Unrequited love is a quiet kind of agony—until a twenty credit worth antique twig promises to fix it. You makes your wish: Make him love me. It works, but not without a catch. Life is full of surprises, after all.
fanart by @/ieririr on x
Pairing: Phainon / Reader
Word count: 13934
Contents: inspired by Obsession (yikes), yandere! Phainon, toxic co-dependency, mentions of suicide and self-harm, psychological horror, guilt, animal death, murder, coercion, dubcon, unprotected sex, missionary, extremely unsettling behaviour from Mr. Aedes Elysiae
... .- ...- . / -- .
I. The Weight Of Unsaid Words
The fluorescent lights of the video and record rental shop hummed with a low, steady vibration that you had long since learned to tune out. It was a Tuesday afternoon, slow and quiet, the kind of day where time seemed to stretch out like warm vinyl.
You stood behind the counter, holding a stack of returned indie films, but your eyes kept straying to the glass front doors. Every time the brass bell above the threshold chimed, your heart did a brief, involuntary leap—only to settle back down into a dull ache when it turned out to be a casual customer or a lost tourist.
You were waiting for Phainon.
You had been waiting for Phainon, in one way or another, for nearly eight months.
It was absurd, really. You worked together twice a week. You shared the same circle of friends. You spent hours sitting in cramped booth seats at the late-night diner down the street, nursing lukewarm coffee while Mydei babbled on about music theory or local drama. Yet, whenever Phainon entered the room, you felt like a novice diver standing at the edge of a high cliff, terrified of taking the plunge.
"You're doing that thing again," a voice called out from the back aisles.
You blink, pulling your attention back to the stack of cases in your hands. Cyrene emerged from Row four, balancing a box of newly cataloged foreign films against her hip. She threw you a knowing, sympathetic look.
"What thing?" You asked, attempting a tone of total innocence as you began sliding the cases onto the display rack.
"The staring-at-the-door-like-a-victorian-heroine-waiting-for-her-sailor thing," she said, setting the box down on the counter with a thud. "He’s thirty minutes late for his shift, [Name]. He probably got caught up with his designs, again. You know how he gets."
"I wasn't staring," you murmured, though your cheeks warmed instantly. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, focusing intently on organizing the plastic cases by genre. "I was just... checking the time."
"Right. And the clock is conveniently mounted right next to the front door," Cyrene teased, leaning her elbows on the counter. Her expression softened. "Why don't you just tell him?"
You froze, your fingers resting on a worn copy of a French drama. "Tell him what?"
"Oh, come on. 'Phainon, I think you're incredible. Phainon, I've had a massive crush on you since the day you showed up to practice with grease on your chin and played the most beautiful melody I've ever heard.' Something like that."
"It wasn't grease, it was bike chain lube," you corrected automatically. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and sat down on the high stool behind the register. "And I can't just tell him, Cyrene. You know how he is. He’s... guarded. He keeps everyone at a subtle distance, even Mydei, sometimes. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose everything. I lose the friendship, the quiet afternoons here, the way he looks up and smiles when I walk into the room."
"Or," Cyrene countered gently, "you win everything. Have you considered that? The guy looks at you like you hung the moon, [Name]. I watch him when you aren't paying attention."
You shook your head, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you. "That's just how he is. He's polite. He's a gentle person. He treats everyone with this quiet reverence... well, except when he's arguing with De about... which of them has the bigger biceps."
You reached down, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the smooth, dark surface of the disc.
"Besides," you added softly, looking down at your hands, "I don't even know how to bring it up. Whenever I try to steer the conversation into something more... personal, my mind goes completely blank. I get so guarded. I end up talking about movies or asking about his dog."
"Snowy," Cyrene smiled. "How is the little monster, anyway?"
"Phainon said he’s been acting strange lately. Eating weird things, hiding under the sink. He said he was going to set out some pest traps because he noticed rats, but he’s been so stressed with his final design portfolio that I worry he’s forgetting to take care of himself."
Before she could reply, the bell above the front door chimed sharp and clear.
Your head snapped up.
Phainon walked in, brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his eyes. He was wearing his usual faded jacket over a charcoal sweater, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted—dark circles smudged beneath his sharp, expressive eyes—but the moment his gaze met yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted.
"Sorry I'm late," Phainon said, his voice carrying that familiar, low, resonant timbre that made your pulse flutter. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down on the wooden surface. "Traffic near the campus was an absolute nightmare, and Mydei took twenty minutes just to choose a sandwich at the deli."
"It's fine," you said, offering him a warm, soft smile. "Cyrene was just keeping me company."
"I was actually just leaving," Cyrene said with a dramatic wave of her hand, grabbing her shoulder bag from behind the register. She flashed you a subtle, deliberate wink before turning to Phainon. "Don't let her work too hard, Phainon. She’s been re-sorting the foreign section for an hour just to keep busy."
"I'll take over," Phainon promised, giving her a small, polite nod as she headed out the door.
Once the bell chimed again, a comfortable, heavy quiet fell over the shop. Phainon stepped behind the counter, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the back room door.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Every detail of his presence was intoxicating to you—the faint scent of rain and cedar that followed him, the careful, deliberate way he moved, the slight furrows in his brow when he was lost in thought. You wanted so desperately to reach out, to smooth those lines away, to tell him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"How was your morning?" Phainon asked, pulling a stack of return logs toward himself.
"Quiet," you replied, leaning your side against the counter so you could face him. "Not many people coming in on a rainy Tuesday. Did you finish your rendering for the project?"
Phainon groaned softly, resting his forehead against his palm for a brief second. "Barely. My professor gave me a hard time about the structural proportions of the entryway. I stayed up until four in the morning redesigning the entire facade. It's still shit."
"You work too hard, Phainon," you say, your voice dropping into a tone of soft, genuine concern. "You need to rest. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense focus that made your throat catch. "I sleep fine," he murmured. Then, a rare, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I'd sleep better if Mydei stopped calling me at two in the morning to pitch lyrics that sound like they were written by an angsty middle schooler."
You laughed—a bright, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim corners of the shop. Phainon’s gaze lingered on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch.
Say it, a voice whispered inside your head. Tell him right now. Tell him you want to be the one he calls at two in the morning. Tell him you love him.
You swallowed hard, opening your mouth to speak, but the courage vanished as quickly as it had come. The fear of ruining this—this perfect, fragile closeness—paralyzed you.
Instead, you gestured to the record racks. "Are you... fine being on your own later? I'd like to leave a little earlier, too. I've got... stuff."
"Yeah," Phainon said, his tone shifting back to its usual measured composure.
For the next two hours, you worked side by side in a harmony built on months of shared routines. You organized tapes, chatted about trivial things, and laughed over absurd movie plot summaries. To anyone looking through the shop window, you looked like two people completely in sync.
But beneath the surface, you were drowning in everything you couldn't say.
You looked at him while he reached up to place a tape on the top shelf, noticing the slight strain of his muscles beneath his sweater. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to rest your head on his shoulder. You wanted him to look at you, not just as a reliable coworker or a sweet friend, but as the only person he wanted.
Tomorrow, you promised yourself, clutching your skirt until the edges pressed firmly into your palm. Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him.
.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--
II: A Gift of Dust and Promises
The rain had settled into a steady, persistent drizzle by the time you had left. The streets downtown glistened under the amber streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night stalls and old bookstores like smeared watercolors.
You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck as you walked down the cobblestone side street. Your mind was racing, your thoughts caught in a dizzying loop of anticipation and nervous energy. Tonight was supposed to be the night. You had spent the last two hours at the register rehearsing a simple, honest confession over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.
“Phainon, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”
It sounded too plain.
“Phainon, you’re the most important person in my life, and I want to be more than just your friend.”
It felt too dramatic.
You let out a breathy sigh, a pale cloud of vapor rising into the cool air. He likes simple things, you reminded yourself. Directness. Authenticity.
Hence, you opted to navigate the narrow (and creepy) alleys instead of heading straight home. Phainon had a quiet, almost childlike fascination with old things—tactile remnants of the past that held history within their grain. His apartment was filled with vintage brass compasses, mid-century architectural blueprints, and worn leather-bound notebooks.
If you were going to tell him how you felt, you wanted to ground the moment. You wanted to give him something meaningful—a token to anchor the memory, to show him that you truly paid attention to the quiet details of his life.
At the end of a dimly lit alley, tucked between a closed tailor shop and a shuttered bakery, sat Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios. It was an obscure, unmarked antique store you had passed a dozen times but never actually entered. Warm, dim light spilled from its dusty bay windows, illuminating shelves packed with bizarre glass bottles, stacks of parchment, and tarnished silver frames.
You pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell overhead gave a dull, metallic clink, and the sharp scent of cedar, dried lavender, and aged paper immediately wrapped around you.
"We're closing in ten minutes," a dry voice echoed from behind a high wooden counter near the back.
You looked over. Sitting on a tall stool was an older woman with sharp, observant lavender eyes and brown hair swept under a huge hat. She was polishing a small bronze pocket watch with a velvet cloth, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
"I won't take long," you promised politely, offering a gentle smile. "I'm just looking for a small gift. For a friend."
The woman gave a short, imperceptible nod and returned to her watch, leaving you to wander through the labyrinth of crowded narrow aisles.
You browsed slowly, your fingers lightly skimming over the smooth brass surfaces of vintage pocket knives, intricate mechanical gears, and hand-carved wooden chess pieces. Everything was beautiful, but nothing felt right. A fountain pen felt too formal; an antique magnifying glass felt too novelty.
You turned into the rearmost corner of the shop, where the shadows hung heavier and the air felt curiously still. On a velvet-lined display shelf resting beneath a glass dome, something caught your eye—not because it was grand, but because of how starkly simple it was.
It was a small, minimalist box made of smooth, unpainted white paperboard. It sat entirely alone on the shelf, completely out of place among the ornate brass and dark mahogany surrounding it.
Curious, you reached out and carefully lifted the glass dome. You picked up the box, turning it over in your hands. Printed on the front in thin, charcoal-gray typography was a single phrase:
ONE WISH WILLOW
Break with intention. One use only.
Wishes do come true. Be careful what you ask for.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A wishbone made of wood. It was absurdly poetic—the exact kind of whimsical, slightly melancholic oddity that Phainon would find fascinating. He would probably place it on his desk next to his architecture sketches, wondering what to wish for every time he looked at it, and in extension he would think of you.
You slid open the top cover. Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, was a single, thin willow twig. It was pale, delicate, and looked utterly fragile, as if a single press of a thumb could snap it into dust.
"I wouldn't linger on that one," a voice spoke softly from right beside you.
You nearly jumped, holding the box close to your chest. The shopkeeper had moved with impossible quietness, now standing at the end of the aisle, her sharp eyes resting heavily on the box in your hands.
"Oh," you said, steadying your breath. "Is it an antique? It looks... remarkably modern compared to everything else."
"It isn't modern," the shopkeeper replied, her tone flat and measured. "It's old stock. Older than this building. People buy things like that thinking it's a game or a clever conversation starter for a coffee table."
"And isn't it?" You asked with a faint, amused smile.
"A wish isn't a game," the woman said, stepping closer. The dim overhead light cast long, dramatic shadows across her face. "Intent is a dangerous force when given a physical form to break. Most people who buy those come back eventually, looking for a way to mend the wood."
You looked down at the delicate twig resting against the dark velvet. The shopkeeper's dramatic warnings felt like part of the store's theatrical charm, but there was a quiet, chilling sincerity in the woman's eyes that made your throat go dry.
"I'm not buying it to use it," you say softly, your thumb tracing the clean edge of the box. "It's a gift for someone special. He appreciates... unusual things."
"Someone special," the shopkeeper repeated, her gaze narrowing slightly. "A man?"
You felt a faint warmth climb up your neck. You nodded slowly. "A friend."
The shopkeeper stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with a look that felt less like suspicion and more like deep, weary pity.
"Twenty credits," the woman said abruptly, turning her back and walking toward the register. "Consider it a fee for curiosity. There won't be any refunds."
You blinked, surprised by the sudden transaction. The shopkeeper wrapped the box in a layer of brown butcher paper, tying it with a simple piece of jute twine.
You hesitated. It was absurd. It was superstitious nonsense. You believed you were a rational archivist, and you spent your days indexing factual historical data. Magic twigs in velvet boxes did not alter human emotion.
Yet, as you remembered Phainon’s polite, distant smile from earlier that afternoon—the agonizing distance that separated you even when you stood inches apart—your hand moved to your coat pocket for your wallet.
"I'll take it," you whispered.
"Remember," the woman said softly, sliding the package across the counter. Her voice lowered to a harsh, quiet whisper. "Desire makes people foolish. If you ever break that twig, make sure you are prepared to live with the exact words you utter. The universe has a cruel sense of humor when fulfilling a desperate heart."
.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--
The rain drummed heavily against the glass of your apartment windows. The flat was quiet, lit only by the soft orange glow of a floor lamp in the corner.
You sat on the edge of your bed, the lacquered box open on the table beside you. The willow twig was in it. After the ominous warnings, and your insomnia blurring your head, you felt it unsafe to gift Phainon such a thing. You could try using it, just to conclude it's genuine.
You simply wanted to satisfy your own burning curiosity.
You picked it up. The wood was cold—colder than the ambient temperature of the room—and surprisingly heavy for its size. Its texture was slick and unnaturally smooth, free of any natural grain or bark imperfection.
"This is ridiculous," you murmured into the empty room. "I am a twenty-four-year-old adult sitting in my living room holding a stick."
You made a move to toss it back into the box, but stopped.
Phainon’s face flashed in your mind. His calm, pale eyes. The quiet precision of his voice. The maddening barrier of his absolute self-control. What if you didn't have to spend years waiting for him to notice you? What if you could just... melt the ice?
You squeezed your eyes shut. You brought the white willow twig up between your thumbs and forefingers.
You pictured Phainon clearly in your mind: standing under the soft warm light of the archive lamp, looking at you not as a quiet colleague or a pleasant acquaintance, but with affection. Love. You wanted to be his priority. You wanted him to love you.
"I wish Phainon loved me more than anything else in existence," you mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat.
You applied pressure.
CRACK.
The snap was loud—far louder than a twig of that size should have produced. It sounded like a sharp whip crack echoing through the small apartment.
A sudden blast of frigid air swept through the closed living room, causing the flame of the corner lamp to flicker violently. For a split second, you felt a bizarre sensation of weightlessness, as if the air had been vacuumed out of your lungs.
Then, silence returned.
The rain continued to hit the windowpanes. The lamp flickered back to a steady burn.
In your hands, the willow twig was broken cleanly into two jagged halves. The wood inside was strangely dark, almost charcoal-black at the point of the fracture.
You sat frozen for a long moment, waiting for... something. A sign? A revelation?
Nothing happened.
You let out a long breath, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. "Stupid. Absolute scam."
You tossed the two broken pieces into the trash bin beneath your bed, shut off the lamp, and went to bed, thoroughly embarrassed by your own desperation.
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
III: The Unraveling
The next afternoon, you arrived at the shop ten minutes earlier than your shift. The morning air was crisp, and the sky had cleared into a pale, brilliant blue.
Phainon was already there.
He wasn't working. He wasn't sorting the discs or checking the morning delivery. He was simply standing beside the door, his hands clasped loosely together, staring intently at the empty space where you usually sat.
"Phainon?" you call, startled as you hung your coat on the rack. "You're early today. Is there an issue with the morning delivery?"
Phainon turned.
The moment his eyes locked onto you, you felt a strange, electric shiver run down your spine. His expression wasn't his usual serene, polite mask. His eyes were wide, unnervingly focused, his pale irises bright and sharp.
"No issue," Phainon said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, breathless cadence. "I just... I couldn't stay at home this morning."
"Why? Did your heating go out again?" You asked, walking over to the desk and setting down your bag.
Phainon didn't step back to give you space as he usually did. Instead, he remained standing right beside your chair, his gaze following your every movement with absolute, unwavering tracking.
"No," he said softly, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your eyes, your lips, the movement of your breath. "I woke up at four in the morning, [Name]. And the only thought in my mind... the only thing that felt real... was that I needed to see you."
You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke or teasing. But Phainon’s face was entirely severe. There was no amusement in his eyes—only an intense, singular focus that made the air between you feel terrifyingly thick.
"Phainon... are you feeling alright?" You whispered, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.
"I have never felt more clear," Phainon replied. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between you until his knees brushed against the side of the desk. He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating in the air before gently, reverently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingertips were cold, but his breath was warm against your skin.
"I thought about calling you this morning," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetism that made you forget how to breathe. "I thought about walking to your apartment in the rain just to see you. Then, I remembered you'd come to work today."
Your head reeled. A heady mixture of disbelief, wild euphoria, and a faint, subtle prick of fear rose in your chest.
"Phainon," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly. "You... you've never spoken to me like this before."
"I know," Phainon admitted softly, his thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. The gesture was tender, but his grip on himself seemed remarkably fragile, like a dam holding back a violent flood. "I was blind before. I wasted so many months treating you like background music in my life. But when I woke up today... it was as if a veil had been torn away. You are the only thing that matters, [Name]. Everything else is just noise."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
The transition from Phainon’s quiet admiration to complete, total fixation did not take months or weeks—it took less than forty-eight hours.
Phainon was everywhere. When you stepped out of your apartment building at eight in the morning, having skipped breakfast to catch a train to your college, he was already waiting on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in his dark wool overcoat against the morning chill.
"You didn't need to stand out here in the cold," you told him on the third morning, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck.
"I didn't mind," Phainon said smoothly, taking your satchel from your shoulder without asking and slinging it over his own. His pale eyes searched your face with a quiet, hungry focus. "The apartment felt hollow after five. Waiting here is the only part of my morning that feels real."
You smiled, brushing your shoulder against his as you walked toward the train. "You slept poorly?"
"Not well," Phainon admitted, his gaze drifting from the cobblestones to the side of your face with a steady, unblinking intensity. "But it doesn't matter much anymore. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for a proper start to the day."
You shook your head, a soft, amused sigh escaping your lips. "You're melodramatic, you know that?"
"How about this? I know what it feels to spend most time counting down the hours until I see someone again," he replied smoothly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours with every synchronized stride.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the approaching autumn and the rich aroma of the roasted coffee beans from the corner shop he frequented. As you reached the bustling station platform, the rhythmic clatter of the incoming commuter train drowned out the morning chatter of students and office workers.
Phainon guided you gently by the elbow—a polite, habitual gesture by now—steering you away from the edge of the platform toward a pair of surprisingly vacant seats near the center carriage. His fingers lingered against yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away to take the seat beside you.
"What are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched you take a sip. "Your schedule usually frees up by two, doesn't it?"
"It does," you said, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to wait outside my lecture hall with a sandwich this time?"
A faint, self-aware smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp angles of his features. "Only if you forgot to eat lunch. Though... I was actually hoping you might want to visit that bookstore near the station. You mentioned needing a new textbook last week, and I found the registry."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
Cyrene pulled you aside near the breakroom kettle the next week.
"Okay, what happened?" Cyrene whispered, leaning in close. "Did he drink something strange? Did he join a cult? Six days ago, he barely said three words to you without clearing his throat, and now he looks like he'd jump in front of a moving train if you accidentally dropped a pencil in the street."
You stirred your tea, your gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "He's just showing how he feels, Rene. You were the one telling me he had feelings for me."
"I meant he had a crush, not that he was preparing to commission a marble statue in your likeness!" Cyrene hissed, casting a wary glance toward the open breakroom door as if expecting Phainon to materialize from thin air. "There's normal romantic interest, and then there's whatever... that is. The man memorized your class schedule. I saw him checking a color-coded laminated planner yesterday, and I'm eighty percent sure it was yours."
You stirred your tea again, watching the small whirlpool settle. "It's not laminated," you muttered defensively, though you had to admit the planner detail was a bit much. "He's just thorough."
"He's a golden retriever with the soul of a Victorian poet," Cyrene corrected, crossing her arms. "Just... keep one eye open, okay? Make sure he has hobbies outside of orbiting you."
"He does," you said, though you struggled to name a single one that didn't involve you as of lately.
Cyrene arched a single brow, waiting.
"He... reads," you offered weakly.
"Right. And what does he read? Historical accounts of people who stared at doors until their objects of affection walked through them?" Cyrene sighed, uncrossing her arms and patting your shoulder. "Just set some boundaries, alright? Before you wake up and find out he's legally changed his name to match yours."
Before you could defend him further, the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the door swung open. Phainon stepped inside, his dark coat dusted with a light morning mist, his pale eyes instantly locking onto yours with the absolute gravity of a compass needle finding true north.
"There you are," he murmured, his expression smoothing into a soft, devoted smile the moment he reached your side. "I brought you that pastry from the bakery across the street. The one with the raspberry filling you like."
You glanced sidelong at Cyrene, whose expression was a masterclass in polite disbelief.
"Thanks, Phainon," you said, taking the small white bag. "You really didn't have to."
"It's no trouble," he replied smoothly, already reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Nothing is, as long as you're having a good morning."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
Phainon feels like he's drowning. Everything is muddled. It's like he's floating. But he's not. He can feel it. The scream bubbled up in his chest.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
He sees it all through the eyes of another. It's his voice, but it's not. It's not his movements. He couldn't.
He screams inside his head. He pounds harder. He needs to get out.
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
IV. The Glass Shatters
Loudly, you gasp and swoop down—frightening Phainon only a little—to smooth your hands over his dog's white fur. "Puppy!" you're borderline squealing in glee, and that's a new sight for Phainon, "So big!" You encourage the dog to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.
"Snowy," Phainon clarifies (as if you could forget), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under Snowy's chin, grinning when he starts barking in your coddling hold.
"I love you, Snowy," you whisper to the dog, and Phainon sits on the floor beside you after figuring the dog won’t be moving on from you anytime soon. You’ve been looking forward to this since he'd promised to take you to his place, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded. "Didn’t know you liked dogs so much, [Name], I would’ve introduced you sooner."
"He looks like you," you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle the dog off, "And his fur feels so nice."
Phainon feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, he’s lugging you off the floor and towards his room. He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with his dog now locked outside the room. He wanted you to touch him like that. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of white hair.
Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Phainon's eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, "Do you want me to pet you?"
He nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms. "Okay."
You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.
Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.
This feels right. Crushed and warm.
Everything is right in this instance, in this world. But he's not sure he wants to. But not wanting to isn't exactly his job. His job is to make you happy. "I’m going to kiss you."
You go limp in bed and allow Phainon's hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your top before gliding his hands under those and resting over your midriff. He clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse.
The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head. "I don't want to..." Phainon's hands peel off from your body to stow in his lap. You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, "What?"
"This isn’t it," he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, "You’re not into it…" he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect). The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you don’t notice the flooding along his lower lashes.
What if you finally do have sex and realize you never wanted him at all? What good is he doing then?
The statement comes off more monotone than intended, but you read in his everything: the slight twitch of his brow, the light sweat starting to form on his forehead, the way his sight flickers to your neck and eyes for half a millisecond.
You furrow your eyebrows at the way he tilted his head, and the slight anguish painted on his features. "I need you to shut up." He breathes, desperately, but does not relent when your hands dig into his shoulders. "Okay."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
That night, you tried to establish boundaries.
You let him walk you home, but insisted on sleeping at your own apartment alone, refusing his offer to stay the night. Phainon had agreed without argument—his absolute devotion meant he complied with your every command, even when it clearly pained him.
"If that is what you wish, [Name]," he had said on your doorstep, his voice strained and hollow. "I will wait outside."
"No, Phainon. Go home to your apartment. Sleep."
"I will try," he said softly.
At 2:00 AM, you woke up with an unsettling prickle of ice along your spine.
The bedroom was silent. The city outside was drenched in a low, gray fog.
You got out of bed, pulling your shirt down to hide your skin from the chill, and crept into the dark living room. You walked over to the bay window that looked out onto the street below.
Standing directly across the street, beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlight, was Phainon.
He wasn't wearing a coat despite the biting wind and cold drizzle. He stood completely motionless, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his face angled upward toward your second-floor window.
He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking his watch. He was simply standing in the freezing rain, staring up at your darkened glass, waiting for the precise moment you would re-emerge.
You gasp, pulling back behind the curtain, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
You ran to your front door, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. You sprinted down the two flights of stairs in your socks, burst through the glass front doors of the building, and ran into the empty street.
"Phainon!" you screamed through the cold night air.
He stepped out from under the streetlight, his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead, his skin pale and translucent under the wet light. As soon as he saw you, a soft, beautiful, terribly broken smile appeared on his face.
"You came down," he murmured, walking toward you with quick, eager strides. "I knew you would."
"What are you doing?!" You cry, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold arms. "You've been standing out here in the freezing cold for hours! I told you to go home!"
"I tried," Phainon whispered, looking down at you with pure, unadulterated adoration. "I got to the end of the block, and my body wouldn't move any further. Every step away from you felt like ripping my own flesh open. It was easier to just stay here and look at your window."
"Fine," you choked out, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You can... you can sleep on the couch. But do not come into my bedroom, Phainon. Do you understand me?"
Phainon looked up, his smile returning—bright, desperate, and empty. "I understand. I'll stay right there. I won't move an inch."
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
V: The Anatomy of a Caged Bird
You did not sleep.
You lay in your bed with the bedroom door locked, the duvet pulled up to your chin, listening to the absolute, suffocating silence of the apartment.
Around 4:00 AM, you heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking outside your door.
You sat up instantly, your body locking with terror. You watched the narrow gap at the bottom of your door where the hallway light flickered.
A shadow blocked the light.
Then came a soft, rhythmic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Phainon was pressing his forehead gently against the wooden door panel from the outside.
"[Name]?" his voice drifted through the wood, paper-thin and hauntingly calm. "Are you breathing?"
You held your breath, tears streaming down your face in the dark. What the fuck?
"I can't hear you breathing through the door," Phainon murmured softly. "Please just make a sound. Just let me know you're still alive in there. If something happened to you... I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."
"I'm alive, Phainon!" You sobbed out quietly. "Go back to the couch! Please!"
"Thank you," he whispered back, his shadow remaining fixed against the bottom of the door. "I'll stay right here so I can hear you."
You buried your face in your pillows, trying so hard to catch the sleep that had completely evaded you.
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
You'd asked him to go home the next day. "For Snowy," you tried to negotiate.
He called in an hour or two.
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Phainon finally spoke, his voice didn't sound like his own. It was hollow, flat, and completely devoid of inflection, carrying an eerie, mechanical weight that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"[Name]," he whispered quietly. "Snowy died."
The words hung in the space between you, heavy and unnatural, bleeding through the speaker of the phone with a strange, muffled resonance.
"[Name]," Phainon repeated, his voice dragging across the syllables like dry paper. "Snowy is dead."
For a long moment, you could only stare at the dark wallpaper of your bedroom, the shock of his behaviour last night instantly colliding with this cold, terrifying piece of news. Your breath hitched, your throat tightening as your mind struggled to bridge the gap between his earlier dismissal to your privacy and this sudden, tragic vulnerability.
"Phainon... what happened?" You asked, your voice trembling, all thoughts of your own humiliation washing away under a wave of sudden, aching concern. "I... I'm so sorry. Was he sick? Did something happen while you were here?"
On the other end, there was a long, suffocating stretch of silence. Phainon stood in the center of his dimly lit apartment, the cool glow of the refrigerator casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. He stared down at the small paper bag resting at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.
He didn't tell you about the pest control pellets he had scattered across the baseboards after coming home, entirely consumed by his spiraling thoughts of you. He didn't tell you how he had found the small white dog curled rigidly on the cold bathroom tile, his jaws slightly parted, or how the bitter realization of his own jealousy had hit him with the force of a physical blow. He didn't mention the numbing efficiency with which he had wrapped his small body in a towel and disposed of him, burying his own guilt beneath a rigid wall of silence.
"I... I don't want to talk about it over the phone," Phainon said finally, his tone flattening into something dangerously controlled. "Can you come over? Please. I... I just need someone here."
The vulnerability in his voice—so rare, so stripped of its usual guarded armor—shattered whatever hesitation you had left. His rejection to have sex with you from a day ago felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.
"I'm coming," you said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When you arrived, you let yourself in with the spare key Phainon had given you months ago—a gesture that had once felt like a quiet milestone in your friendship. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark, save for a single lamp glowing dimly in the living room.
Phainon was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His hair fell forward in disarray. He looked hollowed out, drained of color and energy.
"[Name]," he murmured, not looking up as the front door clicked shut.
You hurried across the room, dropping your bag on the floor, and knelt down right in front of him. Without a second thought, you reached out, gently placing your hands over his cold, rigid fingers.
"Phainon, I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. "I know how much he meant to you. You don't have to go through this alone."
Slowly, Phainon lowered his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, dark, and hyper-focused. There was no grief in them—not the kind you expected, anyway. Instead, there was a raw, burning intensity that made the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It was a look of absolute, desperate fixation, as if he were a drowning man who had just broken the surface of the water and locked eyes with his only lifeline.
"You came," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
"Of course I came," you said softly, offering a sympathetic, reassuring smile as you squeezed his hands. "You called, and you're hurting. I'm always going to—"
You didn't get to finish the sentence.
Phainon moved with sudden, startling velocity. He leaned forward, catching you by the back of the neck and the small of your back, pulling you directly against him. Before you could process the movement, his lips crashed against yours.
It wasn't a tentative or gentle kiss born of a mutual, unfolding romance. It was fierce, possessive, and suffocatingly desperate—driven by a manic undercurrent that felt less like affection and more like an anchor thrown into a storm. His fingers tangled frantically in your hair, pressing you closer, as if he were trying to physically melt you into his skin to fill the cold, hollow space left behind by his own catastrophic mistake.
You froze for a fraction of a second, your heart leaping into your throat. His behaviour over the many months—subtly stating that he didn't feel that way about you—flashed violently through your mind.
He doesn't like you, a small voice whispered. He didn't feel that way.
Yet, here he was, kissing you with an intensity that bordered on frantic, trembling as though the world would end if he let go. The confusion was dizzying, but the warmth of his mouth, the familiar scent of his sweater, and the overwhelming desire you had harbored for months eroded your resistance. Your eyes fluttered closed, and slowly, hesitantly, you kissed him back, lifting your hands to rest against the solid wall of his chest.
When his shirt pulled free and up over his head, you ran your hands along the broad slopes of his shoulders and down dips and angles of his chest. He was cut, here and there. "What happened to you?"
His belt dropped and you hooked your legs around him, pulling him closer. His body pinned yours to the table. "I fell." When his hands found your back, you slid your legs apart, letting your dress scrunch above your waist. You quivered when his cock brushed heavy against you. "That's from a knife, Phai. What the fuck?"
He was rough and quick inside, and you arched into him, finding his mouth once again. His hands were at your back, your hips, your thighs and you felt something uncoiling inside of you. Something deep in your belly that made you clutch back at him as desperately. So long had you ached for warmth, for touch, for the tightening of your body against his.
Snowy died. And Phainon was hurting himself.
You came trembling around him, and he pulled back to watch you as you did. You laid back onto the table, open to him, his eyes locked on everywhere your dress no longer covered, even has he pushed into you over and over.
And then he pulled away.
"What the fuck? Get away from me," Phainon whispered, his voice breaking entirely as he stood up, and moved back, sliding down against the side of the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at you anymore. He couldn't bear to meet your eyes.
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, staring down at the man you loved—now curled in a heap of self-loathing and terror on the floor. The warmth of the room was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute cold.
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
VI: The Fracture in the Archive
Saturday morning arrived without sunrise, drowning the city in a dense, leaden fog that pressed flat against the glass of Phainon’s apartment windows.
Inside, the silence was absolute—heavy, atmospheric, and terrifying.
Last night was one way to lose your virginity. The absolute worst.
You stood at the threshold of his bedroom, your hand trembling as you slowly turned the brass doorknob. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.
Phainon was sitting on the floor directly outside the door.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't moved to the sofa. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his back resting against the wall, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where the door met the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands hanging over his forehead, and his sweater was wrinkled. Yet his posture remained remarkably erect, devoid of the natural slouch of fatigue.
As soon as the door swung open, his gaze snapped to your face. A violent, brilliant flicker of relief flooded his expression, as though he had spent eight hours underwater and had finally broken the surface.
"Good morning, [Name]," he said. His voice was raspy from disuse, but his tone was smooth, almost melodious.
"Phainon... did you sit here all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your distance.
"Yes," he replied simply, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at you. "I wanted to stay close so I could hear you breathing."
"That isn't staying close, Phainon. That's... you sat on the floor outside my bedroom like a dog."
Phainon didn't blink. He offered a small, serene smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "A dog is loyal because it knows no other reality. I sit here because there is literally nowhere else in this universe I wish to be. Is that so shameful?"
He pushed himself up off the floor with effortless grace, stepping toward you. You instinctively took a step back into the room, but Phainon stopped at the doorframe, respecting the boundary you had drawn, though his pale eyes drank in every detail of your face, your messy hair, your tired eyes.
"I made coffee," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "And I bought fresh pastries from the bakery three blocks down."
You blinked, surprised. "When? I didn't hear you leave."
"At six in the morning," he said. "I ran the entire way there and back so I would only be gone for five minutes. I didn't want you waking up to an empty flat."
The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his devotion made your stomach turn. It was terrifyingly calculated—every action, every thought, stripped of self-preservation and redirected entirely toward serving your existence.
"Phainon, what the fuck? We can't not talk about your dog dying! And we had sex! And then pushed me away like I forced myself on you! Not to mention you've been slicing at your skin for God knows how long—"
"I didn't mean to scare you," he stammered, his usual composure shattering into raw, desperate panic. He sank to his knees right there in the center of his living room, clutching his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Please don't hate me. If you hate me, I'll kill myself. Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything to make you happy!"
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
Monday morning arrived with the suffocating weight of an impending storm. The air beneath the Grand City Archives was colder than usual, smelling faintly of damp limestone and stagnant rainwater that had seeped through the ancient brick foundation over the weekend.
You stood at the bottom of the iron spiral staircase, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. You hadn't slept in nearly two days. Every time you had closed your eyes over the weekend, the image of Phainon kneeling on his apartment rug—his pale eyes wide, empty, and entirely focused on you—had burned behind your eyelids.
He was already there.
Phainon sat at his long oak desk, surrounded by towers papers. But he wasn't reading them. He wasn't cataloging, writing, or cross-referencing. He sat completely still, his hands resting flat against the dark wood, his head angled toward the staircase as if he had been tracking your approach long before your feet had touched the stone floor.
When your shadow fell across the archway, his entire posture shifted. The terrifying, flat stillness melted away into a expression of sheer, desperate relief.
"[Name]," he breathed, rising from his chair so quickly that the heavy oak legs scraped sharply against the stone.
He stopped barely an inch away, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and faint rain drifted off his coat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just shy of your sleeve, as if he were exercising every ounce of willpower not to pull you into his arms.
"You're four minutes late," Phainon said softly. His voice lacked any reprimand; instead, it was laced with a quiet, breathless panic. "I thought you had taken a different entrance. I thought... I thought you had decided not to come."
"The train was delayed, Phainon," you said, keeping your voice as flat and measured as possible. You forced yourself to step past him, setting your coat and bag on the desk. "It's fine. It's just four minutes."
"Four minutes is two hundred and forty seconds," Phainon replied, turning with you, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. "Do you know what happens in two hundred and forty seconds, [Name]? A person's heart beats over two hundred times. A thousand thoughts pass through a mind. And every single one of mine was wondering if you were abandoning me."
You felt a cold knot form in your throat. You looked up, searching his face. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyes—proof that he, too, had barely slept over the weekend. Yet his skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous under the warm desk lamps, and his eyes burned with an intense, unblinking focus.
"Phainon, you need to step back," you whispered, looking nervously toward the main reading room. "Mr. Anaxa will be here any minute. I only came because you said you needed me to be supportive."
"Let him come," Phainon said instantly, without a moment's hesitation. "Let the whole world come. They mean nothing to me. If Mr. Anaxa rids of me today, I will sit on the front steps of your apartment building until you come out. It makes no difference where I am, as long as I can see you."
"Stop it!" You hissed, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into the shadows of the alcove. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his suit jacket. "Do you hear yourself right now? You are a scholar, Phainon! You spent four years getting your degree, you have three published papers, you care about this project more than anyone I know! You can't just throw your life away!"
Phainon looked down at your hand on his arm. A small, chillingly beautiful smile touched his pale lips—a smile devoid of all his former pride and intellectual dignity.
"I didn't throw it away," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost rested against yours. "I traded it. I traded a meaningless life of paper and dust for the only thing that actually matters. You gave me a reason to exist, [Name]. Why would I care about ancient history and arts when my entire universe is standing right in front of me?"
Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
Mr. Anaxa—a severe man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—stepped into the central hall, holding a thick Manila folder. Behind him came the head architect, who carried a stack of catalog cards. The moment they saw you standing so close together in the shadows of the alcove, his eyes widened in deep concern.
"Phainon," Mr. Anaxa's voice boomed softly in the quiet vault. "A word, please."
Phainon didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained locked on your face, completely ignoring the head of the department.
"Phainon!" Mr. Anaxa repeated, his tone sharpening. "The board reviewed your quarterly report this morning. Or rather, the complete absence of your quarterly report. It was due on Friday afternoon. This is entirely unlike you."
You gently nudged Phainon's chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Go," you whispered frantically. "Please, Phainon. Just go speak to him."
Only at your command did Phainon finally tear his gaze away from you. He turned slowly, his expression shifting in an instant from desperate adoration to an icy, deadened indifference that made Mr. Anaxa freeze mid-step.
"The report is unfinished," Phainon said, his tone entirely flat.
Mr. Anaxa blinked, taken aback by the complete lack of professional deference in his most senior assistant's voice. "Unfinished? Phainon, that report dictates our funding for the entire wing! You’ve had three months!"
"Then revoke the funding," Phainon replied smoothly, stepping out of the alcove with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I am no longer interested in managing the wing."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the archive. You gasped softly, your knuckles turning white against his hand gripping yours. Mr. Anaxa stared at Phainon as if the younger man had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.
"Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Anaxa managed to say, his face darkening with anger. "If you walk away from this project, Phainon, I will have no choice but to place you on administrative leave immediately!"
"Then place me on leave," Phainon said without a single second of hesitation. He didn't sound angry, or defensive, or sad. He sounded entirely unbothered, as if Mr. Anaxa were discussing the weather. "I'll pack my desk now."
"Phainon, no!" You cried out, stepping forward, unable to contain yourself. "Mr. Anaxa, please, he isn't feeling well today—he's been under a tremendous amount of stress—"
"Do not apologize for me, [Name]," Phainon interrupted gently, turning to look at you with that terrifying, radiant warmth returning to his eyes. "If I am on leave, I don't have to spend eight hours a day doing useless art. I can spend all eight hours taking care of you."
Mr. Anaxa looked between the two of you, his expression morphing from anger to deep, unsettled pity and confusion. "Phainon... step into my office. Now. [Name], stay here."
"No," Phainon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously firm. "She stays where I can see her. I am not entering any room without her."
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
By noon, the disaster was complete.
Phainon had been formally suspended pending a psychological evaluation—a directive he had accepted with complete, terrifying serenity. He had packed his few personal belongings into a single cardboard box within ten minutes, spent another five minutes waiting while you tried to compose yourself, and had ultimately been escorted out of the building by security when he refused to leave without you.
You spent the rest of your time in a state of quiet shock. You couldn't focus on anything; the letters blurred into dark, meaningless scribbles. Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was standing right outside on the rain-slick pavement, waiting for you to come out.
"He's still out there," Mydei said softly, walking up to you with two cups of tea.
He set one cup down in front of you and took the seat beside you. The usual sharp, sarcastic energy that he carried was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding concern.
"How long has he been standing there?" You asked, your voice raspy.
"Since twelve-thirty," Mydei replied grimly. "It's pouring rain, [Name]. He doesn't have an umbrella. He's just standing by the fountain, staring at the basement window. Anaxa threatened to call the police, but Phainon didn't even react. He just told Anaxa that the police couldn't legally keep him from standing on a public sidewalk."
You buried your face in your hands, a jagged sob catching in your chest. "What have I done... Oh God, De, what have I done?"
Mydei leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, [Name]? This isn't your fault. Phainon has completely lost his mind. He’s acting like a textbook stalker. I don't know what happened to him over the weekend, but he is dangerous right now. You need to go home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until he gets help."
"I can't," you whispered through your fingers. "You don't understand, Mydei. If I go to your place, he'll follow us. He won't leave your doorstep. He'll ruin your life, too."
"Then we call the police."
"The police can't fix this!" You pulled your hands away, your eyes wild with terror and guilt. "You don't understand what's wrong with him!"
Mydei stared at you for a long moment, sensing the deep, incomprehensible panic in his friend's eyes. "Then explain it to me, [Name]. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a man who snapped overnight."
You opened your mouth to tell him—to tell him about the antique shop, the lacquered box, the willow twig, and the terrible, irreversible wish you had made in the quiet of your room. But as you looked into Mydei's practical, sensible eyes, you realized how insane it would sound. To the rest of the world, Phainon was experiencing a sudden, tragic psychotic break. Only you knew the horrifying truth: Phainon wasn't sick. He was cursed. And the cursed entity controlling his mind was your own foolish desire.
"I have to leave," you say abruptly, pushing your chair back and grabbing your coat.
"Wait, [Name]! Don't go out there alone!" Mydei called, rising to follow you.
"Stay here, Mydei! Please!" You pleaded, your hand on the staircase railing. "I need to fix this. I'm the only one who can fix this."
You bolted up the stone stairs, pushing through the heavy oak doors into the cold, rain-drenched afternoon.
The moment you stepped outside, you saw him.
Phainon was standing in the center of the stone courtyard, entirely soaked through. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose and chin. His dark suit jacket was drenched, clinging to his broad shoulders. Yet he wasn't shivering. He stood as straight and still as a marble monument, his pale eyes locked onto the main entrance.
When he saw you, his face lit up with that dark, breathtaking radiance.
"[Name]," he called out, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the rain. He took long, sweeping strides across the courtyard toward you. "You came out early. I knew you would."
You didn't run. You stood on the top step, watching him approach like a ghost in the storm. "Phainon... look at you. You're freezing. You're soaked to the bone."
"It doesn't matter," Phainon said, reaching the steps and looking up at you with complete, terrifying devotion. "The rain doesn't matter. The cold doesn't matter. Nothing hurts when I'm looking at you."
He reached up, taking your trembling hands in his ice-cold fingers. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, his breath hot against your skin.
"Where are we going now?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a pleading, childlike absolute trust. "Your apartment? Or somewhere else? Wherever you go, I will follow."
You looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of your own guilt pulling you down into the abyss. "We're going to a shop," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We're going to find a way to fix you."
…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .
VII. The Echo of the Antiques
The rain turned into a blinding downpour as you dragged Phainon through the narrow alleys on the edge of the city.
Phainon walked beside you obediently, matching your pace perfectly. He held your left hand in a grip so tight it left red marks on your skin, but whenever you tried to pull away, his fingers would clamp down even harder—not out of cruelty, but out of a desperate, instinctual refusal to let you create a single inch of distance between you.
"Is this where you wanted to walk?" Phainon asked quietly as you turned down the narrow street lined with vintage storefronts. "It's dark here. We should go back to your apartment. I can lock the doors, and we can stay inside where it's safe."
"Just two more minutes, Phainon," you breathed, your chest aching from the cold air. "Just two more minutes."
You slammed your hand against the wet glass of the shop window—Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios.
The shop was dark. The stained-glass lanterns were off. hanging in the small glass pane was a wooden sign flip-turned to red: CLOSED.
"No... no, no, no," you gasped, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it frantically.
The heavy oak door was locked tight. You leaned your face against the wet glass, peering into the shadowy interior. The velvet displays, the antique clockwork, the dried herbs—everything was still inside, but there was no sign of the woman in the big hat.
"It's closed," Phainon noted calmly from behind you. He pulled you gently away from the glass, his large hands resting on your shoulders, drawing you back against his wet chest. "It doesn't matter, [Name]. Whatever you were looking for in there, you don't need it. You have me."
"I need the shopkeeper!" You screamed at the door, hammering you fists against the wood until your knuckles ached. "Open the door! Please! Open the door!"
"Hush," Phainon murmured softly into your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist, locking you in an embrace that felt less like protection and more like a gilded cage. "Don't yell, my love. It's just an old shop. Let me take you home. You're wet, you're crying... it hurts me to see you like this."
You sagged in his arms, your forehead pressing against the cold, wet wood of the shop door. The bitter truth washed over you like the freezing rain soaking through your coat.
Even if the shopkeeper were inside, what could she possibly do? The warning had been written on the typed card in plain, unyielding English:
Wishes granted without condition cannot be revoked.
There was no magical counter-curse. There was no secret ritual to un-break the willow branch resting at the bottom of your apartment trash bin. You had asked the universe to alter a man's soul, and the universe had obeyed with absolute, indiscriminate precision.
Phainon gently turned you around in his arms. His face was inches from hers, his pale gray eyes shimmering with an intense, unholy clarity in the dark alleyway.
"Look at me, [Name]," he commanded softly, though his tone was entirely tender.
You slowly lifted your eyes to meet his.
"Why are you so afraid?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears from your cheek. "I haven't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I exist entirely to protect you, to love you, to give you everything you could ever dream of. Isn't this what you wanted?"
The question struck you like a physical blow.
Isn't this what you wanted?
You had pined for him for nearly an year. You had laid awake at night wishing he would look at you with passion instead of polite professional courtesy. You had wanted to be the center of his world. And now you were. You were his god, his ruler, his sole anchor to reality—and in making yourself his entire world, you had destroyed the man he actually was.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice hollow and defeated. "This is what I wanted."
Phainon smiled—a radiant, beautiful, terrifying smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Then stop fighting it. Let me love you."
…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .
By midnight, the rain outside your apartment had settled into a steady, rhythmic tap against the glass.
The living room was dark. You sat on the center of the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. You stared at the small wooden coffee table in front of you. Resting on the polished surface were the two broken halves of the One Wish Willow, retrieved from the trash bin and placed side-by-side like a corpse waiting for a burial that would never come.
Beside the table, kneeling on the carpeted floor, was Phainon.
He had changed out of his wet suit into a soft gray sweater and dark trousers. He didn't look tired. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his head turned slightly toward you. His eyes remained fixed on your face, tracking every rise and fall of your chest, every flicker of your eyelashes.
"You should sleep, [Name]," he said softly, his voice a low, melodious hum in the dark room.
"I can't sleep," you murmured, your voice stripped of all emotion.
"I can sit right here all night," Phainon offered, reaching up to lay his hand gently over yours on the blanket. His skin was warm now, but his touch carried the immutable weight of an iron chain. "I won't close my eyes. I will keep watch until the sun comes up."
"And tomorrow?" You asked, looking down at his hand on yours. "What happens tomorrow, Phainon? You don't have a job anymore. You don't have your research. You're going to get evicted from your apartment if you don't pay your rent."
"I'll sell my books," Phainon replied smoothly, as if discussing buying groceries. "I'll sell my furniture. I don't need an apartment, [Name]. I can move into your living room. Or I can sit on your balcony. As long as I am near you, material things have no meaning."
"And your friends? Your family? What happens when they come looking for you?"
Phainon’s expression flickered with a brief, chilling detachment. "If they try to separate me from you, I will remove them from my life. It is very simple."
You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
You looked at the broken willow twig on the table. The dark, charcoal-like core of the fractured wood seemed to stare back at you—a silent, permanent reminder of your own hubris.
You reached out with your free hand, picking up the two broken pieces of wood, and pulled them into your lap beneath the blanket. You had wished for his unconditional love, and you had received it in its purest, most monstrous form: an affection stripped of reason, humanity, and choice.
"Phainon?" you whispered.
"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, leaning closer, his eyes shining in the dark.
"Did you... Did you kill Snowy?"
The apartment seemed to hold its breath. The steady, rhythmic tap of the rain against the window glass was the only sound left in the world, stretching out the silence between them like a tight wire.
Phainon didn't blink. His dark eyes remained locked onto yours, completely devoid of the hesitation or shame that usually accompanied a shameful secret. The terrifying purity of the wish held him in a state of absolute, unbending transparency before you.
"Yes," Phainon answered, his voice smooth, quiet, and disturbingly casual.
A cold shudder rolled down your spine, despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stared down at the two halves of the Wish Willow resting in your lap, their jagged edges pressing against your palms.
"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the dark living room. "Snowy was your dog. You loved him. How could you just... how could you do that?"
Phainon shifted slightly, moving closer until his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa. His touch was tender, yet it carried the chilling weight of absolute detachment from everything outside of his singular focus on you.
"It was the day after you came over," Phainon explained, his tone conversational, as if he were recounting a minor inconvenience on his way to class. "I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my design layouts, but my mind wouldn't quiet down. I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about how easily you slip away when the day ends—how you go back to your own house, how other people get to talk to you, how much of your life is spent entirely out of my reach."
He paused, his thumb softly stroking your knuckles.
"Snowy kept whining," Phainon continued, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen as though he could see right through the walls. "He wanted to go outside. He wanted attention. He was loud, and he was taking up the space in the room that should have belonged entirely to the thoughts of you. He was a distraction from my purpose."
You felt a sickening knot twist tightly in your stomach.
"That, and you liked him," Phainon scoffed gently, looking back up into your eyes with an unsettling, beatific smile. "Everything that demands my attention away from you, and yours away from me, is an obstacle. That afternoon, I had left those pest control pellets on the counter. It took only a moment to crush a few into his food bowl and mix it with some meat. He ate it without hesitation."
He spoke of poisoning his own pet with the same chilling indifference one might use to describe throwing away a piece of trash.
"And when he died?" you asked, your voice trembling as hot tears prickled behind your eyelids. "Did you feel anything at all?"
Phainon tilted his head, considering the question honestly. He reached up, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had slipped down your skin.
"I felt nothing," he murmured softly. "Except a sudden, wonderful quiet. The apartment was finally silent. And I could think only of you."
You pressed your eyes shut, the horror of the confession washing over you in heavy, suffocating waves. You looked down at the broken willow in your lap, realizing with terrifying finality that the monster sitting before you was entirely your own creation—and there was no waking up from it.
... .- ...- . / -- .
VIII: The Weight of the Room
Three months elapsed in a heavy, unnatural rhythm.
Autumn had settled over the city, striping the trees along the boulevard in shades of rust and decay, but inside your apartment, time had ceased to move. The days no longer possessed distinct boundaries. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator, the rain washing against the double-paned glass, and the perpetual, motionless presence of Phainon.
He had given up his lease entirely by the end of August. He had not gone back for his belongings; he had simply allowed the landlord to declare the unit abandoned, leaving behind his extensive personal library, his heirloom furniture, his winter coats, and the framed photographs of his family. None of it held any reality for him anymore. His entire physical universe had shrunk to the four walls of your apartment.
"You need to take a few steps, Phainon," you said quietly, your voice sounding raspy from disuse. You sat at the dining table, staring down at an untouched plate of toast. "You’ve been standing by the hallway arch for four hours."
Phainon turned his head toward you. His movement was fluid, yet eerily deliberate, like a clockwork mechanism that had been freshly oiled. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers—clothing you had ordered online for him because he refused to leave the flat even to buy garments.
"I am perfectly comfortable, [Name]," he replied smoothly. His voice was low, devoid of any harsh rasp despite his near-total silence throughout the day. "From the archway, I can monitor the front door, the fire escape window, and the table where you are sitting. If I move to the armchair, my line of sight to the hallway is obscured by three inches."
"No one is coming through the hallway, Phainon," you whispered.
"We cannot know that with absolute certainty," he said, taking two quiet steps toward you. He stopped precisely at the edge of the rug, his pale gray eyes searching your face with that wide, terrifying clarity that had never once dimmed since the day you snapped the twig. "And as long as there is a fraction of a percent of risk to your peace, my vigilance is required."
He knelt beside your chair, placing his long, cool hands over your knee. The gesture was outwardly affectionate—a posture of deep, reverent submission—but the pressure of his fingers was firm, an immovable anchor binding you to the spot.
"Eat your toast, my love," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against your fabric. "You’ve lost weight this month. I counted your calories yesterday. You are three hundred calories below your recommended intake."
You felt a cold prickle of sweat trace your spine. "You're counting my calories?"
"I keep a log in my notebook," Phainon said, gesturing vaguely toward the small leather pad resting on the sideboard. "Your sleep cycles, your water consumption, your temperature, the number of times you cry when you think I am in the bathroom. I record all of it. It allows me to anticipate your needs before you even experience them."
You stared at him, a sudden wave of suffocating vertigo making the room tilt. "Phainon... that isn't care. That's... that's a inventory."
"It's love," he corrected gently, leaning up to press a lingering, soft kiss against the side of your neck. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and iron. "A inventory implies I intend to trade you. You are my absolute. One does not trade an absolute."
... .- ...- . / -- .
The quiet was shattered at 2:00 PM by the sudden, abrasive buzzing of the apartment intercom.
The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. You flinched violently, knocking your knee against the table.
Phainon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his body shifting into a low, predatory posture between you and the hallway. His gray eyes narrowed, all warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by an icy, deadened hostility.
"Stay behind me," he said. The instruction was not loud, but it carried a terrifying, absolute authority.
"Phainon, it's probably just the building manager—"
"Stay behind me," he repeated, his hands coming up to guide you gently but forcefully into the corner behind the dining hutch.
He walked to the intercom wall unit, pressing the button with a single, clinical movement. He didn't speak. He simply held the line open, listening.
"[Name]?" Cyrene's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, tinny and distorted by static. "[Name], are you in there? Please pick up. It’s been three weeks since you called in sick. Boss officially filed the termination paperwork yesterday, but I don't care about the job—I'm worried about you. Your phone is disconnected. I brought the building super up with me. If you don't open the door, we're going to use the master key."
You gasped, taking a step toward the hall. "Rene—"
Before you could reach the speaker, Phainon’s hand locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—like a steel vise padded in soft leather. He pulled you back behind his shoulder effortlessly.
"Phainon, let me talk to her!" You pleaded in a desperate, panicked whisper. "She has the manager with her! They’re going to open the door!"
Phainon looked down at you, his expression entirely calm, almost beatific. "They won't open the door."
He released your wrist and stepped over to the entryway closet. He opened it quietly, reaching up to the top shelf where you kept a heavy brass tool set. He selected a heavy six-inch steel deadbolt bar he had purchased online two weeks prior, along with a cordless driver.
"Phainon, what are you doing?" You breathed, horror mounting in your throat.
Without a word, Phainon walked to the heavy oak front door. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he positioned the steel bar across the frame, alignment perfectly straight, and drove three heavy masonry screws through the steel bracket directly into the door jamb. The sharp whir-click-click of the power tool drowned out the sound of key turning in the lock outside.
From the hallway outside, the sound of a key sliding into the tumbler echoed sharply.
The lock turned. The door shifted inward a fraction of a millimeter—and then slammed brutally against the newly installed steel barricade.
"What the...?" the building manager’s voice muffled through the wood. "The safety bar is thrown from the inside! Hey! Is someone in trouble in there?"
"[Name]!" Cyrene screamed, pounding her fists against the heavy oak. "[Name]! Speak to me! Is Phainon in there with you? Did he do something to you?!"
You opened your mouth to scream, to cry for help, to tell them to break down the door—but Phainon turned to face you.
He didn't brandish a weapon. He didn't make a threat.
Instead, he slowly lowered himself back onto his knees right in front of the barricaded door. He took a small, silver folding knife from his pocket—the one he used to trim loose threads from your sweaters—unfolded the thin blade, and held it vertically against his own throat. The sharp point rested directly over his carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to draw a single, pinpoint bead of crimson blood.
"Phainon!" You shrieked, your hand flying to your mouth.
"If you call out to them," Phainon said, his voice entirely sweet, calm, and conversational, "if you tell them to break this door down, I will press this blade three inches into my neck before they can clear the frame."
"Phainon, please! Put that down! Put it down!" you sobbed, dropping to your knees a few feet away from him, your hands raised in absolute terror.
"I am not threatening you, my love," he explained gently, his eyes shining with an intense, crystal-clear devotion. "I am simply informing you of the physical realities of my existence. My mind, my heart, and my body only function to serve your sanctuary. If they breach this door, they will take you away from me, or take me away from you. In either scenario, my existence ends. The knife is merely a formality."
Outside, the manager was kicking the bottom panel of the door. "I'm calling the police! We're getting the fire department up here with an axe!"
"[Name]! Answer me!" Cyrene wept through the wood.
You looked at the single drop of blood trailing down Phainon’s throat. You looked into his pale, serene eyes—eyes that held no fear, no doubt, and no humanity, only the absolute, unyielding execution of your own wish.
You swallowed your own scream, strangling the voice in your throat until it died.
You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and stepped up to the door.
"Cyrene!" You called out, your voice unnaturally loud, tight, and rigid.
The pounding stopped instantly. "[Name]?! Are you okay?! Is he hurting you?!"
"I am fine, Rene," you said, staring directly at Phainon’s unblinking eyes as the knife remained pressed against his neck. "I... I am completely fine. I am not sick. I am not being held against my will."
"[Name], your voice sounds terrible! Let us in!"
"No!" You shouted, your voice trembling slightly before you caught yourself. "No... please. Go away. Phainon and I... we just want to be left alone. We don't want to work at the archive anymore. We don't want visitors. If you call the police, I will tell them you are harassing us. Please... just go away."
A long, agonizing silence descended on the hallway outside.
"[Name]..." Cyrene's voice was broken, small, and filled with a profound, terrifying grief. "...what did he do to you?"
"Nothing," you whispered against the painted wood of the door. "He didn't do anything. I asked for this."
Footsteps slowly receded down the carpeted hallway. The sound of the elevator doors opening and closing echoed faintly, followed by absolute, suffocating silence.
Phainon waited five full minutes after the hallway fell silent.
When he was certain they were truly gone, he folded the silver blade with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up with his index finger, dabbing the single droplet of blood from his throat, and looked at it with mild curiosity before wiping it onto his shirt.
He rose to his feet, stepping over to where you remained collapsed on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your body shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.
"You were wonderful," Phainon whispered, crouching down beside you. He gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and carrying you toward the sofa.
He sat down, placing you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin atop your head. He began to rock you gently, back and forth, back and forth, with the slow, rhythmic cadence of a pendulum.
"Now no one will disturb us," he murmured into your hair. "No friends. No jobs. No archives. No opinions. Just you and me. The world outside can burn away, [Name]. We don't need it."
You didn't pull away. You didn't have the strength left to fight. You lay limp against his chest, listening to the heavy, steady, unhurried thrum of his heart—a heart that beat not out of life or passion, but as a mechanical clock counting down the endless seconds of your self-inflicted sentence.
You looked across the dark room toward the small side table.
Sitting on the velvet cushion of the open lacquered box were the two broken pieces of the One Wish Willow. The charcoal-black center of the fractured wood seemed to glint faintly in the gray afternoon light filtering through the blinds.
You realized then that the horror was not that Phainon had become a monster. The horror was that he was still Phainon—his voice was still smooth, his touch was still gentle, his face was still exquisitely handsome—but the soul inside him had been replaced by a singular, unyielding directive.
He loved you. He would always love you.
He would love you when the food ran out. He would love you when the electricity was cut off. He would love you as you sit together in the pitch-black living room, surrounded by steel deadbolts and sealed windows, watching each other fade into nothingness.
Phainon leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath cold and sweet.
"I love you, [Name]," he whispered, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, bottomless light that would never go out. "Tell me you love me too."
You closed your eyes, letting your tears soak into the gray fabric of his sweater.
"I love you, Phainon," you whispered into the dark.
And as his arms tightened around you—locking you so closely against his chest that you could barely draw breath—you knew that you would be saying those words forever.
…. . . -.. .–. / — . …
Additional matters I'd like to address:
Yes the shopkeeper is Madam Herta. How she got her hands on the one wish willow is a story for another day </3
I was contemplating making Phainon kill either of Mydei or Cyrene (but we don't follow canon storyline of course (get it?)) and settled for Snowy in the end (not funny)
He off screens Cyrene for attempting to invade on y'all though (CANON)
It would make sense either way: Phainon using the wish on you or you on him because the former wouldn't be likely I feel like. Phainon's definitely not that type of guy in my opinion (I learnt nothing from watching the movie. In all seriousness, Nikki's behaviour is valid /j)
All breakers (?) are morse code for the real Phainon crying for help because I decided to be a little extra!
AN: Found a half-finished Siren Malleus fic in my drafts and spruced it up. Ts a horror story explanation for why we need a strong-willed MC for Siren Malleus 😭
Word count:
Fat tears spill down your cheeks but his slimy tongue licks them up, nearly dipping past your lashline when he can't wait for more to fall. He lowers himself to your ear and his husky voice makes you shiver.
“Don't cry. You'll just make me want to ruin you more~”
You whimper while clenching the sheets tighter as his dick starts to kiss your cervix.
He’s so mean!
You had moved to this relic of a town to get away from the hubbub of city life after feeling like a failure in love (and other things) with the thought that the life of a recluse would suit you the best. That was until the local siren took an interest in making you cry every night. You were terrified of him and he seemed to revel in bullying you to no end. He never did anything that could significantly harm you, but his cock sure felt like it would.
You can’t believe he chased you from the sea to land. You thought you would at least be safe from his venomous bark and scary bite in your own home, but of course he just had to gain a pair of legs to follow you with.
“You were planning to run away from me, weren’t you~”
You tense and your walls tighten around him in response. A hiss leaves his lips and he’s brushing his thumb against your clit to try and have you relax again. His cock is stuck half-way through your canal as he struggles to inch it into where he wants it to be, to where he needs it to be.
“I- I wasn’t!”
His thumb presses down harshly on your sensitive nub and he’s roughly gyrating himself against your ass. His dick curls and unfurls inside of you and you’re forgetting how to breathe.
Normal dicks don’t… They don’t feel like this!
You nervously glance at him from the corner of your eyes out of curiosity and see whatever spell he must have cast or potion that he drank to be human must be wearing off. His horns are starting to become visible, his eyes are regaining those slit pupils, and patches of iridescent scales have popped up on his pale skin.
“Do you really think it’s wise to lie to me in your current position?”
A forked tongue slithers out as his expression contorts with anger. You audibly gulp and slowly shake your head.
“I… I was planning to leave.”
“And here I thought you were a noble hero, proclaiming to protect your precious friends from the cruel sea siren.”
More tears well in your eyes as you start to sniffle once more.
“I didn’t ask… I didn’t…”
“Weak, fragile, so unbelievably mortal~”
You whimper at the feeling of his snake-like tongue sliding across your cheek. His warm breath caresses your face as an animalistic hiss escapes his throat.
“I won't let you run away.”
“It’s too deep! I can’t!”
You sniffle as he bullies his dick as deep as it can go in you before chuckling at the sight of the bulge poking from your tummy.
“Hah? What’s this~”
“No, don’t-!”
Your squeak of fear turns into whines and moans while you squirm underneath him when he curiously presses down on the indent of his dick poking through your tummy. Your slick gushes out and wets his dick and he’s able to slip even further into you.
“Oh? A good thing?”
Your voice is already cracked and unsteady from him messing with your body before he had put his cock in you. The fingering until you squirted, the twisting of your nipples to see how you would react; the overall playing with your body to satiate his own curiosity had worn you out and now his dick was about to finish the job.
“Wha- You don’t know?! You’ve never been with a human before?!”
You try to swivel your hips to have his dick slip out of you so you can get away, but he’s grabbing your hips and spearing you back onto his girth.
“Ngh!”
Your eyes roll back and your toes curl. It feels like he’s taken up more space inside of you than humanely possible while he just watches your expressions with a vague emotion. His face is blank and he barely looks affected by your walls squeezing him for all he’s worth.
J-jerk! Narcissist! But-
“Ah!”
You nearly cum on the spot and have to bite down on your knuckles to stop from giving him any more of your pitiful sounds.
“So I was right. It is good~”
You squirm and whine when he grates his hips against yours. His cock swishes around inside of you, mixing up your insides, while his knot blocks the entrance and keeps everything plugged and snug in your walls. Your clit throbs furiously and you feel like you're going to lose your mind when he starts pummeling back into you. The filthy sounds of his sex connecting with yours and his moans mingling with yours has your brain becoming hazy and your vision blurring. The most evil laugh you've ever heard comes from Malleus as he leans down to press his weight onto yours and lap your tears away. You whine as you shake your head to flick your tears off, to not give him that pleasure, but he's grabbing your cheeks and sliding his tongue across your face.
“Mmph!”
You can taste the salt on your own tongue as he keeps your face in place and indulges in a kiss. It's all-consuming and commanding, just like him. shoving itself deeper down your throat has you gagging and your eyes rolling back. Your thighs clench, your toes curl, and your strangled moan is devoured by the malicious sea siren who spills himself inside of your spasming pussy.
One thrust, a second one, and a third before he’s pressing you down into the sheets and bullying his knot into your hole.
Your legs flail behind you as small whimpers and whines reach his ears, but he’s letting out a sigh of relief as it pulsates once it’s fully inside of you. Broken moans fill your bedroom and his fingers are intertwining with yours as he presses a kiss to your cheek. His hair brushes against yours while he whispers,
“Thank you. Thank you. You were so good. We can keep doing this, right? Every night? You won’t deny me of this, would you?”
You’re not sure you would have said anything even if you had retained your ability to speak.
It doesn’t take long for you to attempt a second get-away, but you swear you were only leaving for a trip and you told him beforehand! You weren’t lying this time! You knew there was no escape and witnessed first-hand what he had done last time you upset him. All you did was accidentally tug a tangle in his hair a little too hard while brushing it and the result was the town losing power for two days…
You look at the floor while clasping your hands together, a habit you had picked up when wanting to avoid Malleus’ wrath. However, it only made you look more guilty.
“I do not seem to recall giving you permission, mortal.”
“I’m sorry. It must have slipped my mind… I really did think I told you…”
But it didn’t slip your mind. You remember telling him. Did you perhaps imagine it?
“Hmph.”
You take a few quick peeks and see that he's smiling down at you. That condescending smirk that could only mean one thing. You gasp as his hand grasps your chin and forces you to look him in the eyes.
“Let us see how far you can run with a round stomach and swollen limbs.”
Your legs clench in anticipation and your face is already a deep, crimson hue from his words alone.
Cum swirls from your used hole and stains the sheets, while evil-like laughter resounds in the room. Your whimpers slowly die down until you've succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep, all while Malleus merely watches you, intrigued. Your plush body is nestled against his and your overpowering scent makes him want to take you again and again. But, he settles for engulfing you in his embrace, letting his nose nudge against the crook of your neck as he snugly squeezes you in his hold.
What an interesting little human he's procured, and now, you’ll be all his, forever and ever ♡
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Summary: — After a small argument where Redacted refuses to get mad at you, frustration builds between you both. Despite your attempts to stay distant, their gentle persistence and need for closeness slowly wear you down.
THEN YOU SMASH!!
( Reader is a g.n!)
EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They’re a good friend!!
Again, [REDACTED] just takes it. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight back—just ducks their head, lets their shoulders sag, and mutters, “M’ sorry.”
And fuck, that makes your teeth grind.
“Stop that,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
They blink, startled. “Stop… what?”
You gesture—at them, at their whole goddamn everything. “This. The—The whole apologizing thing. I’m mad at you, [YOU]. You can be mad back. You can fight me instead of just taking it like—like—”
“Like I deserve it?”
Your breath snags.
Soft. Quiet. Like they already know what you’re gonna say. Like they agree.
And that—that makes you want to throw something.
“No! No!” You grab their wrist—not to hurt, just to hold. To make them listen. “You don’t deserve it, and that’s the fucking problem! I can’t even be mad at you properly because you never—You never fight back! You never defend yourself! You just let me be angry, let me lash out, let me blame you, and then you say ‘m’ sorry’ like—like it’s all your fault!“
Their brows furrow, lips parting—like they want to argue. But they don’t.
And that’s when it really hits you.
They’re not ignoring you.
They just… don’t think they should fight back.
Your grip on their wrist loosens, fingers sliding down until they hook around theirs. “You can get mad at me,” you murmur. “You can tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m being unfair. I want to fight with you if it means we fix things. But I can’t—” You swallow hard. "I can’t keep being the only one who raises my voice while you just—just take it and blame yourself.”[[MORE]]
A pause.
[REDACTED] stares at you—eyes wide, raw, something fragile flickering beneath the surface. Their mouth opens—then closes—then, finally, they speak.
“…I don’t wanna fight you,” they murmur. “I just—” They exhale sharply, shaking their head. “I don’t want to fight with you..“
And fuck—fuck—that’s what breaks you.
"You’re already hurting me, dumbass,” you whisper, voice cracking, fingers curling tighter around theirs. “Not because of a fight—because I feel like I’m hitting a fucking ghost whenever I argue with you.” You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “I want the real you. All of you. Even the parts that get mad at me. Even the parts that fight back.”
Something shifts in their expression. Something wounded.
“…The real me, huh?” Their voice is rough, like they’re chewing on the words. “And what if the real me ain't… what y’want?”
You don’t hesitate.
“I want you,” you say, pressing their hand to your chest, right over your racing heart. “Only you. The real you.” Your voice drops to a whisper, raw and desperate. “I love you, [REDACTED].”
Their breath hitches. Their fingers tremble against yours. And for the first time, you see it—the crack in their armor, the fear behind their eyes.
Well, You’re still mad/j
You huff, sinking deeper into the couch, arms crossed tight as Attack on Giant blares from the screen. You’re not even watching—just pretending to, staring blankly at the fights while your thoughts rage louder than the explosions.
You hate this. You hate how you’re still mad, how he just lets you be, how he looks so fucking sad sitting across from you like a kicked puppy.
[REDACTED] isn’t saying anything. Just… sitting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself still. Not pushing, not begging—just waiting.
Like he always fucking does.
Like he always has.
It’s suffocating.
Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. You don’t even know anymore. The silence isn’t cold, not really—but it stretches long enough to wrap around your ribs, squeeze tight, ache.
And yet, he doesn’t complain.
Doesn’t demand.
Doesn’t even shift closer.
He just watches you, quiet and patient, like he’d wait forever if that’s what it took for you to stop being mad.
Like he’d wait another decade if it meant you’d finally reach for him again.
And fuck, that realization makes your throat burn.
Because it’s sad. It’s fucking sad at this point.
You grip the blanket tighter around yourself, teeth clenched. You don’t want to be mad anymore. You don’t want to give him the silent treatment. You don’t want him to just sit there, drowning in his own regret, waiting for a love he already fucking has.
You don’t want him to think you’re really pushing him away.
So you shift. Just barely. Uncurl your legs.
It’s subtle, but he notices instantly.
His shoulders tense—not in fear, but in hope.
Still, he doesn’t push.
He just waits.
You take a breath, exhaling slow, forcing yourself to relax.
And then—without looking at him—you grab his hand.
He freezes.
And when you finally glance at him—just a quick, fleeting look—you swear he’s shaking.
You’re stacking the dishes when two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he sighs—a low, content sound that makes your stomach flip.
“You really…” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, “…are a softie.”
Your hands still. The dish towel crinkles in your grip.
You huff. “Hmph.”
You act annoyed. You act like you hate it. Like this whole affection thing is just too much, too clingy, too Redacted.
But your hands betray you.
Because instead of pushing him off, you reach up—fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.
And god, he melts.
His breath hitches, grip tightening as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the way he relaxes, like this—you—is all he’s ever needed.
“…’S not fair,” he mutters, muffled against you.
You arch a brow. “What’s not fair?”
“You act all mean,” he murmurs, voice slow and sleepy, “‘n’ then you do this…”
You roll your eyes, still scratching lightly at his scalp. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”
You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, glaring at him. “You’re not getting near me.”
He stops mid-step, blinking at you like a confused puppy.
A pause. Then, hesitantly—softly—"…Still mad at me, huh?“
You huff, looking away. It’s stupid, honestly. The argument wasn’t even that big, just one of those things that built up over time—him never defending himself, never even trying to fight back, just letting you steamroll him with nothing in return but sad eyes and quiet apologies. It makes you feel awful. Like you’re the bad guy every single time.
"At least ask for something,” you mutter, not looking at him. “I made you sad. You always just take it. If you can’t get mad at me, at least say that it hurts instead of going silent.”
You feel him move before you see him.
Warmth presses against the side of your neck—a slow, lingering kiss right below your jaw. His breath is warm, his lips impossibly soft, and your heart does a fucking backflip.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your whole body stiffens.
“You always do this,” you grumble, cheeks heating up.
A small chuckle against your skin. “What?”
He laughs, low and fond, arms winding around your waist again. “S’ not cheatin’, Y/n. Just know what works on ya.”
You scoff, feeling your resolve start to crumble. Your body still buzzes from the way his lips lingered against your skin, from the warmth pressing up against your back.
Then, in that same casual, lazy drawl, he asks—
“Wanna make up?”
…Oh.
Your heart stops.
You blink, heat creeping up your neck. “…Eh?”
He leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. “Y’heard me.”
And fuck, your whole body burns. The way he says it—so blunt, so confident, so fucking casual—has your brain short-circuiting. Your fingers curl into fists, gripping at nothing, trying so hard to play it cool despite the way your pulse is pounding.
You swallow thickly. Cross your arms tighter. Try to keep your face neutral.
“…Sure,” you say.
Expression blank.
Voice flat.
Trying desperately to ignore the way your ears are on fire.
He grins. He knows. He sees through you.
And before you can blink, you’re on the bed.
Pinned.
His lips crush against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, warm, slow, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing at yours, dragging you into something slow and dizzying and hot.
The kiss is rough, almost desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, trying to make you feel what they won’t say out loud. Their hands grip your waist as they push you back, guiding you until your legs hit the bed.
Then they shove you down.
Not forcefully, not like they’re trying to overpower you—just firm, controlled, the way they always are. Like they’re claiming you, like they’re saying you’re mine without needing to use the words.
Their weight follows, pressing you into the mattress, their breath warm against your lips as they hover just above you. They’re looking at you—God, they’re watching you—like they’re searching for something in your eyes, something they’re too much of a coward to ask for outright.
“You still mad at me, You?” they murmur, voice low, teasing—but there’s a flicker of something real underneath it.
You scoff, tilting your head away, acting like you don’t feel the way your body reacts to them. Damn them. “Maybe.”
They chuckle—soft, breathy—then press their lips to the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat until you gasp.
“Y’sure?” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their hands say otherwise. They’re firm where they grip your hips, grounding you, holding you close—like they’re afraid you’ll slip through their fingers.
You’re still trying to be stubborn, still fighting the way your heart pounds when their lips graze your collarbone. “If you think I’m just gonna forgive you—”
“I know.”
The words are quiet, barely more than a whisper. And when they finally look at you, their eyes are dark—heated—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, something unspoken.
Then they kiss you.
And it’s deep this time—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, that melts into you like a promise. Their hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, holding you like you’re precious.
And that’s what finally breaks you.
You grab at them—pulling them closer, wrapping your arms around their neck, threading your fingers through their hair. You’re kissing them back just as desperately, pouring every ounce of your frustration, your longing, your love into it.
You don’t even know when they settle fully between your legs, don’t even register the way their hips press against yours until they groan against your lips, grinding into you.
“Fuck,” they rasp, burying their face against your neck. “Y’don’t—You have no idea what y’do to me, You…”
Your breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The argument still lingers in the air between you, unspoken and unresolved, but this—this—is how you make up. Not with words.
Their breath is warm, teasing against your skin before they dip lower—trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, lower still until their lips hover just above your chest.
Then—fuck.
They bite.
A sharp little nip against your nipple before their tongue soothes over the sting, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight down your spine. You gasp, arching into them, but they don’t stop—not yet. They flick their tongue over the sensitive bud, watching your reactions, listening to every little sound you make, before latching on properly, sucking just hard enough to make your head spin.
“Sensitive, huh?” Their voice is thick with amusement, teasing but hungry. One of their hands drags down your stomach, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your clothes, slipping just beneath—so close, so fucking close, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
You squirm beneath them, frustration bubbling up, but they only smirk against your skin. Their other hand comes up to your neglected nipple, rolling it between their fingers, pinching just enough to make you whimper.
“Mm. Y’really gonna stay mad at me?” Their voice is low, husky, vibrating through you as they switch sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, sucking and teasing, leaving you breathless.
Your hands fly to their hair, gripping tight—like you can force them to stop teasing. “Shut up,” you manage, but it’s weak, a little desperate, and they love it.
They chuckle, the sound rumbling against your skin.
“Guess I’ll have t’fuck the anger outta you, then.”
And with that, their hand finally slips lower.
Their fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your clothed heat, barely pressing down, just teasing. It’s infuriating—your body is aching, burning, needing more, but they won’t give it to you. Not yet.
“Still mad at me, huh?” Their voice is mocking, low and amused, but there’s something else beneath it—something dark, something possessive. Their fingers dip lower, almost slipping under the fabric, but then they pull back, just enough to leave you frustrated.
You whine—actually whine—and the sound makes them smirk.
“Aw, poor thing.” Their lips graze your ear, warm and teasing. “Want somethin’?”
You try to grind against their hand, desperate for anything, but they pin you down, using their weight to keep you still. Their fingers barely press against you, just enough to make you twitch, make you gasp, make you ache for more.
“Y’gotta tell me, baby.” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their breath is ragged against your skin. They’re enjoying this just as much as you are—dragging it out, making you want it, making you need it.
You grit your teeth, refusing to beg. Refusing.
But when they pull away entirely, hands leaving you completely, you snap.
“Fuck—just touch me already!”
Their smirk widens, and fuck, they love hearing you like this—frustrated, desperate, barely holding on.
“That’s more like it.”
And then—finally, finally—their fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding against your heat, pressing deep, stretching you open, giving you exactly what you need.
Their fingers curl just right, pressing deep, slow, deliberate—just enough to make you feel it, but never enough to satisfy. It’s torture, this agonizing pace, this teasing, feather-light touch that only fuels the fire burning inside you. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling, every muscle tensed as you claw at the sheets beneath you.
“Redacted—!” Your voice is caught between a moan and a plea, frustration boiling over as they refuse to give you what you really want.
They chuckle—low, deep, full of amusement as they press an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, their lips trailing slow, lazy heat down your skin. “Mmm… somethin’ wrong, Angel?” Their fingers withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, shallow and teasing. “Y'sound a lil’ worked up.”
You whimper—a sound you wouldn’t have let anyone else hear, but with them? They pull it from you so easily. Your hands fly to their wrist, gripping tight, trying to force them to move faster, deeper, more, but they don’t budge.
“Please,” you breathe, half-growling, half-desperate. “Stop—teasing.”
They click their tongue, shaking their head as if you’re being so unreasonable. “Steam’s gotta be let off first, Angel,” they murmur, their voice a smooth, teasing drawl. “Ain’t that right?”
You let out a frustrated whine, hips jerking as you try to meet their touch, but they tut softly, keeping you pinned, keeping control.
“Y'know I’ll never deny you, Angel…” Their lips brush against your ear, voice dark and sweet, and then—finally, finally—they snap.
Their fingers plunge deep, their pace turning from lazy and teasing to devastating, working you open without a shred of mercy. The pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, and you cry out, head falling back as the heat coils tight in your core.
Their free hand grips your chin, tilting your face toward them, forcing you to meet their gaze—eyes dark, intense, locked onto yours like they own you.
“That’s it,” they murmur, voice thick with hunger. “Let me hear you, Angel.”
Their grip tightens—steady, unrelenting—keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall. Your body trembles beneath them, muscles twitching, every nerve alight with unbearable heat. It’s too much—too good—but they won’t let you go.
You choke out their name between ragged breaths, your hands clutching at their arms, their shoulders, anything to ground yourself, to plead for mercy. But all they do is smirk, dragging their fingers slowly out, only to press them back in at an achingly controlled pace.
“Aww, listen to you,” they murmur, voice dripping with dark amusement. “So needy, Angel…” They lean in, lips brushing your ear as their free hand smooths over your stomach, your chest—trailing slow, teasing circles over your heated skin. “You sound so pretty when you beg, y’know that?”
A frustrated whimper escapes you, a shiver wracking your body as you fight against their hold, desperate to move, to chase what they keep just out of reach.
“P-please,” you gasp, back arching, toes curling. “Please, I—I need—”
They hush you, their fingers plunging deeper, curling just right, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to your core.
“Shhh, Angel… I know.” Their voice is soft, almost mocking in its sweetness. “But y’gotta hold on for me, yeah? Y’can do that, right?”
You shake your head, gasping, voice breaking. “No! I—I can’t—”
They chuckle, their grip tightening, keeping you still as your body shudders beneath them.
“Sure y’can,” they murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, voice thick with affection. “Y’just don’t know it yet.”
Before you could get another word out, they pushed in.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at their back, nails digging into heated skin as your body arched against them. Your head tipped back, a broken, helpless sound spilling from your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves.
“Fuck—”
They groaned against your neck, their breath hot and ragged, their own body trembling as they sank into you, inch by inch. Your arms wrapped around them on instinct, pulling them impossibly closer, your chest pressed flush against theirs, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Shit… Angel—” Their voice was low, strained, barely holding on, but the way they said your name—like they were praying—sent a shiver down your spine. They needed this just as much as you did.
You barely had time to breathe before they bit down—hard—right against the curve of your neck.
A high-pitched cry escaped you, your body jerking in response, heat coiling in your gut, winding tighter—too much, too fast. The sting of their teeth melted into a dull, throbbing pleasure, and when their tongue soothed over the mark, you whimpered, shivering as they left behind a deep, dark hickey.
Their hands slid down your sides, slow, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin as they pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, desperate, barely restrained.
“Gonna keep you right here,” they murmured, voice thick with need. Their hips rolled forward, their hold tightening. “Gonna make sure you feel me—”
Another thrust. Deeper. More intense.
Your vision blurred, your breath catching, body twitching as pleasure surged through you like fire.
“Fuck— please—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, couldn’t even think—just clutching at them, holding on as they fucked you through the dizzying, overwhelming sensation, keeping you right on the brink of explosion.
And then—
They kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Possessive.
And you fucking broke.
Your whole body shattered beneath them.
A choked, shuddering gasp tore from your throat as the pleasure hit—blinding, overwhelming, knocking every last thought from your head. Your legs clenched around their waist, hands grasping at their shoulders, their hair—anything you could hold onto as wave after wave of white-hot bliss crashed through you.
They swallowed your cries, their lips moving against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, like they were trying to devour every sound you made, feel every tremor in your body as you unraveled beneath them. Their name spilled from your lips like a prayer, half-whimpered, half-moan, and fuck—
They loved it.
“That’s it,” they groaned, voice rough, breath hitching against your mouth. Their grip on your hips tightened, strong fingers digging into your skin as they thrust into you, chasing their own release, dragging you through the aftershocks. “God, Angel—feel so fucking good—”
Your mind was spinning, body still trembling in their arms, overstimulated and aching in the best way. But you still wanted more.
“More,” you gasped, voice barely above a breath, hands tightening in their hair, pulling them closer. “Please—”
They swore under their breath, something low and guttural, before burying their face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward with a deep, needy groan.
“Fuck—fuck—”
And then—
They came, shuddering against you, their whole body tensing as they spilled inside, breath hitching, hips stuttering in the aftermath. A low, wrecked sound left their lips, barely held back, and you swore it was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just breathing. Holding each other. Feeling the warmth between you, the way their body pressed against yours, how they fit against you so perfectly.
Then—
A slow, satisfied exhale, their lips ghosting over your temple before they nuzzled into your hair.
“S’good,” they murmured, voice thick, lazy. “Too good, Angel… y’ damn near killed me.”
You huffed out a breathless laugh, still reeling, but you felt the way their arms tightened around you—how they refused to let you go, even as exhaustion started to set in.
Their hips didn’t still for long.
Even as you were still trying to catch your breath, still reeling from the way they had just ruined you, they were already moving again—slow, teasing rolls of their hips against yours, letting you feel just how much they still wanted you.
“Tsk, look at you, Angel,” they murmured against your ear, voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. Their lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, your neck—each kiss deliberate, possessive—before they nipped at the sensitive skin, making you gasp. “Still twitchin’ for me. So sensitive…”
Your breath hitched as they ground against you again—slow and lazy but purposeful, their length dragging through the mess between your thighs, rubbing against every oversensitive spot that had you whimpering into their shoulder.
“R-Redacted…” you gasped, fingers clutching at their back, nails digging in, desperate to ground yourself against the pleasure. “Too much… I—I just—”
They shushed you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, their voice a low, affectionate drawl. “I know, Angel. S’alright… I got you.”
But they didn’t stop.
Their hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, holding you firm as they rocked into you, slow and deep—not enough to overwhelm, not yet, but enough to make you feel them, to keep you on edge.
“Gotta make up for makin’ you mad, don’t I?” they murmured, teeth grazing your ear, sending a full-body shudder down your spine. “Gotta show my Angel how much I love ‘em…”
Their fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward them, their lips hovering just over yours—so close, so teasing.
“You still mad at me, Angel?”
You wanted to glare at them. Really, you did. But the way they were touching you, the way they were looking at you, their breath warm against your lips—fuck, you couldn’t think straight.
You swallowed hard, trying to muster even the smallest amount of defiance. “M-Maybe…”
A slow, knowing smirk curled at their lips.
“Maybe?” they echoed, tilting their head. “Guess I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til you forgive me, then…”
And then—
They thrust.
Deep. Slow. Purposeful.
And you—
You cried out.
They shushed you through the cry, murmuring low and soothing against your lips, but their movements didn’t falter. If anything, their grip on your hips tightened, keeping you right where they wanted you as they rolled into you again—deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of them as they stretched you open all over again.
“There we go,” they murmured, dragging their lips down your throat, feeling the way your pulse raced beneath their mouth. “Takin’ me so good, Angel. Y’always do…”
Your breath hitched, legs twitching where they were wrapped around their waist, toes curling with every slow, devastating movement. “R-Redacted—”
“Shh, I know…” Their voice was all honey and heat, melting into you. “I know, Angel. I got you…”
But they didn’t stop teasing.
Their hips moved at a pace that was infuriatingly slow, drawing out every sensation, forcing you to feel it—like they wanted to savor you, like they wanted to pull every last sound from your lips before they finally let you have what you wanted.
And you were—
You were so frustrated. So worked up and sensitive that it was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed faster, you needed—
“Damn it, Redacted, please—!”
They chuckled, low and warm against your skin, their lips curling against your shoulder. “Please what, Angel? Gotta be specific…”
Your face burned. They knew exactly what you wanted, they just wanted to hear you say it—to make you beg for it.
“P-Please, just—” You clenched around them, nails digging into their back, eyes squeezing shut as another slow thrust sent fire up your spine. “Just stop teasing and—”
“And what, Angel?” Their voice was syrupy sweet, mocking in the softest, most affectionate way. “Say it for me…”
Your pride was screaming at you to fight back, to bite back something smart, to refuse to give them the satisfaction—
But then they rolled their hips, slow and deep, and any resistance you had left shattered.
“J-Just fuck me already—!”
They groaned, deep and pleased, like that was exactly what they were waiting for.
“That’s my Angel…”
And then—
Then they snapped their hips forward.
Hard. Fast. Deep.
Their breath hitched, and then they growled—low, deep, vibrating through their chest and into you.
“More, huh?” Their fingers tightened on your hips, their weight pressing you into the mattress as they pinned you down completely. “Y'got no idea what you’re askin’ for, Angel…”
But they gave it to you.
They slammed into you, hard enough to send shockwaves through your body, hard enough to knock every breath from your lungs. The rhythm was relentless now—fast, deep, dragging you to the edge so quickly your head spun. Your body jolted with every thrust, fingers curling into the sheets, clawing at their back, at their shoulders, at anything you could hold onto—
“F-Fuck—!” You barely had breath to speak, barely had thoughts left beyond the heat, the overwhelming pleasure, the way they were stretching you, filling you, ruining you—
They buried their face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, groaning with every desperate snap of their hips. “S'good, Angel. So perfect—”
Their lips ghosted against your pulse, hot and open-mouthed, before sinking their teeth into your skin—hard.
You shattered.
Pleasure ripped through you, blinding, consuming, your body arching into them as you came with a cry, trembling beneath them as your vision whited out.
And they didn’t stop.
“C’mon, Angel—give me another,” they rasped, voice thick with praise, with possession, with love. “Bet you can, can’t you? Bet you can take one more for me—”
You shuddered, body trembling beneath them as waves of pleasure crashed through you, but they weren’t done—not yet.
“Again, Angel,” they murmured against your skin, voice thick, almost pleading now. “Let me feel you—let me hear you.”
You bit your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to keep your sounds from spilling out—
But then they thrust one last time, deep, grinding against you as they spilled inside, hot and thick, sending you spiraling into another sharp, helpless climax.
And that was it. That was the moment you broke.
A choked sob escaped your lips, your whole body tightening around them as pleasure wrecked you, as their name tore from your throat in a breathless, trembling moan—
“Fuck— that’s it, that’s it,” they groaned, arms locking around you, holding you close as they rode out the last pulses of pleasure, as they filled you to the brim.
It was overwhelming—too much, too deep, too intimate.
And still, they didn’t pull away.
Instead, they held you, breath hot against your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. Their hands traced soothing circles over your hips, grounding you, keeping you close, like they couldn’t let go.
“You okay, Angel?” their voice was softer now, gentle, laced with something raw, something vulnerable.
You barely had the strength to nod, still shaking in their arms, still feeling them inside you, still coming down from that high.
They pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, their fingers tightening around yours as they whispered, “S’good. So good. Mine.”
And fuck.
Your heart ached.
They let out a soft chuckle, still breathless, still soaked in heat and the remnants of pleasure. Their arms curled around you, pulling you against their chest, their heartbeat pounding against your ear.
“Man,” they murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, sweeter. “That’s one way to let off steam.”
You scoffed weakly, burying your face against their skin, trying to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.
“Shut up,” you mumbled.
They just smirked, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Never.”
The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the gentle hum of their fingers tracing up and down your back, soothing, steady—like they never wanted to let you go.
“Y’know,” they muttered after a moment, “if I pissed you off on purpose, d’you think—”
You pinched their side before they could finish.
They yelped—then laughed, burying their face in your hair, still cradling you like you were something precious. Like they couldn’t believe they got to have you like this.
“Love you,” they whispered against your temple, breath warm, tender.
And even though you were still pretending to be mad, still trying to act like you weren’t melting at their touch—
I recently got into 14dwy as requested by a friend and I had to get this out.
18+ minors go away plz
Tw: Rough(ish) sex, public sex, biting, marking, babygirl behaviour
-------💭.｡:･*ﾟ💫ﾟ*･.｡ʚ♡⃛ɞ.｡:･*ﾟ💫ﾟ*･.｡💭--------
Your fingers trail over the spine of a book as you read the cover, contemplating over taking it. "Hey Ren, what do you think about this one?" The pink haired man turns to you, a curious expression on his face. You and him had recently gotten on a romance kick, tracking down any and all novels you could find. Your job at the library made this easier for the both of you.
He hums lightly, "Looks good to me." And you ppace the book into the basket sitting on the floor. It was late, and the little bookstore was closed. But after promising Elanor you would close up, you and Ren descided to do a little late night searching. He watches you intently search through the shelves, unable to keep his eyes of you.
'So cute...' He smiles. You turn to him and giggle, "What are you looking at?" His face flushes at being caught. "N-Nothin'" You reach up and put a hand to his face, smiling up at him. He returns it and puts his hand overtop of yours, turning his head to give your palm a light kiss.
You internally squeal.
"You're so cute, you know that?" His eyes widen as he stares down at you, his heart beginning to race. "Hah... Haaah~ Angel..." He mumbles, hearts forming in his eyes. "Ren? Are you alright?" He keens, backin you up and pinning you against the bookshelf. "I need you Angel... I need you right now..."
Your eyes widen and you look around. Nobody was in the library, it was closed after all, but still... In a public space? He smiles mischievously, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips. He leans in to kiss you slowly and deeply, his arms wrapping around you to pull you flush against him. "A-Angel... I need you so bad, please."
You give in and smile, giving him a small nod. He hums softly, his hands slowly sliding down to your thighs as he lifts you up suddenly. You let out a surprised yelp as he wraps your legs around his waist, pressing you against the bookshelf. "I've been dying to do this all day..."
"R-Ren," You stutter, suddenly feeling hot and bothered at the closeness. He smirks against your lips, pressing a soft kiss before pulling back slightly. His voice is low and husky as he speaks. "Shh... nobody's here... besides..." He grinds his hips gently against yours to emphasize his point. "...I can be quick..."
"Okay, just be gentle." A satisfied smirk spreads across his face as he quickly unbuttons your pants and pushes them down along with your underwear. He doesn't waste any time, freeing himself and pressing the head of his cock against your entrance. "Good girl..." He whispers before pushing inside suddenly. "Mmmph..." He groans as he pushes through your folds, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head
You gasp lightly and grip the bookshelf, your eyes closing at his girth. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size before he starts moving his hips slowly. His hands grip your thighs tightly as he starts to fuck you gently against the bookshelf. His mouth finds your neck, sucking and kissing gently to muffle any sounds. "Shh... quiet..."
"R-Ren~" You whisper his name, moaning lightly against him and gripping his soft sweater. He swallows your moans with his mouth, kissing you deeply as he starts moving faster. The bookshelf rattles softly with his movements, but thankfully the library is empty. His hands roam over your body possessively as he pinnes you against the shelf. "Mine... mine..."
"H-Hah, Ren~" He can feel you getting closer, your body tensing around him. He reaches up to pinch and roll your nipples with his fingers, wanting to make this quick but intense for both of you. "Angel... You feel so good, ugh~ you're... you're gonna make me cum already." He grinds against you harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. "Come f'me..."
Your thighs tense and quiver around him, throwing your head back and moaning loudly. He covers your mouth with his hand as he feels you clench around him, your orgasm triggering his own release. He holds you against the shelf, fucking you through your orgasms as he comes inside you quietly. His hand muffles any further sounds as he fills you up, marking his territory.
"F-Fuck Angel. Look at you..." You pant and whimper slightly against the bookshelf, whining at him still thrusting softly "R-Ren... Can't..."
"Yes you can. Please Angel... Need to see you come around me again."
───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.
✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!
────────────────────────────────────────────
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!
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 ->
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— ^ ^ —
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.
forever. he used that word sparingly, but when he said it, he was never shy about it. it was your captor's punctuation to the declarations of eternal love he gave you whenever the time was right.
'we'll be together forever.'
the pencil in your hand trembled and it caused a line of graphite to run some place you didn't want it.
that familiar aching in your head returned, you hadn't realized you were trying to suppress it. you flipped the utensil over and erased the inaccuracy from your paper
behind you was your gentle captor, chopping up vegetables on the cutting board and taking periodic glances at your form tucked away before the dinner table.
your back was towards him, and your eyes were growing blurry and unfocused within your journal.
all of this was for him, for him to keep you safe and sound from the entire world. yea, that sounds about right.
you didn't like to think of it that often, in fact you typically avoided thinking in favor of distracting yourself.
the silence was loud, but you learned to fill it.
your head slumped on the table against your forearm while your opposite arm dangled by your side. this was never going to end, was it? the pencil you held loosely between your fingers slipped and clattered on the floor.
the noise pulled his eyes from the diced carrots to your sullen posture.
you must've been tired.
he washed his hands and dried them with his apron before attending you. your gentle captor picked up the dropped utensil and glanced at what you had been filling the pages of your sketchbook with.
he muttered something akin to a compliment about the sketch besides your ear but you didn't hear him, your ears were ringing to loudly.
you were just tired, that's all. then you were in his arms as he carried you off to your shared bed.
looking at you sinking into the duvet and blankets with utter apathy written all over features under your stray locks of hair.
easy breaths lift your chestup and down; you had the same pattern when you were sleeping, but your eyes were open. half open at least.
before he left to continue preparing dinner, he brushed aside the wandering tuffs of hair from your face and adjusted a throw blanket to cover you comfortably.
the finishing touch was the tender kiss he placed on your temple. you didn't protest, but you didn't reciprocate either. you never did.
he left you alone to rest after that, his thoughts heavy behind his calm exterior. this was more than a bit of sluggishness; it didn't take an idiot to realize that.
still, he has an ace up his sleeve for times like this just in case you ever got too low.
one of these days he just might come home with a medium sized present wrapped up with your favorite color. you're entirely indifferent in the face of it until you see the box shift in his hands and a hushed whimper come from whatever's inside.
the noise makes you hasty to unravel the box; oh and that look on your face when you peel away the wrapping- he'll never forget it.
it's like you've been injected with hope once your eyes meet the bright orange pair looking back at you. it's the first time in forever since your captor has seen you that awe inspired.
he kisses your cheek and tells you happy birthday.
you mumble an anxious thank-you, cradling the tiny creature in your hands. then you return his gesture, this time he can't hide the surprise the widen his eyes.
theres a first for everything, he thinks to himself, his fingertips grazing the spot you kissed his jaw like it was a blessing he had to protect.
eventually he's going to get jealous of the cat,
he can't help it really, but he still has faith you'll look at him with that much love eventually. he can't ignore the fact that you have been 'happier' lately. he uses that word sparingly too.
anyway, you get to keep the cat and happily ever after. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔
pretty sure i was hypnotized by a wizard into writing this
You beg your big bulky kidnapper not to take your virginity because you’re waiting to give it to someone you love, and he just smiles at you crookedly – stroking your teary cheek as he rests the hefty weight of his big fat veiny manhood on your belly, leaking hot pre while cooing at you with deceptively kind eyes, saying that he thinks that’s a lovely idea.
Flipping you over, he starts prepping your virgin ass instead – spit and four fat fingers stretching it out while you sob and wring your wrists in your fluffy cuffs – all pointlessly as the pink hole starts to give, becoming soft and squishy, swallowing his digits up in wet velvety squelches.
And filling the taut hole up with his massive cock, he rubs your clit and whispers darkly that he’ll save your pretty cunt for when you fall in love with him.
He’s overjoyed to see you’ve already fallen in love with him after only one round of pounding your poor butt into a sore sloppy opening – all but begging him to take your pussy instead.
Obviously, he obliges, sucking the bloated fat of your teary cheek with a hum and a firm squeeze to your sore buttcheek before flipping you back around.
He kisses your lips, your neck, your tits, your stomach – laving down until licking through your pretty pussylips, promptly tongue-fucking the sweet hole until you cum with a shudder.
Smiling into your trembling cunt – he chuckles, feeling it pulse against his lips. “Come on, baby ~” He encourages. “Tell me how much you love me – tell me how much you want my sweet, sweet love.”
He pulls your thighs around his torso, rubbing his messy cock against your slick cunt while nipping at the corner of your lips – patiently waiting for your forced consent. Grossly amused – and aroused.
“Ah – please…” Your lips warble – eyes screwed shut where you try angling away from his steamy breaths.
“Please what, baby? Please make love to your sweet pussy?” He suggests with a moan – hunched over your smaller form with his cock licking your clit as he slides it back and forth between your thighs. “Or do you maybe miss it in your tight ass?”
“No – please-”
“Then tell me, baby. Tell me you want it – tell me you love me, and I’ll give it to you.” He purrs – still while laying open-mouthed kisses on your lips and cheek.
You whimper, crying wetly. “I love you – please make love in my pussy…”
He hums in return – a satisfying rumble as he slips his cock-head through your folds until it settles in your opening.
Your breath hitches at the stretch – then you suck your teeth – hissing as he splits you open and treads your tight virginity over his girth – hugging him air-tight like a condom bought two sizes too small.
“Oh, baby~ so tight~ so tight and good~ wet like a good virgin should be~” He groans, sinking every thick inch inside despite the way you squirm, ignoring your sweet cry when you beg him to slow down.
He’s down to the hilt in a moment – kneading against your womb with his chubby cockhead. Big hands squeeze your ass – using it to pump into you in steady deep-hitting thrusts – his lips on your forehead in a prolonged kiss.
You pant out sticky whines as he ruts inside you – fat cock stretching you badly for your first time – making everything sting numbly, only partly soothed by a tickling pleasure – tummy feeling hot and tight until it all snaps again, leaving you to shake on the massive member, throttling him all so sweetly.
“I love you, baby~ love you and your tight pussy~ squeezing me so good~” He slurs against you, drooling on your skin. “Gonna fill you up with love – all of it – all of it in your sweet pussy~”
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
prguitarman
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