- nngh- uh- uh- m-mine?” You sneered.

Ramming your heat up and down his cock hard enough to make him convulse. “Say it like you mean it, big boy-” You snarled, making him scratch at your thighs. His lungs were about to collapse- and he could’ve sworn he didn’t need those. “I’m yours- you own this perfect fucking cunt.” Mercy was not a name you knew well, and he keened.

Panting, his vision blurred, the pressure in his skull a centimetre away from bursting. He flailed under you, slurring. “Y-Yes, ma’am! Huuh- fuck- fuckfuck-” His broken cries sent you over the edge, and you gasped.

Tensing, with your spine curving, you squirted around his girth. Soaking his pelvis and thighs, climax hitting you like lightning. He spurted gluey ropes inside your tunnel, stuffing you to the fucking brink- then he went limp. Chest heaving when you released his throat, he blinked slowly, dazed.

You pecked his jaw, dragging kisses up to his cheekbone. “Good boy. You’re like- so cutesy, y’know?” He exhaled shakily, his massive frame a dead weight.

Jack could barely reply, yet his weak attempt made you giggle anyway. “Mm, you’re super boyfriend material. I’ve been needing a strong man to help me relax.” He didn’t really understand what that meant, but he was glad you were happy.

His breathing slowed bit by bit while you spoke, an exhaustion he hadn’t felt in decades cementing him in place. The last time he was even close to this tire was when he went on that killing spree back in two thousand eight. And that was a full day of slaughter.

You must be a succubus. A higher-level demon. Some all-powerful monster with a pussy made out of soul-draining diamond.

“We should get matching PJ’s! It’d be fun, we can have a movie night tomorrow cause I’m off till Monday—”

And apparently, he was now your boyfriend. Jack supposed the weird human sayings were true after all.

You do miss all the shots you don’t take.

— ^ ^ —

LJ lovers I hope you are well fed.

[xeregar]

I wish im back In 2014.

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── 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.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Horror, fear, imaginary friend!Laughing Jack, non-canon characters, stalking, obsession, plot heavy, inexperienced sex, virginity, monster fucking, inhumanly long tongue, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, biting, scratching, hair pulling, rough sex, virgin!Laughing Jack, mentions of murder, creampie, breeding

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . 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!!

────────────────────────────────────────────

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!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[stinkymuskrat]

i forgot oliver existed halfway through reading this 😭😭

[druap]

inspired by this tiktok

[druap]

[cerosin-bis]

um. uhh. Yeah

[alldowner]

based on a dream i had

[vinctki]

Johnny's in a meeting

No mask below

[slavery]

[macbethz]

Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.

[seananmcguire]

BURN BAGEL BURN

[gothiccharmschool]

OH WHY NOT?

[harukami]

I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.

Bagel what are your powers

[acabosetotal]

FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.

THE BAGEL POWERS ARE WAY TOO MUCH FOR THIS WORLD

[token-white-friend]

I GOT A JOB THE DAY AFTER MY QUEUE POSTED THIS THE FIRST TIME AND I JUST REALIZED IT WHEN I SAW IT AGAIN HOLY GOD

[noodle-dragon]

The bagel hasn’t let me down yet!

[tentacles-and-coffee]

Let’s see what you can do bagel

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[geminiagentgreen]

[system-a-naturae]

[silbervvind]

[wntwsns]

Three people, one damn problem

[spinmearoundd-deactivated202411]

[thefoulbeast]

cold judgement

[cerosin-bis]

You draw shoes very very well I’m always so impressed cause my drawings always get the:

HMHFSLSGK PLEASE....... thank you so much.. I really appreciate it! Believe it or not, for the longest time I couldn't for the life of me draw shoes... and, like hands, at some point something changed and... now it's what I like drawing the most?!

Funnily enough it usually starts with exactly the shape you're showing... Behold my demonstration below between two tasks at work

[total-killer-brainrot]

Kinktober Day 2

Coming untouched + Kidnapping

Konig's head throbbed. Even the dim lighting hurt his eyes. It felt like an knife digging into the inside of his skull, chipping away at bone and causing him the most terrible pain. He forced his eyes wide and blinked quickly, trying to will away the spots in his vision. The sound of a sweet little gasp making his ears ring.

"You're awake! Oh good!"

A familiar face bobbed into view. It took him a while, but he definitely recognised you. The cute barista who always stammered out his name when calling his order. What were you doing here? Were you in trouble? He reached out to check you for injuries, only to realise he was tied to his chair. Pretty well too. He couldn't twist his arms at all in the binds. You placed a cool hand to his cheek to tilt his head up, the chill of your skin a relief against his overheating skin.

"Oh I'm so sorry..." you cooed, dabbing a damp rag at his head, the sudden sting making him hiss through his teeth. When you pulled back the rag was stained red. "You're just such a big guy... I was worried you wouldn't go down... So I just hit you as hard as I could."

It was coming back to him now. Foggy and blurry, but the memories were there. Arriving at home, getting out of his car, then pain, then nothing. And now here. With your pretty face smiling down at him.

You cupped his cheeks gently, your thumb running along his lower lip. And despite the confusion, and honestly, anger, at his current situation, he couldn't deny that the soft touch did something to him. It was such a stark contrast to what was going on. Locked up in what looked like a small empty basement, no windows, one set of stairs leading up, presumably to the rest of the house. Compared to you. As neatly done up as you were at work, always presentable with a genuine smile just for him. When he didn't say anything you started to ramble nervously.

"I didn't know how to ask you out... you just seem so... jesus... so mysterious. So hot. My god, so hot... and I don't know... I mean look at me..."

He started to tune you out. Focusing on the way you gently pet through his hair. Carefully avoiding the head wound you had inflicted. You were still talking as he shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of how hard he was. It was ridiculous. But something about the nervous way you spoke, mixed with the soft way you held him, mixed with the fact that you had bloody kidnapped him. You were everything he had ever been looking for.

His eyes fluttered closed when your hand light scratched his scalp down to the nape of his neck.

"I just figured this was the easiest way, you know? I can make sure you don't like... disappear if you get freaked out."

He shuddered, feeling his cock press against the zipper of his jeans. Your nails dragging through his hair sent tingling pleasure down his spine. Konig was a fairly easy guy to get off. But this was new. You hadn't even so much as looked at his cock and he was already about to cum in his pants. And then you tugged on his hair hard, forcing his head back, and he came.

"You're listening to me right? You wouldn't disappear on me? Right? I went through all this effort to get you here. You're a heavy guy you know..."

You trailed off at the sight of his eyes rolling back into his head. His hips barely able to buck upwards due to the ropes. You gasped at the very obvious sight of his softening boner, framed by the even more obvious wet patch where he had just cum. A grin spread across your face and you wrapped him in a big hug.

"Oh I knew you'd understand! I love you, baby."