Imagine Vincent Whittman with the dumbest but also smartest target ever.
He’s not sure how the hell you got a job above him, but you run a children’s show, and you’re so sweet it makes his blood boil. He’s convinced there are no thoughts in your head, and your little show would be better off cancelled. Does anyone really want to watch puppet shows anyway?
So, like always, Vincent sets out to get rid of you. He’ll monitor your behaviour and find out where you go, and take care of you that way.
You’ve been in this bar for two hours, meeting an old friend. It’s risky to be here, but Vincent knows from trailing you that your friend is staying in a hotel that’s on the other side of town. She won’t be walking you home. The knife in his jacket is almost calling out to him. It’s perfect. You won’t even know what happened - and neither will anyone else. Your ratings will be his and-
“Vincent!” He blinks and somehow you’ve made it across the bar to his little booth. “Oh my gosh, I knew it was you! Jane, this is one of my friends at work.” Vincent stares at you with barely repressed anger as you tug on his sleeve. Confusion breaks through too. You’ve barely interacted with him at work. Yeah, you’ve tried making conversation with him, but he always leaves. Surely you’d get the hint from that.
“Waiter!” You call someone over and Vincent groans. More witnesses. Hooray. “Can I order a milkshake for my friend here? On the tab.” Milkshakes? You’re a damn adult!
Vincent sighs and pushes up his glasses. “I’d prefer black coffee.” You pull a face.
“No way! You can’t just get coffee at a bar!” Vincent is about to point out it’s uncommon to get milkshakes at a bar, but you interrupt him. “I think I’ll get you… bubblegum. It’s blue and green like your eyes!” Vincent unwillingly looks away, some subconscious memory of being bullied for his eyes kicking in. He knows you’re not being cruel - you don’t have a cruel bone in your body - but still.
“I’m really fine, thank you, Y/N.” Your smile falters. Vincent feels a tiny bit bad. Murdering you is one thing, but hurting your feelings is another. He can excuse the murder, but there’s no point in being an asshole to you for the sake of it.
“Oh,” you say. “I just thought because you were here alone, you’d like some company.” That small bit of guilt in him grows. Vincent looks around to see if anyone related to the network will be here to witness the shame of him having a fucking milkshake. When he concludes no one else is here, he sighs.
“Fine, fine. If you’re insisting on the milkshake, order me one with marshmallows.”
That night did not go as Vincent had intended. Instead, he’d had a sugar rush thanks to surviving only off black coffee for the last few years, and, in the opposite version of what he’d wanted, you’d walked him back to his apartment. His apartment right in the middle of the city. He couldn’t lay a single finger on you.
Maybe you’d known, he tried to reason with himself. Maybe you’re catching on, and this naive act is a farce. After all, he could play charming too.
A few weeks later, Vincent is humming to himself as he moves through the alleyways. For once, he wasn’t here to hide a body. It was just that this route to the aquarium was quicker, and the parking was a bitch, so he figured he might as well walk.
“Vincent!” He doesn’t even have time to register your presence as you slam into him from behind and… hug him. Immediately he’s on alert. You’ve got him in a dimly lit alleyway. He’s not stranger to what that means.
However, as he begins to fall, you grab his hand to steady him, and beam up at him like the world is made of rainbows and cotton candy and sunshine. To you, it probably is.
“Hello, Y/N?” Vincent hates how he can’t stop the confusion entering his voice. “What are you doing here? There’s killers on the loose, you know. It’s stupid for girls like you to be in dangerous areas like this.” You just laugh off his warning - a warning he found pretty generous to give - and sigh happily.
“Well, what killer would be able to get me if I’m with you, silly? You could… Oh, you actually don’t look that strong, but I suppose you could throw your glasses at them and hope for the best?”
Vincent doesn’t know whether to be insulted or not, because you seem genuine and earnest. He decides on labelling you as strange, as some anomaly he can’t quite work out. That’ll do no good. You’re a question mark, and for plans, question marks needed to be cancelled.
He straightens his jacket. He could kill you here honestly. Slam your head against the wall over and over and over. That would prove him strong to you.
Not that he feels the need to prove anything to you.
Vincent clears his throat. “Sorry, but again, what are you doing here?” He smirks. “You aren’t stalking me, are you? That’s not what good girls should do.” You ignore the way his voice drops into almost a purr, or perhaps you don’t pick up on it.
“I was heading to the hospital,” you explain. Vincent scans you over. You don’t look injured. You would be if he was done with you, but right now you’re in perfect health.
You must sense - finally - his curiosity because you quickly clarify. “I volunteer there and read to the sick children when I’m not at work.”
Oh, of course you do. You little bleeding heart. You’re a martyr. It’s irritating. Vincent just can’t understand you.
“You’re going to the hospital,” he repeats. If you’re so insistent on that, he’ll happily take you to the morgue.
“Yep,” you cheerily confirm. Then before he can shove you away, you link his arm with yours and start skipping happily.
Insane, Vincent decided. You were insane.
“Well?” you ask, tilting your head. The light reflects your eyes. “If there’s a killer around, it’s good to be with familiar company. We can look out for each other.” Oh, Vincent could take care of you right here and now - but if you volunteered regularly, they’d realise something bad had happened to you. Damn it. He’ll have to let you drag him around until you go your separate ways.
“Mm,” he agrees dryly. “I’ll certainly be looking out for you in the next few weeks.”
Vincent is just tidying up some paperwork on his desk when he sees you poke your head into his office.
“Hello!” you chirp.
Vincent blinks. “Hello. I wasn’t aware you were still here. It’s normally… dead.” A small smile stretches across his lips at the joke. You don’t understand it though, and just come into his office.
Oh no, Vincent thinks. Make yourself at home, why don’t you?
“Holy smokes, they were right! You did use to be a weatherman!” Ah, you’ve stumbled across Vincent’s ‘Achievement Board’ as he likes to call it. Perhaps stumbling is the incorrect word as it’s massive and wall to wall, but he digresses.
“Do people talk about me?” He raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious.
You look through some of the paper. “Some do. They say you’re weird, but I tell them that’s mean. If they don’t stop, I throw paper at them.”
Vincent can’t help but be a little flummoxed. Sure you think you’re friends, but he treats you like dirt. He’s not exactly been hiding the fact he wants you dead.
“Thanks,” he slowly says. “And yeah, I started as a weatherman, but that was years ago. That’s really what caught your eye out of everything?”
“Oh, I have a Master’s Degree in meteorology,” you say casually.
Vincent nearly drops the blade he was starting to fish out of his blazer. What? What the fuck? You ran a kid’s show!
With all his years of eloquent speech, only one word can truly be used in this situation. “Huh?”
You laugh. “Yeah, after women stated getting them, I wanted to too, just for fun. But I always wanted to be in showbiz, so I chose that.”
Is he dreaming? Vincent thinks this is a strange dream. Not because you’re here, as he frequently dreams about you, but because you’re… smart. You did a degree for fun. In a time most women were housewives. Shit, you must’ve been ridiculed. And for some reason that makes him slightly angry.
More than slightly. It makes his blood boil.
And as you stand with your back to him, all alone and a perfect target, Vincent puts the knife back in his pocket.
You sit in Vincent’s office again, swinging your legs and singing your show’s theme tune over and over again. Vincent either thinks it’s actually quite catchy now he’s heard it again and again, or he’s heard it so much he’s become desensitised and it’s something he hears at 2am when he’s trying to sleep.
He doesn’t know which one is better.
He also doesn’t know how exactly he got roped into walking you home because more people have turned up dead. People above your position and below.
Vincent would’ve called you a difficult target without hesitation a year ago. He still would.
What he hesitates with now is why you’re so difficult. At first it was because you inadvertently helped yourself, but now… he doesn’t know now. All he knows is every day he makes the trek to your door and picks you up and drops you off, sometimes in the car and sometimes on foot. He likes walking about with you, if only to hear the nonsense you babble. It’s entertaining.
“Sorry,” you apologise. “You’re trying to finish up, right?”
“I don’t mind,” Vincent replies. “Your voice is nice. I’ll miss it.” He pauses. “When I’m at home.” He doesn’t want to say the alternative, and it enrages him as much as he is softened by it.
Vincent doesn’t know if he can kill you.
It’s a normal morning, and Vincent adjusts his tie when he hears a knock at the door. Post?
“In the mailbox, please!” he calls. There’s another knock. “I said the fucking mailbox!”
“Vincent!” That’s you.
Without any joy in your voice.
Vincent doesn’t give a shit his tie is askew and his hair is a mess. He runs to the door and almost yanks it open before snapping out of blind panic briefly enough to use the door handle.
His heart lurches when he sees you. You’re bleeding and there’s bruises on your arms.
Something overtakes Vincent then. Some utter primal rage that crashes into his mind like a wave. Without even thinking, he grabs one of the guns he has hidden around the house. When he’d upgraded from his apartment, he’d made sure to have more security - to make an escape if he was ever caught.
“Who?” he practically growls out. “Y/N, tell me who and I’ll fucking kill them.”
You put your hands up but you don’t protest. “It was a mugging. I was walking back from the hospital, and I only put up a fight because I had some paper with your address on it, and I know you don’t want stalkers. I managed to save it.” You hand him the piece of scrunched up paper.
Vox doesn’t take it. He gave you that. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.
He could’ve gotten you killed.
“Y/N,” he says slowly. “What the fuck? You - you could’ve died for this.” For him.
You fidget, and Vincent brings you in and sits you down on the stairs. He knows there are bandages around here somewhere, but he needs to call to get the day off work for you two. The next day off too for himself.
He’ll be going hunting.
“I know it’s silly,” you mumble. “But you’re my friend, so I was worried, and-“
“You could’ve died!” Vincent repeats, yelling now. “I don’t you dying for me, god damn it! I don’t want you dead at all, and I’m going to fucking go out there and murder that guy, and then I’m going to give you his head.”
No. Vincent couldn’t kill you. But he could certainly kill for you. That would be easier than breathing. He can’t even handle seeing you hurt.
“Vincent.” You grab his arm and he softens. Right. He needs to get you cleaned up. As it’s cold and you must’ve lost your coat in your fight, he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over you. He has some blankets upstairs with sharks on them too. Maybe you’d like them.
“Sorry.” He clears his throat and tries to act charming despite his twitching eye. “I didn’t mean I’d kill him. I’d never kill anyone.”
You snort, and he raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
You look at him like he’s grown a second head. “Vincent, I know. Jeez, I’m not that stupid.”
Oh.
Vincent blinks. “You… know? Since when?”
“Since I saw your narcissist board.”
“It’s really more of an Achievement Board,” Vincent argues.
“Sure. But yeah, I worked it out then.”
“But - but…” Vincent can barely speak. “You wanted me to walk you home because of all the deaths.”
You laugh and then wince in pain. “There are tons of serial killers, Vincent. Most of them go after women. Well, apart from that New Orleans guy like fifteen years back.”
Vincent nods, recalling the amount of bodies found. Well, he hadn’t killed as many as that man, but he supposed killing at all was bad.
“And you still wanted to be my friend,” he says. “You’re - you’re batshit insane.” He’s probably a hypocrite for saying that.
You shrug. “Well, I trust you. We’re friends, so why would you ever want me dead? And when have you ever tried to kill me?”
Vincent internally winces. He can either tell you and have you hate him, or he can omit the truth and keep you by his side.
What you don’t know won’t hurt you, he supposes.
“Of course. When could I ever have tried to kill you?”
Seventy five years later, you shoot up in bed, gasping. Vincent - or Vox as he so loves to be called by everyone else - wakes up as soon as you do.
“Huh - what’s going on?” His screen glitches in and out as he wakes up. “You good?”
“Vincent!” you chide in shock. “You were planning to kill me!”
Red eyes blink back at you before shutting as he tosses himself back into the masses of covers.
“You know, honey, we really gotta work on you reading people. But well done for finally working it out.”
micheal afton x reader is such a funny concept. just a series of relationship advice posts starting with “aita for asking my bf not to go back to work for the company that literally kills you” and ending somewhere between “my bf threw up a metal skeleton in the middle of a date, would it be insensitive to ask for some space” and “bf recently “died” in a fire trying to answer for the sins of his father, is this something I have to tell the life insurance people?”
At this point it’s just become an inside joke between you. Malevola HATEESSSS that she doesn’t get it and makes a point to groan whenever either of you use it at the apartment/over comms (The humble majesty of nonchalant fomo)
@grymmsical (Is this the kind of stuff you want??)
cause I very much like the game and wanna make more of it. Pretty please.
Also imagining a 'top villain' who's actually a basically a hero who saves people and fixes a lot of shit that at this point y/n if forced into the dispatch to as help but y/n is just hating it because they are a villain! Expect for accidently saving the downtown square from a disaster and preventing a absolutely terrible disaster from happening.
'villain' y/n: "I AM A FUCKING VILLAIN! I AM NOT SOME SO CALLED HERO! I CAUSE TERROR!"
Robert: "Sure. And you caused terror by saving the city today, you sure did strike terror in the hearts of people after that."
I love to think this villain y/n is a grumpy guy who wants to be a top villain but instead is called a hero by everyone and even has kids dress up on Halloween as him and y/n is just pissed because no one is scared of him. I like to imagine y/n just becoming less angry later on while being in the dispatch but also kinda making waterboy his 'evil' henchman.
(Anyway! Hopefully you guys like this and if you want more please don't be shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's you have! But for now please stay safe and drink water!)
Pairing: The Grabber x Female Reader
Summary: A raging blizzard brings an injured man to your doorstep. Against your better judgement, you decide to help him and show some compassion. But as the snow piles up, so does the tension, and you begin to wonder if your kindness was a terrible mistake.
TW: DARK content, non-con, gore, blood, stalking, power imbalance, kidnapping, foul language, violence, choking, degradation, unprotected sex, bondage, loss of virginity, rough sex, abuse, and more. Read at your own risk.
Word Count: 12,453 -Damn, she's long.
MDNI- NSFW
-----
You always hated the cold.
The frigid air was teeth-chattering inducing, causing your breaths to come out in steamed huffs. Another gust of wind whipped through the empty streets, and you tugged your coat closer to your body, trying to fend off the chill seeping into your bones. Thick globs of snow fell intensely in the December air, each singular snowflake seemingly making it their goal to cling to your layers and burrow into your skin.
Crossing your hands over your chest, you tilted your head down and continued to brave the blizzard. Trudging through the sludge, your toes burned within your boots, mentally cursing you for not wearing warmer socks. It would take a miracle to keep your boots from becoming soaked, and your bones ache at the thought. Gritting your teeth, you questioned your sanity at the idea of walking the few blocks home instead of waiting for the storm to pass.
December was always like this in Denver, with snow piling up until you felt as if it could sweep you away among the banks of frigid white. Living in a snowglobe, as some would say. Sometimes the weather looked like it came straight out of a Hallmark postcard, with the picturesque pine trees dotted with snow and Christmas decorations adorning every house in aesthetic symmetry.
Being in the postcard however, was a completely different story, with frigid nights that left you burrowed under multiple blankets next to the fireplace of your house. Looking up into the night sky at the silent snowfall around you, you almost would have said it was pretty if you were trying to keep your teeth from chattering beneath the wool scarf strung around your lower face.
The streets were almost empty, with most preferring to huddle up indoors rather than face the wrath of the cold. A stray car would creep down the streets, headlights blinding you for a moment before veering onto another street, almost as anxious to get home as you were. Pushing onwards, you picked up your pace, boots crunching against the snow on the cracked sidewalks.
At this rate, there would be ice coating every surface come morning, and you mentally noted to salt your section of sidewalk to prevent any hazards as the snow died down. Trudging past yet another snowman, you glanced at the bulking individual. Twigs adorning both sides, a warm scarf strung around its neck, and buttons pushed into its midsection; a true gentleman of a snowman. Two stones gazed soullessly back into your own, and you shivered at the sight.
Creepy.
Tearing your eyes away, you sighed in relief as the familiar brick of your home met your gaze. Settled on the outskirts of Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge, your home seemed tucked away from the bustling life of Denver. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and a sagging porch, but it was all yours. The brick was chipping in places, worn by weather, but the structure had never looked more inviting against the cold air.
Practically leaping up the steps of the porch as you fished for your keys, you leaned against the front door to support your weight. The door creaked open, causing your hand to freeze within your pocket. You had always locked the door, especially during the recent boogeyman stories you had only heard in whispers.
The Grabber.
A fitting name, seeing as he stole boys out of their beds at night, only for them to completely dissipate into the air. Only having recently moved in last month, you took extra precautions with the news, trying to stifle any panic that would arise from living alone on the outskirts of the refuge. Pushing the door open fully, you stepped inside before shutting the door behind you quickly, grimacing as the wood slammed from the force.
Although in the comforting warmth of your home, a new chill seemed evident, weighing heavy with every step you took. Shedding your sopping coat, you kicked off your boots before padding against the wooden floorboards, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Heading towards the kitchen, you ripped the scarf from your body, winding it in your hands anxiously. “Hello? Is someone there…?” you called out, praying for silence.
When your wish was granted, dread began to settle in your stomach, and you gnawed on your bottom lip from nerves.
Had you locked the door? Did you forget in the bustle of trying to beat the storm on the way to work? Creeping into the kitchen, you sighed in relief when being met with nothing. Leaning against the counter, you finally let the scarf drop onto the , a laugh forcing its way of your lips due to your paranoia. You really needed to take some time off, the boogeyman clearly getting to your psyche from the long hours.
Taking a deep breath, it felt as if the house took a breath of relief with you as you finally relaxed your spine. Tugging open a cabinet, you grabbed a wine glass and decided to treat yourself before bed. After all, nothing helped cure the chill of winter than alcohol. Rummaging through the fridge, you pulled out a white blend, pouring it to the glass absentmindedly, wracking your brain for any movies that sounded interesting to unwind to. Leaving the bottle on the counter, you scooped up your glass and moved to make sure the door was locked before relaxing.
A cough ripped through the silence.
You froze, the glass slipping through your fingers, shattering against the tiles of the floor, and a startled yelp clawed through your throat at the sound. Whipping your head to the source of the sound, your eyes landed in the living room. A dark figure sat on your couch, blending in with the shadows. Immediately, you rushed to the wall and flicked on the lights. The first thing you noticed were his eyes. Striking blue clashed with yours, seemingly tearing you open and reading your soul.
Brown hair messily clung to his forehead, with sweat and grime covering his skin. Rough, hagged breaths seeped from the figure, and he hunched over his stomach, a hand clutching his side. Your frantic reaction didn’t seem to startle him at all, his steely gaze watching your every move. Your mouth opened, but you found yourself gargling on the words, nothing coming out. Sensing your shock, he shrugged slightly.
“Sorry for the scare, hon. I’m sure you’re confused but–” he grimaced suddenly, removing his hand from his side, which was covered in crimson. “I–... I could really use some help.” He said plainly, as if he had known you his entire life and was casually talking about the blizzard raging outside.
There was a man in your living room. A man who needed help. Trying to still your breathing, you warily approached him, back hugging the wall as you neared the couch. “I… how did you get in here?” you squeaked, cursing yourself silently for not having a weapon on you. He could be anyone, anything, and his intentions could be far from innocent. Sensing your apprehension, he lifted both hands up, surrendering.
“I was in the woods when I was charged by a bison. He only nicked me in the side, but as you can probably tell…” He gestured to your surroundings, chuckling slightly. “...There isn’t much around. I had to get shelter from the storm and hopefully get patched up. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He jested, a smirk adorning his face at your anxious state. You stared at his appearance blankly, trying to piece together his story.
Bison were well known to the refuge area, but to have one charge… you grimaced at the thought. “I… stay here.” The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them, and you whirled around, rushing up the stairs to your bathroom. Throwing open the door, you rummaged through the drawers, grabbing towels, a first aid kit, and anything else that seemed remotely useful.
If you had any sense about you, you would have called the police at the sight of the strange man in your living room, but the threat of him bleeding out would have added even more problems to the predicament and you didn’t want to be deemed as a murderer after just moving in. Shuffling down the stairs, you almost sighed in relief when realizing he hadn’t moved.
At least he listens… you thought, and your feet gravitated to the wounded man before you even had the chance to stop yourself. Looking up at you, the man grimaced again while keeping his hand on his side. “I… I can help, but you have to stay still.” You say, dropping the first aid kit to the empty cushion next to the man’s leg before unpacking any supplies that seemed useful. He nodded curtly, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt before pulling it over his head, discarding the clothing onto the wooden floor.
Your eyes widened at the sudden movement, heat flushing your cheeks at the sight of the now shirtless man sitting before you.
A nasty gash sliced through his right side, moving from his sternum to below his pec, blood pooling from the wound. Your eyes lingered on the wound before traveling to the rest of the exposed skin. He was pale, lean, but very fit, with sinewy muscle adorning his frame. His bicep curled as he moved to put pressure on the wound, causing his stomach to tighten from the pain.
Sweat trickled down the cavity of his chest to his belly button, where a dark brown happy trail slipped seductively down his hips and into the confines of his jeans. Your mouth gaped open again, unable to stop staring at the very mysterious, very attractive man spread out before you.
A chuckle tore you from your thoughts, and your eyes ripped to meet the icy blue eyes that bore into yours once again. He smirked at you, brow cocked at your obviously flustered state. “Sorry…” you gulped, and grabbed the towel on the couch, knuckles brushing against his upper thigh before you retreated into yourself. Turning, you rushed into the kitchen and drenched the towel under warm water, cheeks burning as you tried to shake the image from your head.
Focus… there is a man injured and he needs your help, you chided yourself, ashamed at the heat that licked against your skin.
Wringing the towel between your hands, you approached the living room again, trying to muster a brave face while racking your brain on how to clean a wound. Eyes never leaving your form, his smirk seemed to burn into your brain as you approached the man. It all felt so… lewd, the air having a tense atmosphere that seemed almost suffocating. You pushed the rag into the man’s hand, almost shaking as his fingers brushed against yours. “Hold this to the wound… I have to sanitize it.” You muttered, refusing to make eye contact as you grabbed a bottle of iodine.
“This will sting…” you warn, unscrewing the bottle cap. “Albert. My name is Albert.” He answered, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Albert… It’s nice to meet you, although I would have preferred to not have someone break into my house in the dead of winter.” You teased slightly, earning another chuckle from him. He shrugged slightly, muttering off another apology before wincing again.
You grab another towel and drench it with iodine, the pungent smell invading your nostrils. You gag slightly from the chemical scent before scooting across the floor in between the man’s legs. Brushing off just how inappropriate the position was, you pushed yourself up onto your knees before pushing Albert’s hand away from the wound. Albert’s gaze seemed to burrow into your skull, but you braved onward. Pushing the rag onto the open wound, a hiss escaped the male.
He flinched at the contact, and you had to fight the urge to watch him squirm beneath your touch. “Fuck…” He seethes through gritted teeth, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. You dabbed at the wound, sanitizing it until his right side was coated in a deep orange. Grimacing at the sight, you moved to grab the tissue adhesive. “This will hurt, I have to glue the skin together.” You said, praying that watching medical dramas after work had any resemblance to reality.
“You really know what you’re doing… should I be nervous?” He teased through gritted teeth, and you flushed. “...lots of television.” You muttered before cradling the wound on his side. He immediately tensed at your touch, and you felt the warmth from his skin seep into your hands. “Shit… you're freezing.” He bit out, and you stuttered out an apology. Squeezing the glue onto the wound, you worked quickly to close the wound, trying to ignore the feeling of iodine and blood coating your fingertips. Once the gash was glued, you grabbed gauze and packed the wound, ignoring the curses flying from the man’s mouth.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m almost done.” You said, before taping the final block of gauze on top of the wound. You marveled at your work, thankful that the wound wasn’t as deep as you initially thought. He sat up, inspecting your handiwork. “Not bad… I guess all that television really pulled off, right hon?” Your cheeks burned at the nickname. You grabbed three acetaminophen and dropped them into his open palm.
“Here… I’ll grab you some water.” You moved to the kitchen to grab a glass, sidestepping the now ruined wine glass and puddle on the kitchen tiles. Now that the immediate crisis was out of the way, questions swirled in your head. Why your house? Why was he out in the refuge in the dead of night in winter? Who really was this man? Brushing off the thoughts, you filled up the glass before padding back into the living room.
“Thank you…?” He looked expectantly. You chewed on the inside of your cheek nervously. “Y/n.” You stated quickly, gaze dropping from his once more. “Y/n… I appreciate it.” He thanked again, smiling.
The lights flickered around the house suddenly, and your heart almost burst out of your chest. Glancing to the window, the flurry of snow continued its onslaught furiously, wind howling and battering against the old brick. No one in their right mind would travel now, especially injured. “I have to clean up my mess… are you hungry?” You queried, bending to pick up the broken glass.
“That’s sweet of you, hon. I’m famished.” Heat rose to your cheeks again, and you cursed yourself for being so easily flustered by his words. Throwing the pieces into the trash, you dabbed at the spill before opening the fridge. A stray takeout container, some sauces, and more wine stared blankly at you within the barren container.
Groaning, you pushed open a cabinet, grabbing a can of soup. Comfortable silence enveloped you as you worked, and Albert decided to move to the kitchen and watch you cook. As the soup heated on the stove, you turned to meet the man’s gaze. It dawned on you that he was much taller than you expected, towering over you to the point where you craned your neck to maintain eye contact. “I hope chicken noodle is fine… I wasn’t expecting guests.” You joke slightly, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet before setting them on the counter.
Albert shrugged, unphased by the intrusion of space. “So… a bison? You’re lucky you got away…” you said. It became apparent that you barely knew this man, and you couldn’t decipher if you found that intriguing or terrifying. He nodded, leaning against the fridge, fingers drumming against the metal. “Could have been worse… I was lucky enough to choose a house with a good samaritan.” He jested, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the statement.
Ladling the soup into the bowls, you sat at the small kitchen table, and Albert made himself comfortable across from you. Poking at the soup, small chat ensued between the two of you. You talked about being new to Denver, and not being used to the cold. You vented about work and the day-to-day tasks you did in your spare time. You learned that Albert worked at a hardware store, and had lived in Denver his whole life. He had a dog named Sampson and was also a part time magician.
As you talked, the picture of Albert became more personified, he was just a simple man who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nothing to worry about. “Storms like this don’t usually go on this long… it would have been hell to be caught out there.” He grumbled out, spooning another bite of soup into his mouth. You hummed in agreement.
The blizzard would only get worse throughout the night, and after hearing Albert had abandoned his car at the refuge, your heart clenched at the misfortune of the man. You decided that Albert could spend the night to ensure his wound would properly stay sanitized and dry and let the storm blow over. When he protested, you ignored him, shoving a pillow and quilt into his hands. “It’s decided.” You smiled, guiding him back to the couch.
Throwing his bloodied shirt into the laundry, you stretched, joints popping as fatigue began to seep into your bones. “Goodnight Albert.” You called, heading upstairs into bed. Practically flopping onto your bedsheets, you rolled over to change and get ready for bed, the events of the day wearing you out. Finally situated in bed, you pulled the covers over your body, turning to look at the snow falling outside.
Maybe being kind to strangers isn’t a bad thing after all.
—
There was a body in the woods.
Albert barely spared it a second thought, his luck finally running out from a clean kill. The little shit deserved what was coming to him– having the nerve to pull a knife on him. It didn’t make a difference in the end, however. Albert wasn’t thrilled to end the game that quickly on a whim. It was too easy that way. He always stuck to a motto: grab, hide, kill, repeat. Simple, quick, and always calculated.
Trudging through the refuge in the pitch black while injured was not his forte, especially after having to abandon his jacket due to it being drenched in brain matter and blood. When he approached the residential neighborhood, he hadn’t planned to stay, just grab some medical supplies from a house and circle back to his van. Silent, predatory, deadly.
He never planned on running into you. Innocent, naive little you. He almost felt bad for startling you so badly. Almost. Something about the way that fear radiated off of you just made him want to reach out and grab you. He had half the mind to lunge at you and steal the life from your eyes, breaking you. But when the apprehensive nature you had immediately faded when you saw he was wounded, the pulling of your heartstrings to help was too good not to indulge in.
You were so gentle, so kind in a way that made the darkest parts of him want to corrupt you. The most thrilling part of his… habits was the ability to completely and utterly destroy something, then pick up the pieces and mold them into whatever his fucked up desires had in mind. You were no different. You seemed so compliant, such a good girl who is too kind for her own good. You saw the best in everyone, and it made the monster within him want to take that kindness and twist it until it shattered.
It was your achilles heel, and no amount of good intentions would be able to keep him away from you.
Still high from the adrenaline rush of his most recent kill, the darkness called from the most depraved parts of his mind. He wanted you. He wanted to grab you and mold you into the perfect little toy for him to ruin. It would be so easy to creep into your room and ravage you beyond repair, but Albert was a patient man. He wanted to gain your trust, make you feel safe around him, before dragging you down to the depths of hell with him. Sweet unsuspecting you and your naive way of trusting strangers.
Didn’t your mother tell you not to trust others, especially if one of them was a big, bad killer? Now that his basement was empty, he had plenty of time to prepare for the perfect time to take you. He wondered if the betrayal in your eyes would be just as delectable as your fear, it made his fingers itch to see just how far he could push you. He was always easily fascinated, especially when you were just so trusting. It was laughable really.
Poor girl, your fate was sealed the second he walked into that house.
Maybe his luck didn’t run out, it must have been fate to choose the house with such a perfect, malleable toy waiting for the taking. You didn’t even realize it, did you? Taking care of such an evil man, yet being so trusting to let him sleep in your home. So trusting… so vulnerable, he had to teach you a lesson not to trust strangers. You thought you could fix him, patch him up and send him on his way, but what you didn’t seem to realize was that Albert didn’t want to be fixed.
He didn’t want to do anything other than completely destroy you, ruin you for anyone else other than him. He was never good at taking care of his toys, but the thrill of pushing you until you snapped seemed like a worthwhile challenge. The thought alone had his heart racing. You were his, his to love, his to ruin, you just didn’t know it yet. How cute, almost adorable even. You took him in like a stray, and now Albert will make it his goal to never let you go.
The thing about strays? They always come back.
—
A knock on the door jolted you out of your cooking, causing you to bang your head on the open cabinet door. Hissing at the sensation, you rubbed your head before shouting, “The door is unlocked!” The door creaked open, and you glanced at a snow-covered Albert shedding his extra layers, kicking his boots off while cursing the howling wind.
You rolled your eyes at the sight, turning back to the bolognese sauce simmering on the stovetop. Albert hung up his drenched coat before waltzing into the kitchen, making himself comfortable at one of the stools situated by the kitchen table in order to watch you cook.
It had been two weeks since he had nearly given you a heart attack, and after your consistent begging, he finally went to the hospital to get his wound checked out. It turned out that your medical television obsession had pulled off, with him only needing fresh dressings and a prescription of low grade pain medication before he was discharged. Albert had begun to see you consistently, bringing takeout or random trinkets he thought you would enjoy.
“It’s a gift… I promise, hon.” He would always muse at your attempts to pay him back for his endeavors. It turns out, Albert lived only a 10 minute drive from your house, and most nights he was more keen on crashing on your couch versus making the effort to go to his home. You didn’t mind however, feeling more safe with your new friend nearby.
Another two boys had gone missing, the news flashing across the screen upon his most recent stay. A gasp of horror had escaped you as the anchor reported the details of two boys, one 13 and the other 16 seemingly disappearing into the night. Vanished, as the anchor said. You screwed your eyes shut at the thought. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how their families must be feeling, losing their children to a monster in the middle of their night, stolen out of their beds. “He’s like the boogeyman– The Grabber.” You had said, and Albert’s expression had darkened at the television screen.
“The only difference, sweetheart, is that The Grabber is very much real.” The words haunted you throughout the night, causing you to toss and turn with paranoia. Albert seemed very… detached about the situation, so you decided to not bring it up again, his lack of emotion towards depicting The Grabber as a very scary, very real person that could be anyone made unease seep into your bones.
“Everything okay?” The sound of his voice brought you out of your thoughts, and he cocked a brow at you out of amusement. Looking down, you realized you were gripping the wooden spatula, knuckles deathly white from the pressure. You chuckled awkwardly, releasing spatula from your grasp and turning off the stove. “Yeah… sorry, work has been tense.” Stretching against the counter, you felt his gaze burn into your frame.
That’s the one thing that unnerved you about the older man, he was very… observant. Always seeming to know what you were thinking before the words fell from your mouth, always watching your every move. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe it was just a habit, but either way, something about those eyes drew you in. His gaze held a type of darkness, like someone who had seen too much and the depths latched onto them.
“Tense? That’s no way to spend the holidays… you should take a break. I make a mean eggnog, if you think that would help you relax.” He mused, and you scrunch your face at the mention of the sweet beverage. “I’m sure you do… of course you drink eggnog. I find it disgusting.” You shudder, moving to serve two helpings of bolognese pasta.
Glancing at the calendar, your eyes widened at the date. December 24th. “It’s Christmas Eve…” You muttered. “You think I just came to visit out of the goodness of my heart? Sweetheart, with a schedule as busy as yours, I would be surprised if you remembered New Years.” Albert teased, taking his plate from your grasp, your knuckles brushing his fingertips.
You flushed slightly at the comment.
Albert always had a sense of charm around him that never failed to fluster you. His endearing smile, flirtatious nicknames, and tokens of appreciation made your heart skip a beat at his affections. You found yourself trusting him over the past few weeks, excited for his presence in your otherwise empty house and the attention he gave you.
It felt like a fresh breath of air, being looked after when your long shifts finished for the day and you were stuck in the solace of your home. He knew how you reacted around him, almost enticing him to push your buttons and turn you into a stuttering mess. It was infuriating, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“That is not true. I remembered Christmas, I just didn’t realize Christmas Eve was today.” You chided, earning a chuckle from across the table. Rolling your eyes at his teasing, you continued to pick at your pasta, glancing at the calendar once more. “Actually… I have something for you, Albert.” You said, standing quickly before rummaging through the cupboard before your hands settle on a wrapped package, the paper crinkling under your fingertips.
Albert’s spine straightens at the table, his food abandoned due to his curiosity. Shyly, you approached the seated male and set the present on the table. Albert’s long fingers reached for the gift tenderly, eyeing you with suspicion. “You didn’t have to get me anything, hon. I don’t have anything for you.”
Yet. He didn't have anything for you, yet.
You shrugged. “It’s not much, but I had some time over these past few weeks and…” You swallowed thickly. “- I thought you could use it.” He smirks at that, and your cheeks burn. Gently unwrapping the gift, Albert lifts a blood red scarf from the package. Holding the soft material in his hands, he looks at you, expression unreadable. Fingers dancing along the blood red fabric, his eyes darken. A knot wedged into your chest, worried you had been too personal.
“I know you lost your coat… and I thought you could use all the help you could get in this cold. If you don’t like it, I can-” “You made this?” His words sharply cut you off, still unreadable. His fingers tangled in the material, and his jaw clenched, his blue eyes drilling holes into your skull. Anxious you had overstepped, you chewed on the inside of your cheek, eyes downcast. “Yeah… I had some extra wool and thought you would like it.” He holds the scarf up, wrapping it around his neck quickly, snapping out of the daze that you had put him in.
Eyes meeting yours, the blue clashed so starkly against the bold red of the wool that your breath caught in your throat. Finally, he spoke, warmth seeping into his words. “It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you, hon… you just made my Christmas.” He teased, unraveling the scarf from his neck and tenderly folding it in his lap. You laughed bashfully, flustered at the praise. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” You paused, then muttered: “Red suits you.” Albert chuckled, a wolfish grin spreading across his lips.
“Yes, hon, yes it does.”
—
A scarf. How oxymoronic, how perfect.
You were too sweet for your own good. You had given him a gift out of the goodness of your heart, yet it wasn’t the warm fabric that kept him warm on the chilling journey to his basement, it was you. You couldn’t have possibly imagined what this gift meant… or did you? The scarf was a promise, a vow to show your affection directly devoted to him.
Your hands tirelessly worked at the fabric that was now slung across his neck, and if he wrapped himself tight enough within it, it would be as if you were caressing his skin yourself. So intimate, the thought made his heart race. With one simple gift, you had bound yourself to him, and he couldn’t help but imagine how good the scarf would look like on you.
So sweet, so kind. He was certain that he had cracked his jaw from the force when you gave it to him. It took every ounce of strength to not grab you from across that table and hide you away for only him to see. He wanted all of it; your kindness, your dreams, your happiness, your life. It was his now, and only his. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” Your words circled in his head, a constant reminder of how much, it was not in fact, just a scarf.
You made it for him, only him, as a testament to your adorations. How could he not want to return the favor? You wanted his attention, you spent your precious little time trying to show him how much you cared, and he saw it; he always did. He understood the meaning completely, even if you were too stubborn to admit it. You naive pure little thing, your fate was already sealed when he first saw you, but now? You were undoubtedly his, even if you didn’t know it yet. The scarf symbolized a bond, a bond you forged, and he was more than happy to comply.
You wanted him, so he will show you what that really meant.
The darkness within him screamed to respond to your devotion, to tear down the rest of the world and watch it burn if it meant he would be able to repay the love that you bestowed upon him. All he needed to do was reply, reciprocate. For that, he needed a plan. A plan to show you just how much this confession meant to him– how much you meant to him, and he knew the perfect gift to give to you. All of him. He would show you his worst, most twisted self, and bind you to him in ways that only he knew how to do.
“Red suits you.” You had no fucking idea.
He couldn’t wait to see how much it suits you too. He was sure it was going to look sinful. His hands balled into fists, giddiness coursing through his veins. He knew the basement was a vile place, a place where many have been subjected to his mercy, but with you… he had so much more in store for you. Sweet, innocent, angel, you really were about to give the man the best Christmas gift. And he was going to savor every last moment of it. Glancing at his handiwork, he finalized his preparations, a sinister smile breaking across his lips. “Merry fucking Christmas, hon.”
Now all he had to do was wait.
—
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.
Please have snow, and mistletoe,
And presents on the tree~
You hummed slightly at the song playing from the television, scrubbing the tiled countertop hastily. Dinner with Albert went smoothly, yet something about that scarf sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes looked so… cold, with an intensity that sent your head reeling. The last thing you wanted to do was make him uncomfortable by overstepping, so once he left you immediately baked some sugar cookies as an apology gift.
Working in the kitchen with Christmas music playing softly in the background felt inviting, reminding you of fond memories with your family in the past. Sighing softly, you poked at the sugarcookies to ensure they were cooled before slathering them in red and green frosting.
You were always the type of person to give people gifts as a token of appreciation, but sometimes that made others uncomfortable due to the intense giving nature you had. Although it was a fair response, your throat burned with rejection at Albert’s strange reaction of the gift. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you coated the last cookie in a glob of green before throwing the frosting container in the trash.
Letting the cookies sit, you stretched, joints groaning in protest from standing in front of the oven for hours. Untying the dirtied apron from behind, you padded into the hallway, throwing the soiled clothing into the washer. Yawning tiredly, you stumbled up the stairs into your bedroom, grabbing a pair of pajamas and stripping out of your clothes. Your skin immediately prickled, hairs raising on the back of your neck.
You were being watched.
You glanced around, seeing nothing. Scoffing at your paranoia, you continued to change before throwing your old clothes into the hamper, making your way into the bathroom. You needed to sleep, stat. Standing in front of the sink, you laughed at a smudge of green frosting covering your temple.
Rolling your eyes at your clumsiness, you reached for the toothbrush, coating it in minty paste before harassing your gums. Spitting in the sink, a shuffle downstairs caught your attention. Worried one of the baking trays toppled, sending your desserts face first onto the tile below, you quickly rinsed your toothbrush and padded down the stairs.
Scurrying into the kitchen, you sighed in relief at the undisturbed baking sheets, turning to grab a container. Shuffling throughout the kitchen, your gaze landed on a red pen and small sticky note. “This will do…” you mumbled out, trying to figure out what to write. Hey Albert, sorry for being weird and giving you a heartfelt gift? No, too forward. Biting on the tip of the pen anxiously, you opted for a simple message that conveyed your feelings.
“Dear… Albert….” You mouthed as you wrote, “-thank you for having dinner with me. I hope you liked your gift,” you paused. Humming slightly, you ripped the sticky note from the stack and tossed it to the counter. “To Albert. Merry Christmas.” Simple and straight to the point.
Placing the sticky note on top of a container, you turned to load up the cookies into the tray, stuffing as many as possible into the circular container. Eyes sweeping over the red and green desserts, your gaze faltered as it reached the furthest pan.
A singular cookie was half eaten, the gingerbread man-shape missing its head and arm. Eyes narrowing, you apprehensively approached the cookie as if it would jump back out at you. Picking it up, your brow furrowed, confusion sweeping your features. Did you happen to snack on it while frosting?
The soft sound of guitar quickly pulled you from your thoughts, causing the half-eaten sugar cookie to fall absentmindedly to the counter. Peaking your head around the corner, the television stared menacingly back at you, Bing Crosby’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas playing at full volume. Heart stuttering, you approached the television. “That’s weird… I thought I just played this song…”
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.
Please have snow, and mistletoe,
And presents on the tre-
A grunt sounded out from behind you in the kitchen, and you whirled around, panic seeping into your features. Your eyes widened, a shriek tearing through your throat as your gaze met with a mask, its soulless eyes burrowing into your soul. A grin adorned its features, while horns protruded from the forehead of the mask. The white material was splattered with red, and you prayed it was anything other than blood.
The figure towered over you, dwarfing your kitchen counter, another sugar cookie in hand. You felt like a deer trapped in headlights, completely frozen in place, eyes raking over the figure in front of you while your lip quivered with fear.
Christmas Eve’ll find me, where the love light gleams~
“These are divine, doll. So good, I could reach out and grab them.” The masked figure mused darkly, voice dripping with hostility. Your breathing quickened, and you immediately took a step backward. It’s him, your personal boogeyman.
The Grabber.
Tears immediately fell at that thought, dripping down your cheeks and plummeting to the wooden floor. A sob wracks your throat. This isn’t happening, this can’t be real. Yet the taunting chuckle that erupts from the monster in front of you was very much real. The hulking figure takes a step forward, and you flinch at the movement, another sob wracking through your body.
I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.
“Cat got your tongue? You’re shaking, you poor thing.” The voice drawls, and the familiarity of it all haunts you. The mask cocks to the side, and the light catches his eyes. Icy blue meets yours, and you swear your heart stops. Your lip trembles, and you want to scream for being so stupid, so trusting.
Denver’s uncaught killer, your personal boogeyman, was Albert.
The same man you nursed back to health, who had been in your house countless times before, who stood before you in that god forsaken mask now. Your knees almost buckled from the realization, causing another bone chilling chuckle to pierce the air. Albert reached into his back pocket, producing a string of blood red.
Your eyes narrowed and the sight of the scarf wound perfectly in the hands of the killer before you. “This lovely gift had me thinking…” He took a few more brisk steps towards you, closing the distance between the two of you, cold and calculating. “- it’s only fair if I give you a gift too.” His words echo in your mind, and you refused to acknowledge him.
A hand shoots out, grabbing you by the throat. You scream, broken out of your frozen stupor, clawing at his hand. He drags you forward, the nose of his mask brushing against your skin. The smell of dried blood invades your senses, and you fight the urge to retch.
He smells like death… rather he was death, holding your life in his hand as his fingers dug into your skin.
His eyes burned holes into your skull, and you sputtered for air beneath his touch. You could practically feel the smirk that he was sporting under the mask at the vulnerable state you were in. Tears welled in your eyes, skin burning at the lack of oxygen. “Tell me, does your fear taste as good as it looks?” He murmured darkly, black spots beginning to coat your vision. Your hands gripped at his arm, the pressure on your trachea making your eyes roll back.
His grip released suddenly, and you fell to your knees, clawing at the wood while greedily drinking in gasps of air. He glared down at you, seemingly satisfied with the view of you sprawled beneath him. Grabbing your wrists, he heaves you up, and you hate how easily you move. Holding your wrists in one hand, he moves the scarf closer, causing something in you to snap.
Screaming, you pull back as hard as you could, kicking and crying for this to all just be a bad dream. Yanking you forward by your wrists, Albert… no, The Grabber, weaves the scarf around your wrists briskly, pulling them so tight you hiss at the sensation.
“This scarf binds us.” He seethes, yanking you closer by the tail of the scarf, causing you to stumble into his chest. He catches you effortlessly, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, the other pulling the scarf tight. You never thought how your endearing gift would be turned against you, your wrists raw from rubbing against the material.
A choked sob escapes you, and you can do nothing but stare in the icy depths of his eyes, swallowing you whole. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” His tone softens slightly, cocking his head slightly, the breath peeking through the mask and fanning your ear. “You gave me a part of yourself, so I’ll show you what it means to belong to someone.”
If you weren’t terrified, you would scoff at the words. Sensing your defiance, he pulls you by your hair to your feet. You whimper, scalp burning under his harsh touch. “Why are you doing this?” You bite out, stumbling as he drags you into the kitchen. He chooses to ignore your venomous words, instead glancing back to you, eyes sweeping over your form.
“I can’t wait to see you like that,” tugging on the material again. His voice hardens, “-wrapped up, bound to me. All mine.” The finality of his words sent a wave of terror down your spine, as if your fate was sealed forever. He rummages in his back pocket, the grip on the scarf loosening as he pulls a white cloth into your field of vision.
Freedom. This was your chance.
For a split second, you froze before adrenaline pushed your limbs into motion. You turn to flee, wrists bound tightly in front of you, scrambling backwards across the kitchen tile, almost tripping over your feet. Time slowed. You can feel the wrath radiating off of him in waves. You refuse to turn to look, crashing into the kitchen wall, jolting sideways at the impact. Steadying your feet, your legs pump vigorously at the prospect of escape.
You almost tumble over the steps leading upstairs, opting to head for the door, your only hope. The thought of freezing to death in the cold was better than what was in store for you. The silhouette of the door reaches your gaze, your savior, and you bolt towards it without a second thought.
A sharp pain stabs into your skull. White explodes along your vision, the world spinning as you crumble to the ground. The cool wood bites into your skin as warmth pools from your temple, dripping across your face and onto the floor beneath you. The taste of copper fills your mouth, ears ringing from the impact.
Darkness licks at your vision, and you turn to see The Grabber standing over you, a sauce pan in his hand. Triumphant, his haunting smile glares down at you, head cocked and poised to strike.
Everything goes black.
—
A slow, rough throbbing pulls you from the darkness. It hurts to open your eyes, your pulse hammering into every crevice of your skull, causing the world to shift across your vision. You blink; once, twice, the swirls of grey and shadows gradually coming into focus with every attempt. Finally, the world seems to fall into place, your left eye burning from the crimson dripping from the cut above your temple.
The faint hum of a singular fluorescent lightbulb buzzes from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow across the cramped room. The room was mostly bare, with a singular chair sitting across from the ragged mattress you were laid upon. The air was thick with the smell of mold alongside the faint scent of blood. You didn’t want to know if it was yours or not. A singular sliver of window adorned the top of one of the bare walls, the pitch black of night staring tauntingly at you through the thick glass. Squinting, you could barely make out the soft fall of snow against the dark sky, globs of white sticking to the glass momentarily before melting away, abandoning you.
You were in a basement, his basement.
Your blood turned to ice, pushing your body into action. You tried to sit up, body groaning in the process before you are ripped back down onto the bed. Your right arm hangs above you, taunt against the wall, secured in a chain. A sob wracks your throat as you tug on the metal, the clattering deafening against the silence of the room. A swish of fabric stops you in your tracks, and you look down at your chest, where the blood red scarf is tied into a perfect bow over your pajamas. You pale.
To him, the scarf was never the gift, you were.
“Finally awake, hmm?” His voice cuts through the air like a knife. You jolted, turning towards the menacing figure in the doorway. His mask was abandoned, leaving you to gape at your capture. Albert’s soulless eyes burned into yours, and you wondered if he was there the whole time, watching you. Stepping into the room, the door slammed shut, the noise jarring you slightly due to the force.
“You scared me for a moment there, doll...” He sighed out, crossing his arms and leaning against the closed door, eyes never leaving yours. “-I was nervous I hit you too hard,” He gestured to your head, and instinctively you put a hand to the prickled skin. Your hand pulled back red. “-ouch.” He taunted, chiding you for your attempt of escape. As if you would ever get away from him. “It would have been such a shame to ruin our plans before they even began.” He mused darkly, and you fought the urge to gag.
“What… what do you want with me?” You force the words out, voice hoarse, throat raw from crying. He cocked his head amusingly, striding forward to close the space between you. He crouched over the mattress, towering over you. “What do I want with you?” He echoed, fingers ghosting over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. He smudged the liquid between his fingers, looking at it while contemplating.
“You gave me a piece of yourself…” He mused, hand gripping the edge of the scarf tied around your chest, playing with the material endearingly. “-now I’m going to give you a gift. Something only I can give.” The scarf dropped to your chest, his head snapping to meet your gaze once more.
Your breath caught in your throat.
“So scared… It's adorable. Your fear is addicting. It makes me want to reach out and bite you.” His calloused hand grips your chin roughly, forcing your face to move closer to his. His breath fanned across your face, a warmth that you savored against the frigid air. His fingers trailed over the bow again, gentle. “Look at you…” He breathed out, voice hoarse with restraint. “-like a gift, the perfect toy. There’s so many ways I could ruin you.”
A sob rips out of you at that, and it only amuses him even more. Tugging at the bow, he undid the fabric as if unwrapping a present, the undone material loosely falling to the mattress. Tracing your jaw, he cocked his head. “Tell me, after we first met, did you trust me?”
You did. He knew you did. You trusted him completely, your caring nature not only nursing him back to help, but igniting a spark within you. You found yourself pining for the man, his attractive features and those eyes bringing a sense of warmth around you when he flattered you.
He knew that too, and used it to push all the right buttons to make you fall apart like putty in his hands. It wasn’t hard for him to break down your walls, he was just so charming. So rough in all the ways that you were soft, and it made your heart melt. But that warmth turned to ice as his fingers brushed against your bottom lip.
“Well?” He quipped, and your head nodded immediately. He smirked at the action, your compliant nature getting the better of you. “So obedient, so sweet. You understand why I had to take you, right? You’re just such a good girl.” Your cheeks burned at the words, ashamed at how easy it was for him to stir the warmth within you from something as simple as his words.
He sucked in a breath, fingers trailing down the column of your neck, causing goosebumps to prickle at the sensation. You shuddered at the contact, squeezing your eyes shut. It was so wrong, so incredibly skewed in a way that made you question your sanity, but his touch… it left you breathless.
His fingers brushed the collar of your pajama shirt, fiddling with the fabric like a nervous schoolboy, giddy with nerves. You sucked in a breath. “So pretty… so soft. All dressed up for me, how sweet.” He mused, hands trailing down the expanse of your chest, brushing against the buttons holding the shirt together. His nose brushed against your neck, and your eyes snapped open.
Trailing upwards, you shuddered as he neared closer, breathing in against your skin. A low moan tore from his throat, and your chest tightened at the noise. Glancing at you through half lidded eyes, Albert’s gaze was heavy. His stare was suffocating, devouring every reaction you gave him, as if committing it to memory. He looked at you as if he was starving, and you were everything he could have ever wanted, the intensity of his gaze causing a broken whimper to snake from your throat.
That whimper sealed your fate.
His lips were on yours in an instant, his resolve shattered. His lips were rough, moving fast against yours as he pressed so hard against you felt you would crumble beneath his touch. His hand delved into your hair, blunt fingernails scraping against your scalp and pushing you further into the kiss. He hungrily sucked on your bottom lip, tasting the copper that lingered in your mouth, groaning at the taste.
Warmth radiated from his touch, and you pushed closer to relish the feeling, melting into his embrace. You were falling from reality, the morals slipping from you as he held you close, stubble raking across your chin. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood invaded your senses in a way that left your head reeling, and the chain rattled as you gripped his shoulders as if he was a lifeline.
Albert shuddered at the feeling of your fingers digging into his clothed skin, teeth sinking into your bottom lip so hard it drew blood. You gasped at the pain, the metallic liquid seeping into your mouth. Albert persisted, pupils blown from the taste, tongue lapping up the liquid feverishly before deepening the kiss, pushing into your mouth.
His tongue was rough, invading your mouth so quickly that you felt like you were choking. Tangling his tongue against yours, your saliva quickly mixed with his as he explored your mouth, pressing so hard against you that your skull buzzed. He moaned into your mouth, the vibrations leaving you breathless. Shocked into place, Albert persisted, sucking on your tongue while pulling you even closer. You choked down another whimper, his musk invading your senses in a way that made your head spin.
He was so warm. Skin pressed so hard against you it felt as if you were melting against him, burning like a furnace. His lips tore away from yours, a mixture of saliva and blood connecting the two of you. Your breaths came out in ragged huffs, lips swollen and sore from the onslaught of teeth and tongue. Albert’s gaze darkened, eyes taking over your disheveled form, soaking in the sight. His hand retreated from your scalp, skin tingling dully. His hands gripped your shoulders, mirroring your movements as he pushed you down into the mattress. You fell willingly, sinking into the fabric while trying to catch your breath, head reeling.
Albert was on top of you immediately, arms caging you in as he knelt over your form. Ducking into your neck, his lips feverishly left open mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, and you squirmed at the feeling of his tongue against your skin. Your skin burned as if you were on fire, shame pooling in your stomach from how good it felt.
His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin as he searched for more ways to make you writhe against him, teeth sinking into your skin with a bruising force that left you gasping for air. Sucking on the tender spot, his fingers ghosted along your skin, mapping your curves. It felt as if he was devouring your skin, biting and sucking your soul from your body.
He was marking you, leaving blots of red and purple along your skin so dark that nothing would cover the sin he was painting onto you. You would have been lying if you hadn’t thought about Albert during late nights alone in bed, but the reality of it all was all the more addicting. Your eyes rolled as his lips trailed the junction of your neck, chin grazing your collarbone.
Spit coated your skin as Albert practically drooled on you, making his way across any exposed piece that was deemed to be untouched by his ruinous intent. “You taste divine…” He muttered into your skin, barely audible as his lips rubbed against a fresh bruise. He peered up at you, eyes almost black from pleasure, and you sucked in a breath at the sight, shrinking under his gaze.
His fingers toyed with your top button, and your heart stopped within your chest. Before you could protest, his hands ripped at your shirt, the plastic buttons popping from the force, rolling across the cement floor of the basement. Your skin prickled at the cold, gooseflesh as the frigid air coated your damp skin. Practically tearing away the shredded fabric, your chest was left bare to his hungry gaze, and you fought the urge to cover yourself from the icy eyes dragging across your skin.
Terrified of his wrath, you stayed still, trying to slow your breathing as his fingers immediately made their way to your exposed flesh, desperate for contact. His hand made contact with your breasts, palming the skin lazily, causing you to squirm beneath his touch. “Oh don’t get shy now…” He growled, a dull pain stabbing into your chest as he pinched your nipples roughly, rolling the sensitive flesh under his fingers. You yelped at the sensation, squirming, trying to cower away from the harsh grip. “-we have so much to do.” he finished, releasing your abused flesh from his hands.
Gripping the mounds more tenderly, he squeezed them teasingly, thumbs ghosting your nipples again, causing your spine to straighten. He chuckled at your reaction, head dipping into the valley of your breasts, rubbing against your skin. Your brain short-circuits as his tongue licks at the skin of your sternum, warm and wet.
His saliva coated your flesh, teeth nipping as he moved, fingertips trailing down your sides. You shuddered at the touch of his fingers ghosting over your ribcage, nails sinking into his shoulders so hard you were certain you drew blood. Albert stiffened, straightening against you so quickly your arms dropped to your sides abruptly.
Rolling his shoulders, he tilted his head, looking down at you with such a dark gaze it was deadly. You swallowed thickly, lip quivering as you shrank further against the mattress, fear stabbing into your chest. His fingers hooked onto the black button-up he was wearing, lazily undoing his buttons, eyes never leaving yours. If your heart wasn’t in your throat, you would have called his movements seductive. His calloused fingers traced his shirt while his pale skin became more exposed as he went lower, lower. The black material fell haphazardly off his shoulders, the shirt balled up and thrown into a forgotten corner of the room.
You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress the whimper building in your throat at the sight, all too similar to that godforsaken night you met him. He was just so attractive, too much so for your own good. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as your eyes trailed the exposed flesh in front of you, watching him roll his shoulders again. Albert clenched his fists, arms flexing as he leaned closer, nose brushing against yours.
“It’s adorable, watching you struggle like this. So intent on hating me while fighting the truth. You want me.” He muses, grabbing your hand and laying it flat against his chest. Your lip quivers at the action, the heat of his skin seeping into yours as you fought the itch to explore. His heart hammered against your palm, and a small voice inside of you relished in the fact that it was beating for you. You clenched your jaw shut at the thought.
It was wrong, so wrong, but you couldn’t stop your head from reeling at the sight of him in front of you so intimately.
Crawling over you, Albert easily caught your wrists within his hand, taking advantage of the war waging within your head. Immediately, you squirmed beneath his grasp, confusion wracking your form. Everything was moving so fast, too hard to process. Your heart felt like it was hammering out of your chest, about to burst at any second. Albert knew that though, he always knew, and he was going to use it against you.
Pulling the discarded scarf from the mattress beneath you, he knotted the material against your wrists once more, aligning your limbs to the chain that was bolted into the wall above your head. You hissed at the contact of the material against your raw wrists, itching to rip it off and burn it. You tugged on the scarf, but your efforts were all in vain, doing nothing but irritating your abused flesh even more.
Albert clicked his tongue, admiring his work before tugging the tail of the scarf closer to him, mirroring his previous actions at the house. “So squirmy…” He teased, his other hand slipping down your naval, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle. He toyed with the drawstring of your shorts, and your eyes widened.
“W-wait… I don’t-” You babbled onwards, praying, pleading that the train moving a million miles a second would halt. Albert, however, was less easily convinced, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, brushing your hip bone. “-I… I haven’t done this before.” You begged, sinking your back further into the mattress to try and get space from the very eager hand toying at your clothes. Albert paused, fingers hooked on the waistband of the shorts, eyes dilated.
“Poor girl… so innocent.” He growled, fingers digging into the waistband while his other hand pulled the scarf impossibly tight. You whimpered at the sensation, pain stabbing into your wrists. “Don’t worry… I’ll break you in nice and rough.” He finished, yanking the shorts down your thighs in one swift motion. Immediately, you snapped your legs shut, hips locking into place as you cowered, watching as your shorts were discarded at the edge of the bed, dangerously far from reach.
Guilt gnawed at your stomach as you felt the slick between your thighs, mentally cursing your body for being so traitorous. Completely bare beneath Alberts prying gaze, you flushed, trying to ignore the warmth that blossomed within your stomach. Albert dropped the scarf that connected your wrists, opting to grip your hip instead, his nails digging into your flesh so hard you were sure there would be bruises in the morning.
His fingers ghosted over the exposed flesh of your thighs, trailing inwards so slowly it caused a shudder to rip through your body. He chuckled at your response to his touch, braving onwards, pushing forward. Your toes curled in anticipation, whether from terror or excitement you couldn’t decipher. Wedging his hand in between your thighs, his index finger scraped against your unclothed center, and you squeezed your eyes shut. He hummed slightly, satisfied at the slick that gathered between your legs, and you swallowed thickly, shame rippling off of you in waves.
“So compliant. I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked for me… such a good girl.” Albert praised, teasing your folds. Your eyes fluttered as he eased in a finger, the length scraping along your gummy walls. You tensed at the foreign feeling, naval tightening as he stretched you out, testing the waters. Brows furrowed, you sucked on your bottom lip for comfort, trying to clear the battle of morals within your mind. It felt… good, Albert’s long finger reaching further than you ever could have on lonely nights, the stretch within causing that oh so sweet bundle of nerves to stir to life.
Pleased with your warmth, Albert sunk another finger inside of you, and you gritted your teeth at the slight sting. Working his way into you, Albert’s fingers curled within you, searching for ways to make you more reactive. The pads of his long digits hit that hidden spot within you, and you writhed against the scarf, tugging at the material sharply. A whimper slipped, your facade quickly fading as his fingers continued to sink into you, prepping you.
Albert sighed at your noises, eager to draw more out of you, fingers picking up their pace. His free hand left your hip, and he palmed himself lazily over his slacks, growing impatient. This was for him after all, not you. Slipping in a third finger, you felt like you were being split open at the intrusion, glancing down at him knuckle deep inside of you.
Your arousal was evident, slick coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, and you flushed at the squelch that emitted when he withdrew his fingers from your core. You wanted to slap yourself when your hips jerked to meet his fingers, body betraying you as you subconsciously chased that high. Albert’s thumb brushed against your clit, and you almost jumped out of your skin, a gurgling moan ripping through your throat at the contact.
Albert’s lips twisted into a wolvish grin at that, thumb continuing to draw circles on the bundle of nerves as he pumped his fingers within you until you were a breathless, blubbering mess. You felt like a furnace, skin hot to the touch as you writhed beneath the male’s sensual strokes, jerking at the rough touches to your clit. Obscene noises slipped from you, facade completely cracking as he scissored his fingers, stretching you so far you felt you would tear in two.
Practically gurgling, you clawed at the scarf, hips rolling into his touches as you abandoned all hope of shame or guilt. The feeling was addicting, your inexperienced body reacting in ways you never thought possible. “Shit… you’re sucking me in, doll… so needy.” He teased, thumb pressing against your clit so sinfully your eyes rolled to the back of your head.
Your stomach tightened, pressure building within you as Albert fucked you with his fingers. Your core tightened as you throbbed around him, practically milking his fingers. So close… you were so close. Albert’s fingers brushed against that spongy spot again, and you almost tipped over the edge, a broken moan tearing through your throat.
Then it was gone.
Albert’s fingers withdrew from you so quickly it hurt. You clenched around nothing, tears lining your vision as you felt the emptiness overtake you. Nails digging into your palms so hard you were sure you left marks, you writhed against the mattress, gritting your teeth at the denial of pleasure.
Albert chuckled darkly at your suffering, and you wanted to scream. “Look at you... practically begging me for it.” He brought his fingers to his mouth, drenched in your juices. Albert’s tongue ran over his fingers, slurping your slick off his digits, groaning at the taste. Humming in approval, he smirked down at your form, tongue running over his bottom lip.
You flushed at the action, embarrassed at the way your stomach flipped at the sight. Screwing your eyes shut, you tried to shake the image burned into your eyes, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. The jangling of a belt buckle ripped you from your embarrassment, and you cracked your eyes just enough to see Albert rip his belt from his belt loops, the item of clothing clattering noisily as it skidded across the cement floor.
Albert quickly unbuttoned his slacks, the black fabric straining against his form. Glancing downwards, your eyes almost bulged out of your skull at the tent sported in his pants, looking dangerous. You paled, reality setting in as Albert tugged his fly down, hissing at the cold air. Impatiently, he shoved his slacks down, and god you were not prepped enough for that.
In the dim lighting, Albert’s cock stood proudly, straining against his abdomen. Ridged veins crawled along his length, trailing upwards seductively until they reached his head, red and angry and very hard. Precum leaked from his tip, and your mouth instantly watered at the sight.
Wasting no time, Albert’s hand lazily stroked his length, running his thumb along his slit, gathering the precum that settled there. He squeezed his cock, a hiss escaping his form, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. His hips stuttered forward, and Albert pushed in between your legs, causing you to nestle around him. Your lip quivered as his head brushed against your slit, gathering your slick.
“This is going to hurt…” Albert cooed sadistically, hand gripping your jaw roughly while his other continued to align himself against you. You sucked in a breath, trying to steel yourself against his harsh words. With that, Albert thrusted forward, plunging inside of you. White hot pain exploded within you, and you felt as if you were being torn apart. A sob tore through your throat, tears filling your eyes at the painful stretch.
Unphased by the intrusion, Albert continued, pushing so deep you were sure you were dying, his hips flush against yours, moving immediately with no room to adjust. Groaning, his grip on your jaw tightened so hard you felt as if you were going to snap. “Fuck… you’re so tight. Just like a bitch in heat.” He murmured, bottoming out before jutting forward again, causing a gargled yelp to escape you.
It was too much, you were too full, feeling as if you were bursting at the seams and filled to the brim with nothing except him. He was ruining you, practically tearing you apart and stuffing you so full there would be nothing left. His hips rolled again, cock dragging against your sore folds so roughly you were sure you were stretched to the brink.
Albert moved at a bruising force, fucking into you so roughly you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. With every harsh thrust, the searing pain began to subside, an indescribable warmth beginning to take its place. Albert’s hand wrapped around the scarf, tugging it closer, and your back arched off the mattress to meet his grueling pace. You subconsciously clenched around him at the action, the thrusts of his cock becoming much more clear against you at the shift in your position.
The other hand dug into your hip, forcing your legs even further apart as he drove into you. Heat prickled across your skin, the stretch of his cock becoming everything except pain with each thrust. Your toes curled as he hammered into you, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. Quick, heated huffs escaped you as he ruined you, the pain completely shifting into white-hot pleasure.
Albert practically growled as you succumbed to his ministrations, broken moans filling the air as he fucked you into the mattress. “Taking me so- hah… well… I knew you needed it…” He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as his scarf-entangled fist met the bed, pulling you even more upright. “-Such a- fuck… dirty slut.” His degrading words burned at your skin, yet the way his hips rolled against you made any semblance of a response die on your lips.
The warmth returned to your stomach, kneading so heavily within you it felt like you were going to burst. Your legs trembled around Albert’s waist, the tension continued to build with every stroke of his cock through your slick walls. Uncontrollably, you clenched down, causing a hiss to escape the male hovering over you. “Shit… you’re milking me. You- mmh… you wanna cum?” He mused, dropping the scarf completely to wrap both hands around your neck, pushing you flat into the mattress.
Pushing his weight against you, his hips slammed into yours at such a bruising pace your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Using your neck as a lifeline, Albert barred down, cutting off most of your oxygen as he pounded against you. “Cum for me, let me- ah… let me ruin you.” He pushed, thrusting so deeply you swore you saw stars. Your heels dug into the mattress, tension building within you so tightly tears welled in your eyes.
And finally, you burst.
Your orgasm hit you so suddenly your nails cut into your palms, body spasming as pleasure cut through your whole body, the dam releasing. A guttural scream tore through the air, rough and jagged, before it dawned on you that it was coming from you. Albert’s paced faltered as he fucked you through your orgasm, the pleasure radiating off of you in waves to the point you felt like jelly in his hands.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-.” Albert chanted into your neck, riding out your orgasm before his hips stilled within you, stuttering as he reached his own orgasm. Hot, wet ropes of cum spurted within you, and you clenched at the feeling. Albert shuddered, practically collapsing against you, hips shallowly thrusting against yours. Sweat clung to your skin, and the smell of sex, blood, and saliva coated the air heavily.
Albert’s grip on your throat released, and you gasped for air. Albert tore his head from the crook of your neck, sweat dripping from his temple as he took in his handiwork. You were sprawled beneath him, skin adorned with love bites and bruises, covered in blood and sweat as you tried to catch your breath. You were his, ruined for all others.
A wicked grin spread across his lips, and he gently unwrapped the scarf from your neck, rubbing the raw flesh of your throat endearingly. He hummed at the way you melted against his hand, brain turned to mush and still reeling from your orgasm. So sweet, so compliant, all it took was a little breaking in, and you were all his. Albert withdrew his hips from yours, his softening cock retreating from your folds.
You jolted at the feeling, a hiss escaping you as the emptiness consumed you again, soreness creeping into your form. Crawling off the bed, Albert quickly dressed, shoving himself into his slacks before glancing at your fucked-out form on the mattress, a mixture of cum and blood dripping onto the mattress from between your legs. Albert huffed at the sight, buckling his belt into place before moving to crouch beside you.
His fingers brushed your hair, and you sleepily opened your eyes to meet his own. Albert smiled at the empty gaze within them, only trained on him.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm? How about some of that eggnog?” Albert mused, grabbing your ruined shirt and pushing you upwards. You limply complied, jerking slightly from the shift in position. Albert produced a small key from his back pocket, unchaining your wrist from the wall before slipping the ruined shirt back onto your form. You hummed slightly, relishing the way the fabric brushed against your sore skin.
Releasing your form, you flopped backwards onto the mattress, exhausted. Albert chuckled at your almost broken state, standing and grabbing his shirt. Shrugging the material back onto his body, he buttoned the bottom few buttons before turning towards the door. “Merry Christmas, hon. I’m sure it’s one you’ll never forget.”
Your eyes met his once more, and he smiled, knowing he had won. Bound by kindness, he thought. Turning, he creaked open the heavy door before slamming it shut, leaving you alone in the cramped room. Rolling on your side, you brought your knees to your chest, the warmth fading from your skin.
Shame and guilt blossomed like a pit within your stomach, the pleasure seeping from you as you stared out at the wall. You winced at the pain from moving, groaning slightly as you felt Albert’s cum leaking from you onto the damp mattress. Mind swirling with emotions that were too complicated to decipher, you waited for Albert to return, craving his warmth, yet hating yourself for wanting him near you.
His betrayal was a fresh wound to bear, yet you couldn’t find yourself despising him, a much more primal emotion forming in your gut. You couldn’t tell which was more terrifying. Figuring out how you felt about Albert and how to adjust to your… new life was a tomorrow problem, for now you needed to rest. Staring out at the small window by the ceiling, you watched the snow fall once more, the frigid air creeping into the room and seeping into your bones.
You always hated the cold.
—
A/N: This was definitely a labor of love... requests and suggestions are still open for anyone interested!
Summary: You take a job as a counselor at an old Youth Camp near home. But as the sun goes down, strange things start happening.
CW: f!reader, reader is 21+, horror, estranged family, mentions of murder, misogyny, cat calling, dark romance, implied supernatural elements, intruder, age gap, panty ripping, fingering, p in v, scratching, creampie, cockwarming
a/n: SPOILERS FOR TBP2 (Grabber’s real name). I just made up some other counselors, but it’s world building :)
title track 🎶🌬️
Sexy Monstober Masterlist ❤️🔥
My Wedding Registry 🖤
~~~
The lake was completely frozen over. Snow pillowed every inch of the surrounding woods. Trapped beautifully up in the high Colorado mountains.
You took this job for the few weeks you were home for Christmas this year. Your office was closed for the holidays, and Alpine Lake was close to home for you. And it was not like you wanted to see your parents. Things had never been good with them. Magic in the air surrounding the season would not change that. All it meant was your mom was drunk on eggnog instead of her usual wine, and your dad was a little meaner when the sun went down sooner.
It was going to be fun. Make some friends, teach kids things they would take with them through life, cook some incredible meals, enjoy the nights around the campfire. Atleast that’s what you thought. The blizzard raging on had other plans. Accompanied by the Lake’s reputation proceeding it. An omen for outsiders to stay away. The incident back in the fifties. The three boys. Anyone with a head on their shoulders would stay far away from somewhere with this much darkness surrounding it. But there was no darkness like that in the belly of your childhood home.
It was only you and the three other counselors that showed up. Three men around your age. All other women your age having the common sense to avoid this hellhole. Or having people in their lives to warn them.
The owner had commented on how surprised he was that anyone showed up. The blizzard had postponed the children’s arrival indefinitely. He would advise you to go home, but there was no world where a vehicle was getting through this. Not safely. Deciding it was his responsibility to keep you all safe for now. The men all acting above the idea, yet here you all still were. Sat at long, camp like tables in the mess hall. Bowls of soup grasped between gloved hands. The fireplace hit against your backs as you ate. Your makeshift coworkers droning on about all the things they could be at home doing instead of being stuck here. Annoyingly humble bragging about their achievements and accolades.
Lucky for you, you finished your bowl. Standing and heading towards the back of the kitchen where the sinks were located. Not before one of the men, Jared, made an offhanded comment. Snarking, “Woah! That girl can eat!”
You scoffed when they all erupted in laughter. Ignoring the way they all high-fived and acted like that was the peak of comedy. Dustin and Landon, the other men, cackled and made noises to push his point further. Oinking like pigs. All entirely childish. Continuing to rinse out your bowl and lay it in the sink before walking back out to join them. Walking in on a conversation that you had no interest in joining.
“Yep. And she was screaming all night. Every fucking thrust, ‘Fuck yes, Jared!’ So hot,” the young man smirked, making eye contact with you as he reenacted the girl’s moans. Some sick attempt at flirting. Your lip arched in disgust. Walking back around to grab your thick puffer jacket.
“Awe, what’s wrong, honey? Too much for you to handle?” Jared smirked watching you round the table.
You chuckled, “If I wanted to hear sleezebags lie to their friends, I would’ve went to a bar.”
The two other men agged your comment along. Acting like you had burned Jared. Face flushing with embarrassment. Typically, girls fell for his charm. If you could call it that. Yet here you were, not giving him a second thought. And it made him angry.
Jared stood quickly to his feet. Tall and lanky, he loomed over you. Placing his palm on the table in front of your chair. The soft slam of it caught you off guard. “Running off so soon?”
“I’m going to the girl’s cabin,” you said putting your arms through the sleeves of your secondary jacket.
“All alone? Hah! You’re a prime target!” Landon laughed.
You scowled, “What?”
“Don’t you know what happens to snacks like you?” Dustin chimed.
Another scoff, “Grow the fuck up, Dustin.”
“You really don’t get it, huh? Back in the fifties some kids went missing here. One second they’re with the group, then next — POOF! Gone. The only things the could find were bloody clothes. No bodies were ever found. They say, the killer still roams the woods now. Looking for his next victim,” Jared’s tone fell down to campfire levels of story telling. Wiggling his fingers to creep you out further.
You rolled your eyes so hard you swore they could’ve fallen from your head. Jared attempted to tickle your sides with an evil laugh. You shoved him off of you, “You’re so full of shit!”
But you knew he was not. You knew all about the missing kids and even the rumors about burned clothes. It made you sick if you thought about it too long. The place was under new management, it’s not like anything like this had happened since.
Chills danced down your body from his touch. Violated and grossed out by his actions. Quickly zipping up your puffer while stepping back away from him. Glaring at Jared as he turned back and smiled at his friends.
“You’re all assholes,” you rolled your eyes.
“Yeah? Well, don’t come crawling to our cabin tonight when you freeze. Not interested in bitches like you,” Jared crossed his arms over his chest.
You laughed, “I’d rather fall in the lake than share a cabin with any of you.”
The three mocked you. One last childish antic to put the nail in the coffin. You grabbed your gloves from your pocket and slipped them on. Opening the door and refusing to look back.
“You can come snuggle with me, Y/N. I can keep you warm all night long,” Dustin called.
You hurried out the door. Angry that you let their childish comments get under your skin. Face hot to the touch causing the wind to burn harder. Almost like getting lashed at by the blizzard’s hand. You squinted, trying to keep the giant flakes of snow from your eyes. There was no short of four feet of snow on the ground now. Even for Alpine Lake, this was heavy.
The moon above was full. Shining as a secondary sun. Blinding you as it caught every cold flake. Reflecting into your eyes like a flashlight. Wind howling with each strong gust. Urging you to turn back now. Spend the night in the mess hall. Curl up next to the fire and wait until morning. But that would also mean admitting defeat. Letting the boys win, and risking them overstaying their welcome with you.
So you continued on. Lifting your legs higher with every stride. Steadying your heavy breathing. The cold air burned the back of your throat. Subzero temperature cutting into your body through the layers of clothing.
It was only a few more yards away.
Passing by a clearing that allowed you to look across the entire lake. Snow piled across the hundreds of feet of ice. Dancing along itself when a particularly rough breeze would blow. You thought about the depths of the water. Wondering just how deep it went. How easy it would be to get lost under it.
Then you noticed the old phone booth at the edge of the lake. No lights on, most likely meaning it was out of service. Stating at it for moment. Contemplating why they would place it there. Of all places, the edge of the lake. Odd.
Continuing to face the cold, you eventually arrived at the girl’s cabin. Ascending the stairs, you nearly slipped. Catching yourself on the railing before you busted your face. Laughing at your own clumsiness.
Finally at the landing, you jimmied the handle open. The large wood door hauntingly creaking open. It was dark. Only the soft glow of heaters on the walls and a fireplace at the end. Compact enough that you could always easily access the door, but spacious enough that if you had to be sharing it would not be uncomfortable. The owner had brought your bags over to the cabin while you were in the mess hall. A kind and considerate man. You wished the other boys would take after him.
You walked over to the mattress with your bag on it. Fresh linens made to look like home. A precaution so the kids did not freak out, you imagined. The squeaking of the boards and the howling of the wind would already be a bit much for them. Recalling how when you were a child, your mother would have to accompany you to the bathroom. Scared of the dark as many children were. The unrecognizable is easily misinterpreted in a child’s mind.
Shedding your mass of layers, you rummaged through your bag for your long-johns. Soft enough to sleep, but thick enough to keep you warm. The stress of the day was engulfing you. Dragging you down to bed.
You laid flat on your back. Hands folded neatly over your stomach. Staring blankly into the ceiling. The old wood not keeping the cold as far away as you would have liked. Crackling of the fire took your mind off of it all.
Had one of them happened here?
It made your stomach drop. Rolling onto your side so you could watch the flames in their recessed hideaway. Reds and oranges swirling together. Your only source of warmth for the nights ahead.
Three campers. All boys. They never found their bodies. Maybe they were out in the woods. Hidden in their unwanted graves. Lives taken too soon; and, from the rumors, brutally so. What kind of psycho would even keep this place open? A gateway to heartbreak and pain. Their souls had to be suffering. Begging for a rest they could never find. Stuck in the dark limbo of lost souls. While nothing else had happened, that did not mean something could not happen. What if it was one of your campers eventually arriving?
What if it was you?
It would do you no good to loathe on it. You were here now. Stuck here. There was no surviving a storm like this. Record setting temperatures. No one could. So you rolled to have your back to the fire. Letting its soothing warmth guide you to sleep…
… A harsh shiver woke you up. Blinking so you could focus. The flames were dying. And your door was wide open. Allowing the moonlight to dance across the wooden floor. Letting anything to crawl its way inside. Or anyone.
Your heart sank.
Rushing to force the large wooden door closed. The cold knocked your breath out of your lungs. Snow reflecting light and blinding you momentarily. Taking you aback. It was so beautiful. Calm and tranquil. No one to disturb the peace of nature. Your breathing steadied, allowing a wave of relief to wash over you. This would be okay.
Closing the thick wooden door, you turned on your heel. You froze. All the air trapping itself inside you. A man. Kneeled down in front of your fire. Hands extended to help thaw them. Mask sitting over his face, and was that… horns on top?
There was no way he was here before.
Tears welled behind your eyes. Preparing for the worst when you saw his axe resting on the floor beside him. A shaky exhale rolled through you. Tears burning against your frozen cheeks. Lip quivering as you begged your body to move. You could run. Run fast and scream loud. Praying that some of the others would hear you.
But you could not.
Your legs weighed a million pounds. Being swallowed by the floorboards below your bare feet. The frosty earth preparing for your arrival. Icy underneath readying your new home.
It was like that horror movie that came out a few years ago. The woman slaughtering unsuspecting camp counselors on the lake in Jersey. Counselors dumb enough to work at a place with a history of death and evil. A place that had closed many years ago because of all the tragedy surrounding it. Just like this place. Just like you.
The boy’s cabin was within running distance. The door was right behind you. You could make it. Scream loud enough to wake everyone up. You had to. This could not be how you went out. With a peep instead of a raging shout.
“Sorry about the draft,” was all he said. Voice low and husky. Muffled by the mask resting on his muzzle. Face still forward. Flipping his hands forward and backward to revive the frozen skin. More nonchalant than you would like.
A soft shake rippled through every inch of you. Fear making its home in your ribs. A hum of noise resembling a response was all you could muster. Closer to the squeak of a mouse. Timid and meek.
You tried to take in details about him in the darkness. His hair was long and ratty. Icicles forced the pieces together. His snowsuit was old and worn down. A large belt buckle caught the spark of flames that tried to breathe back to life before him.
There was something unrecognizable in the air. Putting a pressure on your chest that made it hard to breathe. Vision blurring as tears waterfalled from your tear ducts. Something in the moon.
“It’s a cold one,” he began as if any of this situation was normal, “I was out in the woods. I saw the glow through your window. And when I found out your door wasn’t locked, it’s like you were practically inviting me in.”
Why would you be out in the woods during a blizzard?
You nodded. Lashes fluttering to try and better focus on him.
It was locked.
Nostrils flexing as you tried your damndest to stop the tears streaming down. You needed to seem strong. You needed to stand your ground. You were raised better than this. To allow someone to overpower you so easily.
Maybe he worked here. Maybe he was just someone that lived near by that got caught in the storm. Maybe none of it was a lie and his intention was to simply warm up. The girl’s cabin is closer to the woods, he would have seen it first.
No. Not even that would give you solace now. You knew. Knew that he did not work here. Knew that he had been stalking and preying. Waiting for the perfect moment to creep his way inside. Most likely familiar with how things went here. There was no lying to yourself now. The only truth you could hold onto was the fear that seeped into your guts. Warning you of your fate.
“Why is there no one else in your cabin?” he finally turned to meet you. Eyes sparkling with the soft glow of the night pouring in from your window. Not with infatuation. No. With hunger. Like he was a starved animal and you were the runt abandoned by the pack. Perfect for feasting.
Your teeth chittered together. Tears prickling at the corners of your eyes again. Swallowing to stop them from breaking the crest. Nostrils flaring as panic set in.
“There’s usually five or six of you counselors per cabin,” your masked guest looked around the large room. Empty beds. Heaters on some of the walls. Their coils a bright orange indicating just how hot they were. Then his eyes locked back to yours, “So why are you alone?”
The heel of your foot bounced rapidly. All your fear manifesting in the fast movement. You fiddled with your fingers as they interlocked in front of you. Unable to speak.
The man sighed. Over exaggerating an eye roll and shaking his head in disdain. His head fell to the side as he looked up at you, clicking his tongue. One of his hands reached for the axe, noticing how your body tensed immediately. Tears silently falling down your cheeks once more.
The stranger picked up his weapon. Holding it loosely in his grasp, “Is this scaring you?”
You blinked. Lip quivering as you tried your hardest to respond. Nodding in agreement.
He scoffed. Sliding the heavy metal across the floor and under one of the beds. Completely out of either of your reaches. His arms extended to show that it was gone, “Better?”
Not a single motion. Feet glued to the floor and eyes focused entirely ahead. He could still easily overpower you. Thick torso and arms bulging against his clothing. Not watching his soft, almost condescending tone.
“Am I scaring you?” he asked slowly, pressing his fingers into his chest.
A blink.
His shoulders bounced with a laugh. Shaking his head in disagreement and stretching his neck. A huff fell from him, “I guess we haven’t introduced ourselves properly.”
You shook your head.
The man stared blankly for a moment. Gesturing towards you with his hand. Encouraging you to go on. His patience dwindling away. Typically, you would not tell a stranger your name. However, fear had its hooks in you. And maybe if you played along, he would spare you.
“I-I’m Y/N,” your voice cracked and shook.
His head tilted to the side as he looked up to the ceiling. Like he was rolling it around his mind. Testing it out in different situations. A hum vibrated through his chest.
“Y/N…”
You nodded. Chewing the inside of your cheek as you waited for something more from him. The depth of his tone when saying your name made your stomach tighten. Flexing your toes to try and make the blood flow through them. The cold was beginning to get to you. The backs of your legs completely numb. Tingling as a reminder of the temperature.
“And yours?” You finally asked.
Catching him ever slightly off guard. Not expecting a blunt question from the girl who only spoken two words to him since his arrival. Stuttering through them at that. Air blew through his nose, “They called me Wild Bill.”
A nickname. Better than nothing.
“Now we know each other. So why don’t you come over here with me and warm up?” he motioned you over. Acting like being on the simplest introductions made you less of strangers.
You shook your head no.
Which he did not take well. Growling under his breath and looking back into the fire for a moment. Fingers flexing into fists at his sides.
“You’re freezing,” he gestured up and down your body. The shivers that made you look like a newborn deer were obvious. Arms crossed tightly across your chest, hands tucked under your armpits. His head tilted a little, “You can’t stay by the door all night. You’ll get pneumonia.”
The irritation lacing his words made your stomach slosh. Your instincts were failing you. Toes and fingers numb. Tip of your nose similar. Able to just barely see your breath as it fell from your lips. Chapped certainly to be raw by the morning. Even with the lack of words you were speaking.
Suddenly, he stood to his full height. Heavy boot stomping into the floor as he commanded, “Come here. NOW.”
Almost without thinking, your legs began to move. Stepping with a wobble across the icy floor. Nearing your warm sanctuary. The newly risen flames calling to you like a siren. Able to ignore your unwanted guest for only a moment. His stout body stood before you. Breathing loudly behind the thick mask. Your eyes stared down to the floor. Too embarrassed to meet his harsh gaze.
A hand extended out towards you. Your body flinching before you could realize it was. His fingers pinched your chin. Slowly guiding you up to meet his eyes. Shining their blue hue behind the old, cracked mask. Capturing you in them. His lashes jumped for a moment when your eyes finally held his. Having only seen as much of you as you had him. Shadowed by the dark of the cabin. Leaving the finer details to his imagination. But no more.
His hand ghosted across your cheek. Tucking your hair behind your ear, traveling to frame your jaw. Thick fingers splayed nicely against your skin. Borderline frostbitten. Still somehow cold despite his close proximity to the fire.
The wicked grin carved into his mask a stark contrast to the look in his eyes. Hooded and pupils wide. He was older. Crows scratching their claws beside his eyes. Bags heavy under his waterline. No pure thoughts behind his glistening orbs.
A sudden wave of courage came through you. Slowly reaching up to his own face. Preparing to remove the mask from him. Wishing to see the face of your guest. Needing to put a face to the stranger. Until his own hand grabbed your wrist, paralyzing it before you could even touch him. It hurt. He was strong, no doubt about it. Turning his head, he looked at your hand. Eyes jumping back to your face and shaking his head no. Your lip quivered under his stern glare. Blue eyes focused on you entirely.
You swallowed, “Why… do you wear that..?”
“It keeps me safe,” he said like the answer was obvious. Gently, he dropped your hand from his own. Running his fingers through your hair for a moment, eyes taking up and down your body. It was a struggle to look up from the floor. Your own eyes scanning what bit of him you could see while keeping your view down. The large belt buckle around his waist. The thick snow boots that cuffed around his pants. And oddly enough his smell. Woodsy and musky. Catching your nose with a similar frost to outside. Manly, like he worked day in and day out.
“You’re very beautiful, Y/N,” his tone darkened. Hand cupping the side of your face once more. Guiding your eyes back to his.
There was something alluring about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Maybe it was the fact you had not been laid since your senior prom. Something about this whole situation had moths fluttering in your chest. Captivated by his presence entirely. Older, mysterious. Clearly holding the power over you. It was a perfect storm of a taboo night together.
“You’re… cold,” you whispered.
His thumb dragged down your lip, “That’s why I’m here.”
Your lashes fluttered. The implication lingered in the air. Hard to read if that was truly what he meant. Uncovered eyes only giving you so much of a window into his mind.
“Think you can help me?” he lowly asked.
Your eyes widened. A lump forming in your throat. Your lips catching on themself as they tried to mumbled out his name. Babbling over the first syllable.
His palms gripped your hips. Pulling your body closer to his. Allowing him to take in your scent, his breath ragged under the mask. Your arms curled into your body. Fingers nearly touching his chest. Your instincts begging you not to give into your desires. But that small voice in the back of your mind made a compelling argument otherwise. It was one night.
Fingertips danced along the tough material of the snowsuit. Cascading until they met the freezing metal atop his waist. You pulled your lip between your teeth, eyes jumping down for a moment. Able to catch a glimpse of the material tightening against his groin. His want for you making myself known.
You grinned to yourself at the thought. Lacing your fingers around the large buckle and spinning around him. Tugging him waist first as you stepped slowly backward. His heavy boots echoed through the cabin. Leading him to the bed you had claimed as your own for the night. Nearly frost bitten legs bumped the wooden frame, telling you to stop. Your eyes looked to his, almost asking permission. Making sure what you were doing was okay. His eyes were squinted up with the smile hidden behind the false one of his mask.
“We can… share the bed,” shaky words betrayed you. Tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips. Your fingers traced along his belt, almost teasingly. Waiting patiently for him to make the next move. Wanting him to lead in this game you were playing.
“I’ve got an idea how to keep up both nice and warm,” his hands danced along your sides. Faux nose bumping yours. And you could not deny how badly you wanted his lips on yours. Longing to feel a deeper connection to the stranger allegedly named ‘Bill’.
“Lay down,” he commanded.
You obeyed. Sitting on the mattress and taking your normal sleeping position. Legs spread preparing to accommodate him. He exhaled in approval. Joining you on the mattress. Dipping with your combined weight. Some shimmying and he was positioned above you. Propped back on his legs. Thighs bulging against his suit. His thick fingers rested along his belt.
The heavy belt buckle clanked against the wooden floor beside the bed. Sensually, he took the zipper down his chest. Stopping right below his groin. Beginning to shove the sleeves off his body. Leaving the thick snowsuit to pool around his waist. Torso bare. Muscular shoulders and arms with a soft tummy. Scarred and bruised. Veins decorating his forearms.
You could not help but admire his body above yours. His chest rose and fell harshly. Breathing in the same cold air that had woken you from your slumber. His collar bone softly defined as his muscles flexed. Strong shoulders rolling as he leaned forward and caged you between his arms. Nose to nose with the old mask. His oceanic eyes watched your face. Anticipation clouding your vision.
Hesitant hands reached out for him. Fingertips meeting his bare chest. Dancing along the cold skin. Cascading over his pecks, all the way down to the white elastic band of his underwear. Barely exposed from how his snowsuit hugged his waist, zipper not revealing the part of him you were to receive. Your fingers splayed along the band, dipping only the tips underneath. Feeling the soft hair of his pubic area. His steady breath caught in his throat at your touch. Making you fear for a moment you had made a mistake.
“Eager girl,” he cooed.
You tucked your head against your pillow in embarrassment. Heating up from his simple statement. Shyly nodding. It made him grin behind his mask.
“Come on. No need to be shy with me,” he encouraged. Brushing his knuckles down your cheek. Dewy eyes looked up at him. His eyebrows laid flat against his eyes, hooding them. The bright blue of his iris being drowned out by the width of his pupils.
There was a beat of silence. His labored breaths the only sound echoing off the walls. Caught in his mask. One of his hands ghosted down your body. Fingers catching the elastic of the thick pajama pants you wore. He leaned back on his legs, looking down at your clothed bottom half. Letting both hands frame your hips. Massaging and squeezing the meat.
“Have you done this before, Y/N?” the slight tinge of condensation made your body tingle.
You coyly nodded, “Not in a long time.”
“Good,” his smirk was palpable. He began to pull your long-jons off your legs. The cold stung against your bare flesh. He sighed when his eyes met the soft cotton of your panties. Tilting his head before flattening two fingers along your mound. Dragging them down until they met your soaked lips. Making you squeak.
Discarding your bottoms into the floor, he arched his hips so that he could shimmy the snowsuit further. Allowing his erection free from its confines. Curving towards his soft stomach. Heavy looking with a vein curling around it. Blushed red with need. You unabashedly stared.
It made him chuckle. His palms expanding against your bare thighs. Hooking around the curve of your leg. Placing it around his waist before scooting closer to you. He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. Absentmindedly pumping himself as he stared at your cotton panties. Your knee pressed into his side out of pure animalistic need. Mindlessly trying to press your knees together for relief. Almost like your body was unaware of the position it was in.
Swiftly, he grabbed the front of your panties. Ripping them clean off your body. The sound of fabric I aggressively cracking had your heart skipping a beat. The pure strength he was showcasing. It made your loins flutter.
“Better,” he purred. Discarding the now ruined panties, his fingers returned to your core. Flattening along your mound and dipping them into you. Swirling two of them methodically around your far too sensitive clit. Whining in response to his touch.
“So warm,” he cooed, “This outta keep me warm all night. What do you think, Y/N?”
You were losing it. The firm pressure on your nub, the fingers that barely dipped into where you needed him most. The goddamn teasing. It seemed to be his favorite part of it all. A game.
You nodded, “Yes. Please, yes.”
He laughed at your pathetic request. Your voice breaking and needy. Thinking how lovely you were like this. Practically clawing into him to make him stay. Get him as close as possible. Your need nearly surpassed his own, and he could sense it.
“Pretty voice,” he mocked, stroking his hand along your hair. It sent goosebumps down every inch of you. Culminating in your core where his fingers pulled away slowly. Framing his member to line up with your entrance. Slapping the head against your needy clit a few times. Sound lewdly echoing through the cabin.
Taking position, he was ready to enter you. His hips barely inched forward when you yelped. Body still in flight or fight. His own stopping. Blue eyes widening at how your face contorted in uncertainty.
“I’ll go slow, okay? That’ll help,” he said more as a command than a request.
Mindlessly, you nodded. Accepting his word like gospel.
His hips began to gently thrust into you. Only allowing the head to dip between your folds. Letting you adjust to his girth at your own pace. Putting the primal urge inside him into submission if only to let you enjoy this more. Edging himself inch by inch further until he felt your walls give. Letting himself fully sheathe between them with a low groan.
“Oh… there you go,” he purred, “It’s good, isn’t it?”
Your head was thrown back. Mouth gaping open as you tried to breathe. Eyes forced shut. Voice captured in your throat. You hugged your arms around him. Nails scratching down his bare back as you arched into him. Your torso pressing into his, finally letting the moan stuck in your throat escape.
He rolled into you steadily. Gradually building speed when you got louder. His heavy breaths fanned out the bottom of his mask, hitting your neck. Heating the two of you up. Nearly forgetting about the harsh blizzard that raged on outside.
One of his hands traveled down to your core. Planting a soft pressure against your clit. Matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Longing for the feeling of your walls clamping around his thick cock. And he could tell it would not be long before he had you cumming. Far too inexperienced and sensitive to last.
“Tight pussy,” he groaned when your walls fluttered. The head of his cock brushing the spongy spot that would coax you to an end. You fought to keep air in your lungs. Rapidly inhaling and exhaling. It was like music to his ears.
“B-Bill—“ you called out, feeling the knot inside you tying itself tightly. Earning a growl from him. Perhaps not the biggest fan of his name, or just not used to hearing someone say it this way. It made him thrust harder. Growing aggressive and animalistic. Grunting with every motion. The sound of skin smacking together heightened.
“Cum,” he demanded, “I need you to cum.”
You threw your head back once more. Eyes flying shut as you attempted to focus long enough to let it all flow through you. Never wanting this to end, but your walls were fluttering and it would not be long now.
With a few more circles of his fingers, your nails were digging into his muscular skin. Screaming his name with a moan. He wrapped an arm around you so that your hips were arched higher. Letting him stay deep between your folds through your orgasm. Fucking into you as you milked him. Edging him along to his own high. Leaning his head against yours, he moaned loudly. Coating your insides with his thick seed. Cock twitching and hips jerking with each spurt. Voice jumping an octave when he tried to catch his breath. Sounded utterly wrecked trying to hide how good it felt.
The familiar silence took over the room. His arm still hooked around your middle. His plastic forehead rested against yours. Neither of you saying anything. Letting your groins stay connected.
Then he shifted. Flipping so that you were lying atop him. His cock never leaving your insides, even as it softened. You nuzzled your head into his chest. Listening for a heartbeat that you could not fully place. Probably just from the way your ears were burning and your own heartbeat strummed in your ears.
The sandman must have visited. Your eyes grew heavy. Engulfed by the shared warmth between you. Letting the stranger remain here with you. He was the one keeping you warm after all.
~~~
[END]
// Thank you so much for reading! I haven’t wrote for the Grabber in years, so it was nice to explore his character again. He’s diabolical, but damn is Ethan Hawke so hot. If you want to see more of him, feel free to shoot me a request! My inbox is always open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated! Love ya! //
───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.
✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!
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It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.
You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.
You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.
It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.
“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”
You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.
“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”
She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”
Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.
“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”
Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”
“Totally normal for that age.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”
Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”
She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”
“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.
“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”
She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.
“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”
Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.
“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.
You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.
“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”
He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.
“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”
You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”
“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”
That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.
You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”
Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”
Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”
He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.
You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.
But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.
“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.
“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”
You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.
The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.
Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.
His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.
She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.
“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”
“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”
Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”
You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”
He nodded.
“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”
Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”
“I’ll let you be the judge.”
He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.
You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.
While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.
“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.
You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”
He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”
You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”
“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”
“And Mr. Gumball?”
“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”
“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”
You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”
Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.
It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.
His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.
“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”
“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.
You paused. “Of course.”
Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”
You blinked. “…What?”
He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”
Your mouth went dry.
“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”
He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”
“…What do you mean?”
Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”
Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”
“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”
You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.
“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”
You stared at him. “…What?”
But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.
── .✦
You got used to the routine pretty quickly.
Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.
And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.
On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.
It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.
Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.
Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.
You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.
By the third night, something had changed.
It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.
Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.
“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”
You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”
“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.
Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.
After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.
“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.
You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”
“Jack says pretty things break easier.”
You stared at him.
“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”
He blinked. “But it’s true.”
That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.
You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.
You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.
You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.
Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.
You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.
“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”
Silence. You waited. No answer.
You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.
“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.
Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.
You stared at him. You know you heard it.
Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.
But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.
There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.
It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.
You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.
And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.
It's just your imagination.
── .✦
You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.
You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.
Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.
The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.
“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.
You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”
Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.
You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.
“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”
He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—
He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.
His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.
You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.
“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.
You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”
Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”
You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.
“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”
You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.
“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”
You didn’t answer.
When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.
Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.
And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.
You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.
It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—
“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”
You stepped back, pulse pounding.
You had to talk to his mother. Now.
── .✦
You waited by the door until she came home.
No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.
When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.
“…What is it?”
“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”
She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”
You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”
She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.
And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”
The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.
You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”
Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”
She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.
Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”
You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.
She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”
You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.
“What happened?” you asked.
She looked up. “…His dad.”
The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.
She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”
Your stomach twisted.
“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”
Silence stretched long between you.
“And then?” you whispered.
Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”
You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.
“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”
You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.
“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”
You leaned in.
“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”
You whispered, “Jack.”
She nodded.
“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”
Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”
She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”
You recoiled.
“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”
You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.
“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.
She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.
“And the last babysitter?”
Oliver’s mom froze.
“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”
Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”
The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.
“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”
“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”
She flinched.
You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”
“I didn’t know—!”
“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”
You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.
“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”
She didn’t deny it.
You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.
And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.
“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.
You didn’t say goodbye.
── .✦
The first call came the next morning.
You didn’t answer.
Then a text.
MRS. DALTON
I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.
Then:
MRS. DALTON
He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.
Another day passed.
MRS. DALTON
He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.
The texts got more frantic.
MRS. DALTON
He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him.
I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.
And finally:
MRS. DALTON
Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep.
You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.
Guilt.
And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.
Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.
── .✦
You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.
The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.
But you were here now.
You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.
Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.
Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.
“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”
You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”
You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.
The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.
You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.
You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.
“Oliver?” you called softly.
The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.
“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”
Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”
“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”
You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.
Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”
“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”
You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”
You glanced around the room.
Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.
Maybe it was all in your head.
Maybe—
Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”
“Of course.”
It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.
Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.
The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.
The house didn’t feel empty.
You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.
You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.
“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.
No answer.
You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.
You took a step toward it. Then another.
“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.
You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.
Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.
You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.
Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.
You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.
“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.
No answer.
But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.
Still asleep. Still peaceful.
You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.
Empty.
You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.
Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—
A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.
You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.
And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.
You glanced up from your spot on the floor.
Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.
It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.
Laughing Jack.
No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.
His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.
Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.
His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”
You staggered back a step.
Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.
“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”
“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”
Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”
Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.
“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”
He didn’t wake.
The house didn’t help.
You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.
“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.
Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.
Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.
The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.
You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.
His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.
But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.
“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”
“I didn’t—!”
“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”
He surged forward.
You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—
God.
Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.
His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.
“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”
Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.
But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.
That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.
Jack froze.
His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.
“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.
Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.
“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.
“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”
Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.
“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”
His claws slipped from your sides.
“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”
Silence.
For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.
And then—his knees gave.
He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”
You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.
In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.
Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”
Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.
Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.
You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”
But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.
His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
It was the same.
You froze.
And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”
Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.
“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”
His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.
Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”
“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”
You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.
“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”
Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”
You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.
“You want comfort,” you breathed.
His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”
You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…
His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.
And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.
So you let him hold you—just for a moment.
And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.
The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”
You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.
Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.
“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”
You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.
“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”
You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”
You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.
“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”
You blinked.
Charlie? Mr. Gumball?
Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.
“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”
You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.
“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”
His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.
“I want you all the time.”
And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.
Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.
But he stilled. And his hands moved.
In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.
“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.
“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.
His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”
“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”
But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.
“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”
You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”
Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.
“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”
You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.
“Jack—!”
He didn’t give you time to finish.
In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.
He started toward the bed.
“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”
“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”
But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.
“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”
His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”
The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.
And all you could do… was nod.
Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.
You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.
“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”
Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”
“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.
“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”
He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”
“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”
Your breath caught.
“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.
“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”
You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”
Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”
Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.
“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”
He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.
You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”
Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”
You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.
“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”
And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.
“…Then teach me,” he said.
The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.
You swallowed.
“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”
His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.
“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”
You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”
That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”
He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.
You froze.
“What?” you asked, voice tight.
He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.
“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”
You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.
“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.
The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.
“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”
“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.
“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”
You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.
“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”
Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.
“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”
You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”
“Okay.”
You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.
“Jack?” you whispered.
“Hm?”
You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.
“Can you bring more ice cream?”
── .✦
The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.
Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.
Clink.
The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.
Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.
Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”
“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”
Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”
“I’m coming back tonight, too.”
Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”
You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”
She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”
You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—
Fwwt.
A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.
You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.
── .✦
The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.
You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”
The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.
“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”
You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.
“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”
You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.
As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.
The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.
You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.
“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.
“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”
Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”
You felt your eye twitch.
“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”
He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”
Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”
“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”
You blinked. “Gross.”
More laughter.
The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game.
When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.
When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”
And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.
You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”
The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.
You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.
Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.
Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”
You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.
Claws.
Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.
And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”
You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.
“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”
You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.
Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.
“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.
Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”
He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.
“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”
You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”
His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”
Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”
Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”
“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”
Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”
You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.
“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.
“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.
Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.
His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”
You flushed. “A… kiss?”
Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”
You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.
So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”
Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.
And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.
“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”
Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.
And he was holding back. Barely.
“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.
Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.
You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.
“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”
“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”
Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”
“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”
With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.
You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.
“Jack—!”
“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”
You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”
“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”
The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.
And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.
You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”
But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.
“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”
You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.
He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.
Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.
“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”
You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”
“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”
He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.
“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”
“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”
He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.
“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”
You didn’t have an answer.
You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”
Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”
You froze.
His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”
“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.
He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”
“I told you I would.”
Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.
“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”
You closed your eyes. “I did.”
Silence fell.
Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”
“Jack…”
That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.
Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.
“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”
You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.
“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”
He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.
He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.
That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.
“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”
You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.
Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.
Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”
His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”
You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.
There was nothing gentle about it.
Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.
The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.
“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”
And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?
“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.
“What do you—”
Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”
He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.
Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”
He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”
You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.
“Jack—hah—oh god—”
His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.
“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.
You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.
Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.
“O-Oh.”
Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.
Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there.
“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.
But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.
“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”
With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”
Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling.
“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”
The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.
“And mine.”
“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.
“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”
The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”
Your legs try to clamp around his head.
“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”
Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—
“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—
The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.
“I want in.”
And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again.
“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”
He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.
“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”
And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.
His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.
He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.
Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?
“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”
“Mhmmmm—”
“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”
Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”
“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.
Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.
Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.
Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat.
“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”
The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.
His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.
It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.
“Jack— s’too much, too much—”
And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”
Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.
Fuck. He was pretty.
Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.
One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.
Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.
It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.
He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.
Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.
“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.
“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.
“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.
“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”
“Yeah?”
He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.
You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.
“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.
“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”
“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.
“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.
“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”
“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”
“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.
His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”
You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.
He had to be almost in—he had to be.
Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.
“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”
“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”
“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.
Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”
“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.
One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.
You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.
“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.
“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”
He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”
“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”
“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.
His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.
Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”
Oh, he’s babbling.
Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”
“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”
Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.
You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”
“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.
You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”
His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.
“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”
“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”
But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out.
The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.
And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.
And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”
He’s not listening.
“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—
He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.
“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”
He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below.
He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again.
It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”
He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.
“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”
You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.
Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”
One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.
“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins.
“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.
He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”
You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.
“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”
“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.
“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.
Feel it as you squirt.
“Yes.”
Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.
“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base.
Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.
He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”
He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.
“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you.
The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.
You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.
Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”
You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.
He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.
His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.
“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”
Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”
“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”
You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him.
You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”
He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”
“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”
Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.
“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I love you.”
You felt your throat choke up.
“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”
When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.
His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.
“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”
Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.
And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.
── .✦
The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.
But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.
The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.
No Jack.
You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.
“Shit—!”
You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—
—but something caught you.
Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.
“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”
You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.
“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”
You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”
But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”
With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.
The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.
He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.
You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.
“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.
“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.
Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”
Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.
── .✦
It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.
The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.
But tonight, something was different.
Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.
“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”
“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”
Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”
“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”
You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.
“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.
You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”
“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”
A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”
“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.
You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”
Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.
The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.
Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.
“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”
Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.
“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”
You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”
Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”
You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”
Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”
You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”
“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”
A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.
The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.
“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.
Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.
Or maybe it’s just your imagination.
This was a request from @valinpariss!
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
CREEPED VISUAL NOVEL
Link, tutorial, extra art, Q&A, some chatter
The CREEPED Prologue is completely free and browser-ready. Gameplay is about 10 minutes. Please read the "tutorial" and notes before playing!
Follow Y/N and their dog, Max, through their grandparents' farm and a mysterious forest filled with...less than fortunate people!
PLAY HERE; works best on PC
This visual novel is powered by GOOGLE SLIDES! It has 0 programming and was created by one person in a little over a month, so please bear with any "bugs" and clunkiness!
TUTORIAL
>Click using mouse/trackpad
>Go slowly to not break game
>Do not use arrow or space keys
EXTRA NOTES:
>Works best on PC/Browser, I haven't tested the full game on mobile yet
>In general, clicking the PNGs on the textbox (Apple, Teddy Bear, Hatchet, etc) will lead you to the right page
>If you land on a page that tells you to "go back," that's when you should click the back-arrow key. If your cursor disappears, it doesn't register the click correctly
>I recommend moving your cursor periodically to avoid it disappearing and sending you to the wrong page
EXTRA ART
some WIPS and the original sprite-style i was gonna choose LOOOOOOOL
Q&A
Q: Is this an x reader?
A: This is a reader-insert, but it's not romantic and I try to keep it as neutral and unidentifiable as possible!
Q: What's the plot?
A: GENERALLY AND WITHOUT SPOILERS, your dog gets you into trouble and you're just looking to help him!
Q: Who is in the prologue?
A: Tim, Brian, Toby, and Kate! More will be added in future chapters.
Q: When will future chapters be posted?
A: Not sure! This took me about a month to do, and half was spent over winter break. I will try to get chapter 1 posted before summer, but I am a full-time student, employed, have extracurriculars, etc etc
ok thats all i only remember 4 questions feel free to ask more LMAO
CHATTER(because you know i can talk forever)
ok i just wanted to be able to talk about how the process was with this and how i feel about the results and whatnot...
ive been wanting to make a google slides visual novel since i was like 13 LOL it hit the point where i was repeatedly told i should just learn to code but i was like NOOOOO ITS GOTTA BE GOOGLE SLIDESSSS which is totally stupid but hey. i think that gives it some sort of simple charm that reminds me of being 16 and doing little projects in my room LOL i like working with the easiest tools . my bad
anyway. im just very happy LOL. it's not perfect but i feel like i came full circle in a sense?!?! i've been into creepypasta since i was 9 and it comforted me when things were really hard, and when i was 18 i was going through a really hard time and got back into creepypasta as a way to distract myself. i've always had a habit of throwing myself into fiction for escapism when things suuucked.
i'm 20 now but i've met SO many amazing people, had so many fun awesome exciting projects with friends, created tons of stuff im proud of, felt more motivated to create since i was like 13, have been inspired by so many amazing artists/authors on here, etc. just so so so lucky to find community in such a tight-knit cute fandom that thrives off of creativity and playing around! i hope i can keep the momentum and make a couple more chapters this year, but im kinda busy with school and work...LOL . i'm just excited to have this posted so i can have more discussion about it T_T
anyway thank you if you read this far and thank you if you played etc etc yaahhhhhh omg ok BYE THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING im just so grateful to be in this fandom
