#this is what i have in mind when i write clown town

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

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

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!

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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!

๑ back to my masterlists

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

[matrixfangs]

blessed be the whore - part 1

Priest!Remmick x fem!reader

summary: The old priest in your small town has died a gruesome death. The new one has an... eccentric way of doing things. 18+ READERS ONLY PLEASE!!!

word count: 6.3k

warnings: smut, sacrilegious actions, blood, praying, quoting the Bible during sex, sex in a church, sex on an altar, P in V, Oral F! Recieving, cum play, reader's first time, religious themes/imagery, blood play, blasphemy, abuse of a rosary, drool, squirting, degradation if you squint, praise kink, allusions to murder

a/n: HELLO! I have been working on this fic for weeks, and I finally came to the conclusion that it just needs to be a two-parter. I want to keep this A/N short and sweet because I have so many people to credit, all from Rosie's lovely Discord server! Firstly, my two beta-readers, @confetti-cakemix and @fuckoffbard! LIZ, YOU ARE MY NORTH STAR WHEN I'M WRITING, THE BESTTT, and CONFETTI!!! YOUR DESCRIPTION OF IMAGERY, EVEN WHEN YOU'RE JUST BETA READING, IS PEAK. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to tag each and every person in the server that also gave me suggestions and helped me in ANY way! @spikedfearn @somnolenthour @citrinedigital @eternalstrigoii @le-temps-viendra36 @iceemochaa @hyoscyxmine @otxiycohcoy @flixpii @faestunna Clown (also not sure if they have a tumblr but that's my twin!!) @cherryxhaze. If I forgot ANYONEEE please please comment or DM me and I'll add you immediately! I got so much help in the server, and I had to scour through almost a month of messages to find everyone!

tags: @moyavsemoya @slasherflickchick @reneeswrld @made2wait @horror-moviehoe @arminstopguy @weirdblob21 @writersp3n @endofradio @thecontortionistsportal @notabot2 @spikedfearn @fuckoffbard @madkingcrowley @manyimaginativemuses

The new pastor of your quaint village church was strange.

The village itself was old. You’d grown up with wrinkled hands drawing ash crosses on your forehead, strings of garlic hanging on doorways, barefeet in hot, red dirt. When you were younger, you were never allowed out after dark. No exceptions. Kids who went out after dark went missing. Their names became prayers on the congregation's lips at each church service.

The old pastor, Monsignor Quinn, had been so kind. He’d listen to your panicked confessions, fleeting feelings of lust with a boy from school. Brushes of fingers against skin that kept you awake at night. 

He’d died so suddenly. He hadn’t been very old, not even past his thirties. And the weirdest part - the local sheriff wouldn’t tell you or anyone in your village how he died. You heard rumors of blood-streaked walls and screams that had only been heard by those awake that late into the night. You watched people cross themselves as they passed his boarded-up house. Little children crossed the street to avoid passing it.

And now, you were shaking the new pastor’s hand, rough and firm. Father Remmick. His lips curled like he could tell what you were thinking, his tongue running through the folds of your twisted mind. His eyes, calm and clear blue, never left yours when he introduced himself. Your father’s arm rested protective and heavy on your shoulders, the heat radiating from him comforting you like a blanket.

“Pleasure to meet y’all.” Father Remmick drawled, hand still wrapped around yours. His accent was strange - deep, and Southern, but mixed with something old that you couldn’t place. Something thick and gooey, honey falling slowly off a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry for what happened to Monsignor Quinn. Tragic… truly.”

He didn’t look sorry—not really. His other hand pressed to his chest in sorrow, but his eyes shone with a playful gleam that was sinister, bloody, and cold. 

Your voice was dry when you spoke to him for the first time, having to turn your chin up to look at him. “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” Remmick’s smile fell, but the concern didn’t feel real. It felt mocking. You felt his thumb stroke your knuckle. “Nothing that needs to fall on ears as sweet as yours.”

Your father’s arm tightened, and you were grateful for his presence. When Remmick released your hand, you fought the urge to wipe your palm on your dress, to wipe him off of you. His crooked grin remained, and his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, licking the sweat from his chin.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” He looked away from you like he had to force his eyes away, like it was painful not to be looking at you. His gaze left you feeling naked, the inside of your body tingling like someone had dug around inside and pulled out everything sacred.  “All of you, of course.”

His sermon had been even stranger than he was. He said all the right words, but they came out of a twisted mouth. A serpent’s tongue ran over the words of God, words meant to comfort and uplift, but coming from him, made your stomach twist. Your fingertips ran over the silver rosary underneath your shirt as he spoke, his eyes never drifting down to the Bible before him. He knew the words by heart, and they still sounded so wrong. 

When you got on your knees to pray, you felt something so deeply, internally wrong in your chest. You couldn’t help but look up while everyone else’s heads were down, their lips moving silently in prayer. You found Father Remmick, hands wrapped tightly around the lectern, looking at you. His knuckles were white, his eyes roaming over you ardently. A rust color flashed over the blue of his eyes, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile. His gaze violated you, drilled a hole through your chest.  

For a single heartbeat you kept your gaze locked on his. When he smiled at you, you swore you watched something crawl under the skin of his forehead, two points—like horns—begging to poke out of his skin.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days. 

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse. 

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance. 

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts. 

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.” 

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door. 

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses. 

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death. 

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick. 

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body. 

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him. 

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail. 

“You could say that, yeah.” 

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight. 

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank. 

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees. 

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned. 

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner. 

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to. 

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat. 

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud in your skull.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?” 

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face. 

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat. 

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open. 

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light. 

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse. 

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat. 

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary. 

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile. 

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine. 

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin. 

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.” 

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. 

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.” 

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…” 

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?” 

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin. 

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again. 

“Heavenly…”

 Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.” 

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair. 

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer. 

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.” 

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin. 

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back. 

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you. 

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. Only babbles came out as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly. 

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right. 

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair. 

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan. 

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-” 

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

“Oh, my poor baby.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

 And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin. 

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…” 

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt. 

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs. 

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been. 

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.” 

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

 “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

pls comment if you’d like to be tagged in part 2 <<3

[nekoboydreams]

Hello (\*´▽｀)ノノ!! I've recently become obsessed with the yandere game you created! It's ignited such an uncontrollable desire in me—I can barely hold myself back! I'm absolutely dying to write a fanfiction based on *The Freak Circus*. But before that, I wanted to ask for your permission, because I truly don't want to offend or trouble you in any way...If it's okay, may I ask you a few questions?

① If Pierrot were to be voiced in the future, what do you think his voice would sound like? And what kind of tone and voice would best suit Harlequin, considering his character? Knowing this would be a huge help to my writing.

② Also, the circus food! Does it have mind-controlling, thought-distorting properties? Could it possibly amplify the eater's deepest desires, growing more intense over time until those poor souls completely lose their self-awareness—becoming obsessed with the circus and the clowns who perform for them? I also suspect the female assistant who was killed by one of Pierrot’s thrown knives might be one of the captured victims. She’s probably really dead. And what if she was actually one of the player’s missing colleagues? That would mean all those missing women in the town might be connected... OMG 🙀🙀🙀

③ Suppose the player has a strong self-destructive tendency and often keeps to themselves outside of necessary social situations. How would Pierrot react to this? Would he feel worried—or secretly delighted? And if one day the player collapses to the ground, quietly crying while clinging to Pierrot's clothes and begging him to kill them, what would he do? Especially if they said things like, “Only dying by your hand could bring me peace,” or “My darling, my savior, please kill me and eat me, so you’ll never leave me and I can finally rest.” Would Pierrot be moved?This is my first time asking, and I couldn’t help but say so much…!! I really hope I didn’t bother you 😔🤗🥰

Wow, I’m really glad to hear all this! And I’m impressed by the length of your questions, haha! Feel free to write as much as you want I’d love to see it! Now, about your questions:

About the voices: A lot of people ask me this, but since I’m not a native English speaker, I don’t have a huge repertoire of voices for them. What I can try to explain is that Pierrot would have a calm voice when talking to the MC, maybe slightly hoarse from being silent so much. When he makes those kind of disturbing statements to the MC, I imagine his voice thickens a bit. As for Harlequin, he has a sarcastic, somewhat mocking tone. His voice probably wouldn’t be that deep, although his laugh carries a dark, deep tone. Does that make sense to you? If I find voices that fit them in some content, I could do a post about it, since it’s a question that keeps coming up, haha.

About the food: You have some interesting theories. On Day 2, you’ll see Pierrot talk a bit about it. So what I can say for now is that the food can put you into a euphoric state. It gets hard for whoever eats it to think clearlythings get confusing, and you might start misinterpreting stuff. The MC feels their heart racing and isn’t sure if it’s because they likes Pierrot, for example.

Self-destructive tendencies: That opens up a lot of possible reactions for Pierrot! If he sees the MC isolating themself but they’re okay with it, then to him there’s no problem there. But if the MC isolates themself and seems to be suffering from things like that, he’d get worried and try to help, but in his own way. He’s not very social either, so his way of helping wouldn’t be very conventional. Now, about the MC asking to be devoured, that’s a complicated threshold. Pierrot isn’t the type of yandere to hurt the MC intensely, but there could be a scenario where he’d fulfill that request. It’s something very specific, so let’s just say it’s not something I can to detail right now heh.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Hi :) how are you? If you still write for creepypasta can I request a reader who is new to the mansion and how the characters of you're choosing try to bond with them?

Various crps x newcomer!reader

OOOUUUYGHHH anon I'm so sorry for taking so long to get to this 😭😭 this is like... an old ask

Characters: laughing jack, nina the killer, slenderman, jeff the killer

Notes: gn reader, you're a creepypasta, slender mansion au, you're new to this WOO, short post, written on mobile

CWs: canon typical violence and death

SLENDERMAN

He... doesn't actually do that much around the mansion. Of course he keeps everything in order and demands some level of control- house rules and stuff... and he doesn't really.. let you go out with him in the woods when it's feeding time for him...

The best way to bond with him is to ask questions. I like to think that he's a naturally curious creature- and even with so many people in the mansion... well, watching and interacting are two very different things! He already knows a lot about you thanks to his observations... but it's always nice to get a closer look... so much more interesting than breaking into someone's mind himself

If you ask nicely and it's a good day he'll let you accompany him in the woods for a walk- its... actually really peaceful out when someone's not getting murdered (or murdering)... flowers are nice.. and the animals are cool

NINA THE KILLER

Either stays in or goes out! Really you get to make the final call...but just know if you go out with her you're not coming back for a WHILE- and you're gonna need some time to recover

Lots of physical activity in the form of movement- she goes all around town... really fast... good luck keeping up with her. Loves yoinking stuff from shops (she WILL drop you if you steal from a small business though)-- clothing, snacks, things like that

But staying in? Want a low key and calm (well, as calm as you can get with her) night? She doesn't mind staying in her room with you listening to music! Let her paint your nails- or make stuff with her! I personally hc that she makes jewelry and accessories for herself-- you guys can match!!

JEFF THE KILLER

He doesn't like staying cooped up in the mansion for long. As soon as he can reasonably go out he's gonna bolt... he GUESSES you can tag along if you can keep up with him. His choice in fun ain't for the faint hearted or buzzkillers

That said... most of his activities USUALLY start out innocent enough- running about getting (stealing) stuff. A man's got cravings you know! Or just sneaking into places to check stuff out...

...though the moment conflict starts that usually when blood starts being shed. One of these days he's gonna get caught but for now you've just gotta book it with him back into the woods

LAUGHING JACK

He tends to go along with what everyone else is doing... not in a follower way, more like a "I'm nosy and wanna see what everyone else is up to kind of way" so of course he's going to bounce on the chance to hang out with you... just don't be toooooo boring!

He doesn't have many hobbies that he himself likes... sure he likes.. uhm.. well, clown things, but he's still got some of that caregiver funny man appeal to the people mentality- even if it's faint... he's changed a lot over the time he's been around..

Love the idea that he's fascinated with technology since he doesn't get much of a chance to interact with it in the modern day- show him some mobile game (bonus if it's two player) and he's going to be keeping you online for hours

...he might scratch up the screen though... claws and all...

[illubean]

Hi, I just stumbled onto your blog and I love your writing. If you’re accepting requests then can I please request Chorollo, Illumi, and Feitan with a s/o reader similar to Shizuo Hewajima from Durarara. Basically they’re crazy strong without any enhancements and when they get angry their known to throw cars, vending machines, street signs, etc. maybe they get caught in the cross fire when the reader is attacking someone who pissed them off and are amazed by the readers natural strength. Please and thank you.

HXH W/ a ShizuoHewajima!S/o

Characters: Illumi Zoldyck, Chrollo Lucilfer, Feitan Portor Type: Crack, Headcanons, Gn!Reader

i never actually watched Durarara but...hes kind of fine.....

Warnings: violence but it's silly

Illumi Zoldyck

you guys met under odd circumstances

he was out with Hisoka for...whatever reason and both of them turned around at the sudden scream of the magicians name

his face goes paler than it already is before he turned to Illumi and was like "Well, I gotta run now. Tata!"

and you are literally sprinting after the clown at full speed wielding a stop sign that still had bits of concrete attached to it's base

and Illumi's like that's weird I don't sense any aura from them

the next time he encounters you is at a bar, where he was to meet his red haired companion once again

you apologize for him having to see you chase down Hisoka like that, explaining that you don't particularly like violence but your anger get's the best of you

he was already intrigued that you were assumedly able to rip a stop sign out of the ground so naturally he asks you about it

"So I take it you're an enhancer?" "Enhancer of what?"

now he is even more interested

do you have some sort of nen ability that even yourself didn't know about?

and then Hisoka is like no, they just strong like that

and he's like Oh.

every time he has seen an exhibition of your strength, Hisoka had always been on the receiving end of your wrath

and he decides that even though you may or may not be nenless, you are powerful enough to be made into his spouse one day

Chrollo Lucilfer

bro was in a disguise just walking around town when he first met you

as he was walking he saw some dude get tossed through a shop window with a table following suit

"AND STAY OUT YOU SON OF A BITCH! I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR SHIT"

Chrollo peeked through the broken to see you standing there, angrily and seemingly underpaid

and he was surprised that it was you who managed to throw both a grown man and a table through a window and across the street

you seemed like every average person so how the hell did you even do that?

and being the crazy yet curious guy he is he steps in through the broken window and you're like oh fuck that was unprofessional

and you chat and you tell him you don't like absolutely bodying people like that but your body has a mind of it's own when angry

and you apologized to him for almost catching him in the crossfire

bro asks for your number then boom you start dating

and he's learned how to avoid ticking you off

yeah, sometimes he makes you mildly angry and gets a mug or two chucked at him but he has yet to be on the receiving end of a literal boulder or large household appliance

Feitan Portor

it was him

he was the one that managed to piss you off

how? who knows

but you are chucking very large pieces of rubble in his direction and he's kind of regretting whatever he said though he'd never admit it

he's encountered many strong people in his life but you're lifting literal boulders WITHOUT nen?

scary

he's probably watched you have a lifting competition with Uvo and win

how the hell did you win against a literal beefy giant!? he will never know

at some point in yorknew, you lifted an entire police car above your head and tossed it like it was nothing

and he develops some sort of silent respect for your strength

he thinks its kind of hot

sorry i have no clue where to go with this

[blacklegsanjiii]

Aahh your addition to actually girl sanji was amazing ✨ thank you

Its so funny to have them realising all the way to WCI/Wano, theyre all so silly. ALSO CHOPPER- He's new to the crew and giving them all a check up to get up to date with their physicals and he's all like 'dont worry Sanji your secret is save with me!! I wont tell anybody!!' And sanji thinks he's actually talking about the nr 3 burnmark (hc of mine that judge labeled all his children) so she's very thankful to him

Omg and the ship options... To many possibilities to choose from... Luffy going 'HES NOT A PRETTY BUT SHES A PRETTY GIRL?!!' Literally no fucks given nothing changes but he looveess the clothes and makeup nami gives sanji to wear (the liploss tastes like fruit and the dress fabric is so softt!!!)

Or sanami... Nami feeling attracted to sanji even though she's a lesbian and heaving a sexuality crisis cause is she bisexual??? But no she's still a major lesbian (or even funnier no attraction until its 'stupid guy -> stupid girl??!!!'

Honestly east blue poly would be funny as hell, so many possibilities

Also (sorry im rambling) SHES ZEFFS LITTLE GIRL 💥💥when she left with luffy, zeff 100% threatened the shit out of him (he also did this in canon but with his mind UvU) idk i fucking adore zeff and sanji protective of each other

And lastly??? All the regulars knowing??? Amazing, show stopping, ground breaking. Theyre coming to the baratie not seeing the cute waitress and when asked the staff says she has become a pirate cook of the strawhats

But whenever there's news its always talking about a guy and the wanted pictures are not so helpfull... So many possibility...

Have a nice day! Hope you had/have fun at your con :D

I'm so glad you enjoyed them! Fem!Sanji is fun to write, especially when no one knows she's a girl because how can you not know? She is Zeff's little girl! The dumb brat he gave up a leg for on a rock! She is his pride and joy, and everyone knows this!! Also, I love the idea of the burn mark and the confusion therein for Sanji because Chopper thinks she's trans masc when she's not, she's just waiting for her mom's genes to kick in more. Also the shipping, I agree with East Blue Polycule because you can fit all that in together in one go and no one is going ask questions. But I'm getting ahead of myself and skipping to the regulars first so that I can get some funny scenarios out of my head first.

First, Mihawk has watched this girl grow up and probably saw the fall out after shortly after Zeff butchered her hair. When he asked about it, he gave Zeff the most unimpressed look Zeff has ever received because good fuck he could have just braided it until they got into town? That's all he says about that because Sanji is still upset her hair is gone. Then some years later he's calling Zeff and asking when Sanji changed her gender and Zeff is confused because she hasn't but anyone and everyone are calling her a boy, even that crew she set off with. Mihawk is staring out of his office with the denden with an empty gaze as the greenhaired moron he almost slaughtered on the deck of Baratie is in his castle with one of his fellow warlords first mates and he's having a time but at least that hasn't changed.

Buggy is also probably really confused about 'Black Leg Sanji' and "his feats" and when Garp is arresting him they're debating whether or not Sanji would be a good marine until Garp calls her a boy and Buggy corrects him. Garp is staring down at the clown who looks back and is like 'wait, wait. Zeff's called her "princess" and you never questioned why he would call his son that?' to Garp's non-committal shrug of 'He's Zeff.' which, okay yeah, sure. It's Zeff but Zeff never used it in a derogatory manor. Sanji is quite literally his princess. She is the princess of the Baratie that Buggy used to do card tricks for because Zeff had no idea what the hell to do with kids.

Now onto the hilarity because East Blue Poly would be exceptionally hilarious. They all start dating and Sanji thinks Nami is going through a sexuality crisis because she's a girl where as Nami thinks Sanji's a boy and it's never cleared up. Sanji looks particularly butch because it made her life easier at Baratie, and she doesn't want to ruin dresses and skirts and blouses with cooking or blood. She also just never really wore make up unless Baratie was closed for some celebration or something, when she had a reason to doll up because she was so busy. Also she wakes up and goes to bed before and after everyone else so no one catches she's a girl. I think the hilarious exception of Ace clocking it in Alabasta and telling Luffy he's got the prettiest girl and the best cook wrapped in one is an amazing thing and Luffy goes with it but still asks why Ace called Sanji a girl and Ace is confused now. They never clear it up.

When Sanji is training and everyone is talking about forcing her into dresses Sanji is like 'I don't need to be forced, I love dresses! I just don't like ruining them with blood.' and coming back to Sabaody with a few dresses, skirts, blouses, more fem clothing and everyone is like 'you don't have to wear those if they make you uncomfortable' is sending some weird messages to her so she just doesn't wear them still. For the wrong reasons and everyone is confused. Like WCI when Sanji's in her wedding dress and fighting and mourning the blood on the dress and Luffy and Nami are asking her why she's in one because she doesn't wear that stuff and Sanji says she thought they didn't like them on her and the very quick explanation of 'we thought you were a boy!' is Sanji going 'How?' as Nami complains she had a sexuality crisis for nothing until Luffy asks about him, Zoro, and Usopp; Nami concedes that the crisis wasn't for nothing then.

Nami makes sure she's in a kimono like she and Robin are as an apology because they didn't realize that Sanji was a girl and was just dressing for convenience, she's not a boy and was a princess and she is loved.

Also my con was lovely but I'm so glad it's over.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

If you can write it, Could we have separate Candy & LJ (or jason) with you not wanting to celebrate your birthday, and getting a tad upset and vulnerable around those times? Like you wouldn't even want to hear anyone say “Happy Birthday”, or anything that reminds you what kind of day today is. But honestly, you might let them take you out to a Birthday dinner though, maybe a shopping trip too.

Candy:

This is ROUGH for Candy. He is so big on massively celebrating those he holds near and dear, and he almost feels inside as if he's being cruel by not doing something big for your birthday as he does for everyone else, but he reminds himself that this is your wish. He never pushes on the subject, as he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable and he values your feelings, so he does his best to celebrate you in as minor of a way as he can, and he keeps his eyes on you all day, watching to make sure you're feeling as happy as you can. If you ever seem to be growing upset, he changes the direction of what you're doing to get your mind off of things. He at the very least insists he makes you a special breakfast (which he does for you in general anyway), and he presents you with the most delicious pancakes you've ever eaten in your life for breakfast in bed. He wishes you a happy birthday in his mind but vocally expresses it in other ways throughout the day. He reminds you how much he loves you and how he's so fortunate to be with you, expressing how much he cherishes you. While he wants to run around and do so many things for you, he contains himself, taking you out for a very nice dinner on the town, ordering you whatever it is you want, and encouraging you to eat your fill. He'll take you for a walk after that, walking you through the Underworld's shopping district with the intent of paying attention to your wandering eyes and waiting for you to grow excited over an item you might see while you window shop. When you eventually do, he buys it for you (as he always does), and always asks if there's anything else you might like. He might not be wrapping them as he'd wish, but he still seeks to spoil you as much as he can on your special day. When you return home, he prepares a luxurious bath for you to relax in, gives you a massage, and just curls up with you in bed. Being able to be with you, to love you and spoil you, that's what matters to him most, and he'll do it in whatever way makes you most comfortable.

LJ:

Also a bit tough for Jack. Jack had been dreaming up the ideal, gigantic birthday cake to bake for you for months, but as you approached your birthday and told him your feelings on it, he felt himself deflating a bit. A birthday cake would obviously be too much for your circumstances, but he still feels the need to give you some sort of treat. He settles instead for just making you a few very delicious cupcakes of different flavors, no candle or anything included, and despite any hesitance you might have had, you can't help but feel it melting away the second you try your first bite, a smile slipping onto your face as it always does when he makes you sweet treats. He looks out for you all day, not wanting you to feel any sort of upset, and he does his damnedest to keep a smile on your face. It's hard to be sad all the time when you've got a clown for a boyfriend anyway, and he makes you feel incredibly special with all of his extra attention. Instead of going out to eat, I think he'd like to make dinner in with you. He just wants to spend time with you on your special day, so he tells you to pick any food you want, and he goes out with you and takes you to buy all the ingredients (making a fun little trip out of it), and he brings you home to cook it up with you. He teases and jokes around with you the whole time, seeking to make you laugh as much as he can, and dinner comes out incredibly delicious, perhaps tasting better because of the love and joy that went into making it. He does check in with you throughout the day to make sure you're feeling alright still, and he calms down a bit if you start feeling overwhelmed. He knows you don't want any big or obvious gifts, so instead, he requests that the two of you sit and make each other plushies. He'd like to crochet a whole pile of them for you, but he doesn't want to upset you, so instead the two of you sit together and chat while you make each other matching plushies, Jack stepping in to help you if you ever need it. The joy on your face as you swap plushies is more than enough reward for him, and he treasures the one you made for him more than any other, simply happy to know you had a great day.

[duckyhowls]

Slasher's Masterlist

A collection of Slasher's related stories, from polygamy stories, solo stories, and oneshots. Be warned, updates will be slow, and there will be a lot of dark content (they are slasher's, after all).

Note that these are all female-oc/slasher's. I use 'x-reader' tags as a way to spread out my content, like many others often do.

Slasher's (Romantically Involved):

Billy and Stu (Scream 1), Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal TV), Patrick Bateman (American Psycho), Will Graham (Hannibal TV), Michael Myers (Halloween), Jason Voorhees (FT13th), Thomas Hewitt (TCM), Bo and Vincent Sinclair (HOW), Pennywise (IT), Brahms Heelshire (The Boy), Remmick (Sinners), Art the Clown (Terrifier), Tom Hanniger (MBV), Billy Lenz (BC), Pearl (Pearl), Tate Langdon (AHS), Carrie (Carrie), Jennifer (Jennifer's Body), Heisenburg (REVIllage), Lady Dimitrescu (REVillage), Dimitrescu Sisters (REVillage), The Lost Boys + Michael Emmerson (TLB), etc.

Slasher's (I don't write romantically for but still may appear in my universes):

Any other Ghostface (Scream), Freddy Krueger (ANOES), Chucky and Tiffany (ACP), Candyman (Candyman), Bubba Sawyer (ATCM), Jigsaw (Saw), Norman Bates (Bates Motel/Psycho), Pinhead, Resident Evil Village characters, The Creeper (CJ), other AHS characters, etc.

Note that circumstances may change. I have reasons why I don't write for certain characters, whether it's preference or on a more personal level. I may have also missed some. Questions about this are welcome, though, and won't be met negatively. I also know that SOME of the character's above are not technically slasher, but what really define's a slasher but their ability to kill?

WARNINGS: It's a slasher masterlist, so pretty much almost everything is a warning. If you want details, you can find them in the story tags and/or notes.

Masterlist Crossover Stories (Poly)

TWELVE WINTERS (Multiple Slashers)

Some try to run from their past. Others attempt to chain it up. Alba never knew hers. Not truly. All she knew was that she never fit in - not at school, not at work, and not even in her own skin. Life was cold, and family was only colder. But soon, Alba's body begins to change. It craves blood. Her mind fractures. Hunger lives in her very bones. Surrounded by town murders and hunted down by a cult that claims her as their chosen, Alba does everything she can to survive it all.

(Billy and Stu, Hannibal Lecter, Patrick Bateman, Tate Langdon, Thomas Hewitt, Bo and Vincent Sinclair, Remmick, Tom Hanniger, Will Graham, Michael Myers, Billy Lenz, Jason Voorhees, Brahms Heelshire, Pennywise, and Art the Clown)

FOUND HERE!

———

SANITARIUM (Multiple Slashers)

Jericho grew up on a farm. There, she both thrived and wilted. Then, with one maniacal push, blood soaked into the very soil she was nurtured upon, and Jericho suddenly found herself surrounded by Smith's pasty, white walls, and it's numerous criminally insane. It was only a matter of time, though, for she lived on in the shadows of the world's discontent.

(Michael Myers, Bo and VIncent Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt, Pearl, Brahm's Heelshire, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Patrick Bateman, Jennifer Check, and Needy Lesnicki)

COMING SOON!

———

Masterlist Stories (Poly)

THE BOARDWALK (The Lost Boys)

When Rose Emmerson is dragged all the way to Santa Carla with her family for a "fresh start" after a bad divorce, she expects boredom, struggle, and maybe some city weirdos - not danger, not darkness, and definitely not desire. But the night has teeth here. Drawn to the orbit of four dangerous boys - David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko - Rose quickly learns that Santa Carla's legends aren't just stories. These men rule the boardwalk after dark, and they've taken an unsettling interest in her. She should stay away. She knows that. But as her brother, Michael, spirals into similar circumstances, Rose must choose: resist the pull or give into the darkness.

(David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko)

COMING SOON!

———

THE DARK TRIAD (Hannibal TV)

Eden Bloom is young, awkward, incredibly smart, and often dismissed. She is orphaned, lives with her aunt, Alana Bloom, works at a gas station, and has an affinity for insects that borders on unnerving. She isn't meant to be involved in FBI murder investigations until Jack Crawford notices her brilliance and recruits her as a consultant. Most continue to underestimate her. Will Graham doesn't, though. He sees the way her mind mirrors his own. Hannibal Lecter, however, sees a chrysalis. A rare mind that's fragile, hungry, and transformative. As bodies continue to pile up and the darkness deepens, Eden finds herself lured to both men and pulled towards the monster all three of them were creating.

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham

COMING SOON!

———

PREY (Scream 1)

(SCREAM) PREY - Doe Langley has always flown under the radar. Just how she liked it. Everyone found her too quiet and too strange. Not a typical victim to bullying, but still invisible in a place like Woodsboro High. While other girls chase popularity, Doe spends her days behind layers of flannel, headphones, and the comfort of never being noticed. But then Billy Loomis and Stu Macher, the school's most popular pair, start paying attention. They tease her. Corner her in the halls. Tug at her hair. It's all some annoying, twisted game. But there's something unnerving about them. Something dark and hungry. When a girl turns up dead, the town spirals in fear - and Doe just can't get away from the two boys who circle her like a pair of wolves.

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher

COMING SOON!

———

Masterlist Stories (Solo)

HEAVENLY (American Horror Story)

When the Harmon family moves into the old Los Angeles mansion, everyone in town seems to notice Ava. She's blonde, beautiful, and has a smile that makes boys at school forget how to speak. Ava is everything her sister, Violet, isn't. She cheerleads, gardens, loves animals, and makes friends easily. She's light. And that's exactly why Tate Langdon shouldn't want her. She's not dark, broken, or lost. She doesn't wear sadness like a crown. He should be drawn to Violet, a girl just like him. But he can't seem to stay away. He wants to swallow Ava Harmon whole. As the house reveals its secrets and the walls begin to whisper, Ava finds herself pulled towards something she doesn't understand - and someone she shouldn't trust. Because Tate isn't just haunted. He haunts. And if she lets him in, she may never leave.

Tate Langdon

COMING SOON!

[thirstydemisexual]

May I have something with Buggy being hopelessly in love with someone that both Crocodile and Mihawk are casually trying to pursue as well? I would love a typical “Two people betting with each other who can seduce someone faster, being so sure that they will sweep them off their feet- “Oh I am really flattered, but actually I’m interested in Buggy” scenario here.

Would love to see Buggy happy-ugly-crying (even uglier than usual) when he finds out because???? He WON!??? AGAINST SIR CROCODILE AND MIHAWK??? While said men are witnessing this weird spectacle from afar, for the most part being good natured about it and not holding a grudge, but also being highly confused because… Buggy? Neither of them even considered Buggy a plausible option for reader insert. Neither of them would have ever looked at each other and even speculated that their rival in this wooing contest might be the damn clown. Eh, can’t win them all. (And maybe they dodged a bullet here because if they choose the clown they must be completly out of their mind)

AHHHHH it's so giving The Grinch x Martha may and I LOVE IT! THAT DYNAMIC IS GOLD, hope you like this, I know it's not really my best work :/ been recovering from a bad fall. But I had fun writing this 🫶

HOPELESS🔪🤡|| Buggy x gn!reader

✦being in the cross guild was the most bizarre thing that happened in your life, sure living in a world where people ate devil’s fruit and gained power was bizarre enough… but working in group with Crocodile, Mihawk and Buggy of all people was so much out of your comfort zone that even the marines were surprised you were involved in the guilt. You were known to be a lone wolf like Mihawk, with no crew and no known attachment to other people, so you grouping up with somebody was a first.

✦in truth it wasn't really that you didn't like working with people, it was more tho that you had troubling understanding people intentions, you were stabbed in the back way too often for you to willingly put yourself in that position

BUT

✦ You really liked Buggy, having had a crush on him for years and you were dead set on pursuing him, what better way to spend time with him than working with him and gaining power and notoriety as well? And Mihawk and Crocodile, were not really your favorite people but you were willing to put up with them, but they were very much pushing the line with how much they abused the poor clown

✦You are considered as one of the most powerful and beautiful people of the seven seas, you were strong and reliable and very loyal it was no wonder to Buggy that Mihawk and Crocodile were dead set on pursuing you. They had been competing with each other for your attention since you all grouped up, and he couldn’t blame them. You are wonderful, and so full of charm, he fell for you long ago but his insecurities got in the way. NO ABSOLUTE WAY A GOD/GODDESS LIKE THEM LIKES SOMEONE LIKE HIM. Especially over THE Mihawk and THE Sir Crocodile. 

✦He felt like he had absolutely no chances

✦ Somehow you were clueless, both to his interest and to the advances of the other two. Which was surprising with how much they were flaunting themselves over you.

✦ It was Valentine's day and Crocodile and Mihawk had had a staring contest all day while showering you with gifts. You had thought they were doing it only in a friendly way, and gladly accepted the lavish gift they proposed you but to them it seemed you reciprocated both of them which didn’t sit right them

✦ Buggy spent all day looking longingly at you, the chocolates he clumsy made for you in an attempt to finally ask you out sitting in his back pocket. He was sure you were going to pick one of the others instead of him.

✦ at the end of the work day Mihawk and Crocodile confront you, Buggy sitting on thebopposite corner of the room with a glass of rum clutched in his hands.

"Will you share a wine bottle with me tonight?" Asks Mihawk

"No, they won't. I arranged for us for the finest restaurant in town" interjects Sir Crocodile

✦ that's when you realize their affection is not really platonic

"Ehm, actually I was thinking of asking Buggy" you reply blushing hard

Buggy chokes on his drink, face turning as red as his nose under the face paint.

You rush to him to pat on his back trying to help him stop the fit of cough that the chocking caused

"Asking me what?" He's very confused because you can't POSSIBLY be meaning what he hopes.

That's when you shyly offer him a paper bag he hadn't noticed you having before.

"Come on, open it"

✦ Under the bright red tissue paper he finds a chocolate box and a beautiful ornate dagger, with blue and red gems embezzled in it

"The gems reminded me of you" you told, a bit unsure. His face had pure shock and rended him in silence, you didn't know if it was a good sign.

✦ after a second his eyes glass over and he asks in an almost whiny tone

"You were thinking of me?" at that you giggle

"Of course silly! Will you be my Valentine?"

At this point Crocodile and Mihawk are just awkwardly standing there 🧍🏻‍♀️🧍🏻‍♀️... like were they blind? of course those two idiots loved each other

✦ "FUCK YESS!" Buggy basically trows yourself at you and brings you into a soaring kiss. His ego boosting. He envelops you with an arm while he detaches the other end to go to the two standing there while pointing the middle finger

✦ and you can't do anything other than blush and giggle into the kiss because gods he's an idiot, but you love him for it

#NO BETA WE DIE LIKE ACE

[hey-august]

The Tide Comes and Goes | Buggy x gn!Reader

Summary: Stuck in a relationship and a life that you don't want, you're given the chance to get out. WC: ~1k Warnings: pretty much SFW, just a hint of spice, buggy x GN!reader, cheating / infidelity - reader and their partner cheat on each other, profanity, angst, no happy ending A/N: I had this ready for Angst August but forgot to post it oops. I have one more that I want to write, plus an optional comfort ending that will fit into any of the Angst August stories I wrote.

“You could come with me, you know. All you have to do is ask,” Buggy teased. Every visit from the pirate ended with the same offer. A solution to your loveless marriage.

You had hoped to fill the void other ways. Extravagant shopping with the money your partner sent home, volunteering with the fake righteous busybodies in town, pouring bottle after bottle into the emptiness, becoming a temporary port for sailors who needed to wet their dicks. Some of it was fun, but the ache was always there when the morning sun hit your eyes.

The only relief you found was through a clown, of all people. Through his stories and jokes, his sleight of hands, and the bawdy atmosphere he and his crew brought to town.

Buggy was fun. Listening to his adventures, watching him embody the spirit of the story - it was enthralling. When his voice dropped, as soft as the incoming tide, you’d lean in closer. When he slapped the table and shouted with all the air in his lungs, you’d jump in excitement.

Sometimes when only the moon and you were awake, when you laid in a bed too big for one person, you replayed his tales in your mind and allowed yourself to imagine that you were in them too.

Over time, you shared stories with Buggy. About jobs deemed more important than feelings. A familiar stranger whose visits you gave up tracking because they were so infrequent. Of rare calls with laughter in the background and distraction in your partner’s voice. You told him about a life on pause indefinitely.

But when Buggy visited, it felt like the pause was lifted. Like that time was for you. So you took it. You took the freedom he sailed on. You took his taste, his lips pressed against yours. You took his requests for assurance and promised it was okay. That you wanted this. You wanted him.

It felt different, at least to you. Every other time you brought someone to bed, there were no feelings attached. Your heart pounded in your chest and between your legs, drumming away any negative feelings for the moment. With Buggy, the ache only ever dulled. It stayed behind to whisper something different. That you shouldn’t be alone anymore.

You did anything and everything to quiet the voice entirely. Every time you straddled the visiting pirate and his waves, every time you were caged beneath his sweaty body, every time he pressed you into a mattress that didn’t belong to him, you ignored the whispers. You waited until they went silent. Even when you curled into the snoring figure, sharing sheets until the tide came, the inner-voice stopped talking because you stopped listening.

One morning, you woke up after Buggy. He was quiet and gently stroking your arm. Shifting slightly, you looked up at the captain. His facepaint was smudged and faded, no doubt smeared into the pillow he slept on. Your pillow. His hair was loose and a little dirty at the roots from his exertions the night before. Stubble clung to his jaw and neck. It was longer than usual and you liked it.

Buggy looked down and returned the goofy grin that you were wearing. He felt so close. He was within reach.

But his ship would be leaving soon. And he would make that empty offer that you could go with him, even though you would never ask. It was routine. A part of the play.

“You should come with me.”

Wait, that was wrong. That’s not what Buggy was supposed to say. The smile was gone from his face, but the softness wasn’t.

“I want you to co-”

“Stop. Don’t say it,” you interrupted, pushing back from him. You sat up too quickly, bringing sparks of light into your vision. The pounding of your heart was in your ears, drowning any rational thoughts.

This was not how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be the one to ask. But you never would, because this was your life. This empty fucking house and empty fucking bed were yours. All this loneliness and sadness is what you knew. It hurt, but it was familiar. It was comfortable.

“I’m not going with you, Buggy. I won’t, so don’t ask.”

“Seriously? Haven’t you thought about it? Don’t you want to leave this shit behind?” Buggy asked, torn between wanting to understand and wanting to convince you. He gestured around, his movements hard and rough.

“Stop! You don’t know what I want. Do you even understand what you’re asking me to do? Give up my life, abandon everything, and join a circus?” You laughed loudly. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It wasn’t for you.

“Fuck, just listen to me f-”

“Stop begging,” you spat, “it’s pathetic.”

Buggy’s jaw tightened. “Fuck you.”

Pushing off the blankets, he got out of the bed and started pulling on the clothes he left on the floor.

You stared at the bottom of the bed, listening to the rustle of clothes while Buggy got dressed. “Why did you ask? Why did you have to do that?”

“Because I wanted to.”

You picked up on the past tense. Wanted. Your chest was burning. It was too full.

“Aren’t you tired of being left behind?” Buggy continued with a sneer that pierced your chest and allowed your toxic insides to drip out.

“Wow…don’t you get it? You were always just entertainment for me, Buggy the Clown. Like I’d want to join you or your fucking freaks.”

Buggy turned to face you so quickly that you couldn’t help but look at him. And the anger on his face. He stared at you, the ocean in his eyes dark and murky. His fingers twitched. Then, without another word, he left.

You listened to his heavy stride, until the front door jingled and slammed shut. Hard.

And you were alone once more. Just like it’s supposed to be.

[twistedbunni]

Unrequited

Buggy x Reader Angst

A/N: I just wanted to write something moody, it's not the best honestly but I might continue it sometime. I took inspiration from the song "DYWTYLM" by Sleep Token and a bit of dialogue makes it very clear.

You'd been left behind in some shitty run down town. The ship you had sailed on for the past decade had drifted out to sea along with the crew that's been like family to you. Your life had basically disappeared right infront of you.

You knew none of them meant to leave you behind, but you also knew it'd be far too late for them to come back for you when they do finally notice your absence. They'd all been so excited to Finally see the Grand line, practically buzzing as they had loaded the final crates of supplies they needed for the trip, far too distracted with thoughts of what they would see out there that no one had noticed you weren't back from running the final errand you'd been tasked with.

By the time you'd returned to the dock the massive ship was already far enough away that it looked no bigger than your hand. Shouting or swimming were far beyond the possibilities of working out in your favor. You fell to your knees heartbroken at the sight, watching everything and everyone you'd ever known shrink into the sunset never to be seen by you again.

You'd still been there when Buggy's ship pulled into the harbor late that night. The Clown's men had whooped and hollered in delight of finally being on land again as they past you. The crowd of them seemed to move around you as if you'd been a rock and they were a river flowing around you. None of them seemed to pay you any mind, too concerned with the prospect of getting drunk at the few bars the town had.

It was only Buggy who'd stopped, he stood there staring at your form now sitting with your knees to your chest as your eyes stared unfocused and empty out at the sea at the exact spot your ship had finally disappeared from view. He could tell from the state of your face that you'd cried, maybe even sobbed and we're now left shivering from the chill of being soaked in a mix of your tears as well as the water that had occasionally splashed up onto you from the waves of the sea.

Silently he had placed his coat over your shoulders, sitting down beside you to look out at the water as well. He knew what was wrong, he could tell exactly what happened to you. You had that undeniable look of someone who knew they'd lost everything, he'd seen it multiple times before on people whose lives the Buggy pirates had destroyed, and more importantly had seen it first hand on himself when Shanks betrayed and abandoned him.

"You'll catch cold if you stay out here any longer, especially with the state your in." Finally he'd broken the silence, broken you from your trance of despair, bringing you back to reality and the pain it brought with it.

"They're gone. They left me behind. I'll never see them again. My whole life was practically on that ship, I know nothing but life on that ship... and now it's just... Gone." Your voice was weak, throat hoarse from the lump that'd formed in it hours ago when you'd first began crying.

Buggy wasn't entirely sure what to say now, his initial comment was just to bring you out of that dark mindset he knew you'd been stuck in for what was practically all day. He wasn't use to comforting people, just threatening them or leaving them for one of his crew to take care of. All he could muster up in his head was generic bullshit. "I'm sorry, I've been in your shoes honestly but I don't know what to say."

"What am I supposed to do now? I have nothing left and no where to go." Finally you'd turned your eyes from the sea, looking over to the man sitting next you.

Buggy kept his eyes on the sea thinking for a moment, before turning to meet your gaze. "I don't know, but you're more than welcome to join my crew and I. Even if it's only till you figure out what you'd like to do next."

God were his eyes beautiful, the moonlight was making them practically glow, infact all of him seemed to glow in the silver light as if he were an angel. You gave a weak nod to him, a small seed of happiness planting itself deep within your hallowed heart.

He stood lending a hand to help you up as well, leading you onto his ship. He'd fed you, given you a change of clothes, told you all about his crew, all their flashy acts and adventures. He seemingly fixed you that night, taking you in as one of his own and taking care of you.

You knew it was due to the emotional mess you'd faced that day but when Buggy had tucked you in and bid you goodnight, your heart couldn't help falling for him.

A year had passed now since Buggy took you in and in that time you'd grown to become one of his most faithful crew members. You'd always assist him with all preparations for his performances, standing by during his shows with anything and everything he'd need. By now your dedication to the man could not be questioned, and no one dared to anyways, they could see you loved the man they all looked up to.

Everyone except the man himself could see how you adored Buggy since that fateful night, and some of them even tried to protect those feelings you held. Cabaji or Mohji would always distract you somehow when they knew the captain was 'entertaining' himself with someone, making sure you were too far away to hear any moans that would surely spill out of the Captain's room.

The pair often felt guilty for sheltering you but they couldn't stand to see their newest friend get hurt and deep down they were hoping the captain would eventually fall for you too. Sure your feelings had started out unhealthy, you initially falling for Buggy because you were broken and he was the one that had picked up your pieces, but by now you'd actually grown to hold a healthy love for the man and the both of you deserved to feel that love.

Things changed when Alvida was added to your crew. Buggy was often too absorbed with scheming up plans with the beautiful new co-captian, that he seemed to not have much time to spend with you or any of his crew anymore frankly. It was affecting a good chunk of his crew, especially you, and no matter how much Cabaji or Mohji tried to distract you from the hurt, the pair knew they couldn't fix the problem entirely.

Cabaji was stood out on the upper deck with you currently, looking out at the stars and holding mindless conversation about how to better his act for the next performance.

"Maybe I could teach you how to unicycle, then we could figure out some flashy synchronized thing to do as a pair." He placed his fist to his chin in thought.

You chuckled at the thought of you on a unicycle, swerving around the circus ring with a spotlight on you. Knowing your luck and coordination you'd probably wipe out midway through and end up somehow run over by your own unicycle or Cabaji's. "I'll let you teach me but I don't think I'd ever become as good as you are."

"That's bull, your good at just about everything!" Buggy's voice called out, interrupting your conversation.

Cabaji saw the way you froze and placed a hand on your shoulder whispering his next words to you. "It's just capt, she's not with him don't worry." He gave your shoulder a little squeeze and you a friendly smile before turning to face the Clown.

"I'm gonna let you two talk, I've gotta go practice my routine anyways." Cabaji excused himself, heading below deck to give you two privacy.

"Long time to see it feels like!" Buggy joked coming to lean against the railing beside you.

"It's your own fault you know." Your tone was cold and your eyes remained fixed on the night sky.

"Yea, I guess it is." He felt a little guilty now that'd you'd pointed it out. "Sorry bout that."

"Whatever. Why aren't you spending your night with her like usual? Did her beauty become too much for you, so you came to see me instead?." Your words were laced with hurt.

He glanced at you for a moment, confused at what you were trying to imply. "She's got some things of her own to do tonight is all. What does her appearance have to do with me talking to you?"

"What doesn't it have to do with it? She far more attractive than me, it's no wonder you abandoned me for her." Your gaze shifted downward to the sea below you, watching the waves shimmer in the lights of the night sky.

"I didn't abandoned you, what the hell are you talking about?!" Buggy turned to face you fully, trying to desperately read your body language or what little of your face he could see. "I spend time with her because she's a co-captian and we have to plan out how the hell to accomplish the things we need to!" You stayed silent, not moving at all from you spot, and just when Buggy was about to storm off you had spoken.

"I regret joining your crew." A few tears rolled down your cheeks.

"What do you mean?" The clown honestly couldn't believe your words. How could you regret being one of his crew? You had given no signs of ever being unhappy until now, you'd grown close to his 2 right hand men almost immediately and always seemed to eager to help him with his shows. So why are you just now telling him you'd regretted your decision?! Did he do something upset you? Were you silently hurting as a result of him never having time to spend with you lately?

"I regret everything that's happened since that night you found me. I regret agreeing to let you take care of me that night. I regret agreeing to join your crew and befriending some of them. I regret being by your side ready to help you with everything and anything. I regret letting the others distract me when you'd sleep with a captive or crew mate. I regret letting them try to mend me when Alvida joined and you'd grown distant. I regret feeling at home here. I regret you finding me that night at all. But most of all.." You paused, finally turning to face Buggy with tears in your eyes.

God did it break your heart to see him lit up like an angel just as he had looked on that faithful night. And Man did it break Buggy's heart to see your eyes were filled with that hurt of betrayal and abandonment like they'd been when he first saw you. You were both back to the same state of being you'd been in when you had first met.

You sighed, closing your eyes finally ready to say what you needed to. "Most of all I regret falling for you, letting not only myself but also the crew believe you could ever grow to love me back."

He felt like he'd been hit by one of his famed giant explosive Buggy balls. Every single thought that had been in his brain was gone with the only thing remaining was you admitting you fell for him, replaying over and over again. He knew you were deticated to him but it was normal for a crew member to be deticated to the captain. How had he missed the fact your looks and actions towards him were filled with far more adoration, than those of the rest of his more faithful members. He hadn't let himself see you in the same light as you did him, only letting you remain as someone who's pain he could relate to. He stopped making time for you, distancing himself without even realizing it. Somehow he had managed to push you from his thoughts entirely to the point he had grown to see as just another member of his crew.

"I- I didn't- I don't-" He was stuttering, desperately fighting for his mind to say something, ANYTHING at all.

"Save your breath, I know you didn't know my feelings for you were so deep." Your eyes opened finally, seeing Buggy fighting to get ahold of his own thoughts.

You watched him flounder his mouth open and closed a few times for a moment before taking a few steps away to lean on the railing to watch the stars again. "I'll be leaving ship tomorrow when we dock in Loguetown."

Finally his mind seemed to snap into place, allowing him to speak and think clearly again. "Why?! No one wants you gone."

"You told me that I could stay with you and the crew till I figured out what I wanted to do next." Your voice was soft and smooth, any hurting you felt was undetectable in your tone.

"So you decided what you want to do?" He moved a step closer to you.

"Not really, I only have a small idea of what I could do." You shrugged.

Buggy grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around to face him, his eyes searched yours intensely. "Then why the hell are you leaving?"

"Buggy do you love me?" You had ignored his question, asking one of you own and when he didn't reply you decided to ask a different one. "Do you wish that you loved me?"

He was silent still, causing you to sigh and push his hand off your shoulder begining to walk away. Though his hand quickly flew to stop you, he finally spoke. "I don't know how I feel honestly. I try to tuck away my own emotions so I don't have to deal with them."

"Maybe it's not that you conceal your feelings, they just don't exist. At least none for me anyway." It was a harsh reality that you knew he also knew but was trying to fight. "How ironic isn't, that you're so desperate to be loved by someone, but now that I do you can't bring yourself to love me back. You can't force feelings Buggy, no matter how viciously you try to and we both know that."

His hand released you coming back to rejoin the rest of him. "You're right, I cannot hope to give you what I cannot give myself."

With that you walked off going to pack your things, leaving the clown to think as endlessly as the stars above him. A hollow feeling formed in his chest, not because he was losing someone he loved or cared deeply for, but because he wasn't and it made him feel extremely guilty for not feeling that way.

By the time you'd docked in LogueTown the next day the whole crew had heard of your leaving them. Many wanted to try to convince you to stay, especially Cabaji and Mohji but they all knew you leaving was for the best after hearing of your talk with Buggy last night. Both Buggy and you had not spoken or even seen each other since said talk, a mutual feeling that there was nothing left to say between the pair of you.

The purpose of the ship docking here was to find the straw hats and reclaim the map of the Grand line from them. The two captains, your two friends and about half of the crew went off to complete the mission, so you really didn't have anyone there to see you off. You'd just grabbed your belongings, saying a few goodbyes to crew that was left on the ship, then left to go into town. Maybe you'd join the Marines now, or find some fishermen and offer to help them out, you honestly had no real idea of what to do now.

Due to the commotion in town caused by the mix of Buggy's crew, the Marines, and the straw hats, you'd somehow ended up on board with the latter. Setting sail for the Grand line with the band of misfit pirates Buggy and your friends had failed to capture.

"So what were you doing in a town like that?" One of the crew asked.

"Nothing really, just saying goodbye to my heart I guess you could say." You answered, a sad smile on your face as for the 2nd time in your life you watched the life you'd grown to know, shrink till it was out of view.

Though this time it was you onboard leaving someone behind to watch helplessly from the docks.

[spiritflakess]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63840811

If you recall months ago I was talking about a orufrey coffee shop Au. Just posted the first chapter, no coffee just yet. I’ll get there hopefully...

Witches’ Brew

Platforms: A03, Tumblr.

Words: 983

Status: ongoing!

Chapters: 1/?

Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & CafésProfessor QifreyCafe owner OlruggioMenace BeldaruitThere will be coffee soon I swearBeldaruit used nepotismQifrey needs an extra large coffee

How many years had it been now? Nearly a decade, since he slipped away in the dead of night. Taking the last train out of that backwater town, doomed to rot in its own obscurity. It’s place not on any map, most likely only known for some variety of archaic family-owned business. He could still picture it, ‘the best plum wine in the prefecture!’ or who could forget ‘the renowned fabric store, it goes back 10 generations!’.

It makes him want to wretch, like he’d never even left the damn place long ago. People held such pride for keeping business in the family, didn’t they? Qifrey can’t even put words to why he feels such a distain towards the idea. Irony is not lost on him, after all, you could call his latest venture exactly that. Inheriting a job from the old man himself, his esteemed benefactor.

Beldaruit’s smiling face, the giddy, ghastly phantom that haunts his sugar high caffeine induced crashouts. Papers clutched in his hand, coffee in the other, the state he found himself in the ONE time he decided to read a letter sent to him! Trifling old bastard, knowing he was perfectly content being on his own! Qifrey was not living in a shoebox, sustaining off cup ramen and instant coffee to fuel his vintage book collecting , THANK YOU.

No, of course, that old coot had to so graciously inform him of his impending retirement and not so subtly imply that he’d given Qifrey an ever so glowing recommendation to take over for him. It’s like that phone he bought for him is a goddamn paper weight! A text would have been nice! Hell, even a phone call, ‘Hey son I recommended you for a really important reputation ruining if you don’t show job and they think you accepted! You better pack up your whole life and come back home ;D ‘.

A letter, a letter in this day and age. God forbid that man learn to use technology from the modern era, for all Qifrey knows he’s still practicing rituals to bring rain for a plentiful harvest season. The well-meaning smile he probably had while writing the affront to Qifrey’s ongoing decade long pursuit at independence is clear from the opening line.

‘Dearest Qifrey, how have you been? Our flowers in the garden have started to wilt. I remember how vibrantly they bloomed when you last visited, that was a hot summer! I think we’re in for a very cold winter this year indeed! My bones have been creaking I tell you, (not just because I’m an old man now *wink*)’.

‘That man is a clown.’ Qifrey hissed under his breath, hand pushing back his tangled mop of hair. He even took the time to write the damn thing with some kind of calligraphy pen and ink based off the fancy lettering. Always the flare for the dramatics with Beldaruit, ‘you can never leave too lasting an impression!’ he recalls hearing as a child. He got one thing right, his image stuck, no matter how hard Qifrey tried to run kicking and screaming from it.

He discards the paper back into his bag, instead shifting his focus to the book he deemed a suitable distraction. Cover warped with age, smelling of must and littered with yellowed pages. It would be the perfect distraction, if he were capable of being distracted. Alas, this was not a ‘I can ignore that my rent is due tomorrow by reading situation’ it was a full-blown intergenerational feud with his adopted father.

The professor knows it’s going to be on his mind purely out of fucking spite for the remainder of this train ride. Always acting without consulting him, doing what he thought was “best” for Qifrey. ‘I’m nearly 30, old man!’ He recalls shouting the last time he visited, only to be met with ‘Oh well I just figured that you would be a good fit at this school, and it;s local so you could come visit me everyday!’.

Dwelling is not going to help, he knows he should assert his boundries. He knows he should just call that school and explain to them, but then, how does he explain that to Beldaruit? ‘Yes, I rejected it because I can’t stand the thought of being like you?’. Oh yes, that would go SWIMMINGLY.

At a crossroads, as he would in reality love the job, a prestigious position as a professor at a renowned academy. Do you know what that would do for his piss poor resume? The fish haven’t exactly been frenzying over his 4 years of TAing or his part time stocking at his local family mart, and of course his meager year as a preschool teacher. Granted, he went on a wild goose chase and was a true crime podcaster for a hot minute, he is a responsible adult now!. Don’t get him started on all the pointless papers he published instead of actually finding a stable teaching job...

That’s all besides the point though, this whole thing stinks of nepotism! As it quite literally is, he’s 100% sure there were more qualified educators. The whole thing just leaves...a bitter taste in his mouth. Beldaruit worked to get that job, taught religiously at the small public school in town, attended conferences, other harder things. Qifrey just existed in relation to him, happened to be his ward, happened to have a teaching license, happened to have a bullshit degree saying he knew how to educate people.

So, in reality, as usual, he’s the real problem here. Another instance of him piggy backing off a kind old man's ridiculous amount prestige. Sure, he got a couple of rewards back in college, but he’d done jack shit in the grand scheme of things.

‘Lord help us all, me in charge of educating the next generation.” He scoffed, head leaning back against booth.

[studioeisa]

bandmates f2l with hansol???? ohh im gonna die bc i am A BAND GIRL. pls i play all rock instruments(xdh should hire me) BUT W VERNON OMGGGGG🙏🙏🙏

everyone and their mother has a rockstar!vernon fic, which i loveee to see 😋 mine is your run-of-the-mill bandmate romance, with your typical idiots in love/slowburn/friends-to-lovers tropes! i actually have some writing for this verse, which is under the cut ♡

notes: mc's lyrics are from NIKI (fork found in kitchen for u/ylangelegy), the band comprises of hhu + mc

Vernon's lips curl up in to a small smile when he sees your raised index finger. It's an unspoken rule in the band to never disturb you once your creativity goes on overdrive, and right now, it's obvious that you've found a new stride.

He sits silently, resting his forearms on his knees and his chin on the back of his hands. He watches you in silent admiration, taking in the determined look on your face and the way your tongue sticks out between your lips lightly as you focus.

The compliment comes to him unbidden. Pretty, he muses, but he shuts down that thought just as quickly as it came.

Eventually, when you finish writing, you begin to tap an absentminded beat. Without preamble, you start to sing aloud what you had just written.

You've got a girl that's a 'friend' in every town Who's the cliché, who's the clown? Which one's me, which one's you? Either way, it's true Wish you'd focus on what's in front of you right now! Focus for once

His mind drifts slightly as you sing; he thinks of himself and his own dating history.

And how he's always compared every new partner he's had to you.

How now, he feels as if he's finally been called out for it.

His expression doesn't change, though. He just grins, watching you with a slight look of awe and a hint of something else.

If you squinted, if you really, really tried to see it yourself, you might recognize it as yearning.

[viiviidlights]

Ah. It's been a while. And I've also decided since I post most of my writing here anyways I'm gonna move any writing-related content to this au here...

With that being said... It's time for

TWSTERY DUNGEON AU LORE!!!Part 3 - Team Heart

Masterpost

Team Heart is the first of seven rescue teams associated with the Nightwing Guild. They more or less function as the main law enforcers within Sage Town, but will lay down the law wherever they go. They are led by the ever-diligent Roserade, who has little time for those who disregard the rules and is looked upon with respect by all members of the team.

Speaking of... Who are the members?

Roserade - The short (tempered AND statured) but capable leader of Team Heart. Those who break the law will find themselves a victim of his swift punishment (typically in the form of a Stun Spore/Petal Dance combo). Despite his seemingly cold and uptight personality, there is a softer side to him that he shows to those whom he trusts.

Nature: Serious. Somewhat Stubborn.

Ability: Technician - increases the power of moves with a BP of 60 or less.

Moveset: Magical Leaf, Petal Dance, Stun Spore, Sludge Bomb.

Special Move*: Imprison.

Indeedee - The co-leader of Team Heart and childhood friends with Roserade. He seems to be much more laid back than his leader, but it's still advised to stay on his good side because he's quite the formidable and tricky foe when needed. He often acts as the voice of reason for Team Heart, as well as the "mentor" for many members of the guild in general.

Nature: Calm. Thoroughly Cunning.

Ability: Inner Focus - Prevents the pokemon from flinching.

Moveset: Helping Hand, Calm Mind, Psybeam, Stored Power.

Special Move: Trick.

Mimikyuu - A friendly and outgoing member of Team Heart who is usually willing to lend a hand. He does have an occasional "mean streak" when it comes to those who break the rules and will turn away requests for help at times ("Thems the rules! Sorry, but I totes can't help you here. You're on your own this time around!" - Mimikyuu, surprisingly frequently...). Regardless of that, he's always willing to greet others with a friendly (hand-drawn) face. It seems there's another facet to this cheerful personality that Mimikyuu hides from others, though...

Nature: Jolly. Somewhat of a Clown.

Ability: Disguise - The pokemon can take a single hit without taking damage.

Moveset: Shadow Claw, Disarming Voice, Dazzling Gleam, Baby-Doll Eyes.

Special Move: Double Team.

Floragato - One of two new recruits to Team Heart. A rambunctious pokemon who isn't afraid to pick fights with those who are stronger than him, verbally or physically. Though many people might think this a flaw, it serves as one of Floragato's greatest assets, as it enables him to say what others are too afraid to say. He enjoys hanging around the members of the guild's newest team and sees Combusken as a rival.

Nature: Impish. Mischievous.

Ability: Protean - The pokemon will change to be the same type as the first move it uses.

Moveset: Hone Claws, Magical Leaf, Play Rough, Seed Bomb.

Special Move: Snatch.

Combusken - The other new recruit to Team Heart. Despite coming off as more reserved, Combusken is just as, if not MORE rowdy than Floragato is. He does seem to show a bit more empathy than the former, but he also lacks the wit that Floragato carries. Despite that, he's a very earnest pokemon who seeks to make his mother proud. Like Floragato, Combusken also enjoys spending time with the guild's newest team.

Nature: Brave. Somewhat Quick-Tempered.

Ability: Blaze - Boosts the user's fire-type moves in a pinch.

Moveset: Bounce, Blaze Kick, Fire Punch, Reversal.

Special Move: Mirror Coat.

After the prologue, Team Heart is the first rescue team that the protagonist and Purrloin would encounter upon joining the guild as their newest rescue team. After all, it's two newest members are the first two friends that Yu and Purrloin make in this strange place. But what direction shall the story go? Well... There's always time to find out in the future.

For now, I hope you're a bit intrigued by these little guys! As always, I'd love to share info about this au in the form of asks if people are interested.

[petrichor102]

The Mad Mind of Petrichor presents:

So, it's not actually "St. Michael"; he's Michael the Archangel.*

I promise I have a point.

Mike Wheeler and I share a similar name, so I was thinking... why Michael? It's a nice name, a popular one, it means "Who is like God?", and it's a callback to two (or four*, I should say) 80s films I love that the Duffers have taken inspiration from:

In The Goonies (1985), the protagonists are Mikey and Brand Walsh. They live in the Northwest with their friends, the Goonies. In the story, the kids are trying to ignore this total ass who has bought their town (very similarly to another total ass who did the same thing to this old lady—) and try to make the most of the hours they have left in each other's company before discovering there's a pirate treasure belonging to "One-Eyed Willy" nearby that they could use to buy back their homes. It's about some kids on their bikes, led by Mikey on an adventure.

Then, there's It (and It: Chapter 2 (various releases)), where Bill has lost his brother Georgie down a storm drain. He doesn't believe there is no way he has simply vanished and is caught between having a good summer with his three friends and trying to discover what really happened to Georgie. When horrific occurrences begin happening throughout their Northeastern town, Bill befriends Beverly, Ben, and Mike, and leads this bunch of kids on their bikes to fight a demon clown.

Then there's E.T. (1982), when Elliott takes in an alien with the help of his brother Michael and they... wow, they were allowed to write any and everything back then. Well, the government comes for the alien, and Elliott and Michael lead a bunch of kids on their bikes to escape with the alien and send it home.

This Mike dude gets around, especially on his bike.

But why the name "Michael"? Why not Bill or Will? Why not Elliott?

Well, Michael the Archangel is sometimes called God's strongest angel. In the Bible during the war in heaven, where Satan—who takes the form of an enormous "red dragon" with multiple heads—and his angels, are cast from heaven, he is the one whom God grants the strength to cast him out. Michael then takes Satan's position in heaven (Rev 12:7-12). Michael was also the angel sent to dispute Satan's claim over Moses's body (Jude 1:9-10) and it should be noted Moses is known as God's friend (Exodus 33:11) even though they disagreed several times.

Early Christians regard Michael as healer, the one to take Satan's place as the accuser (he is sometimes depicted with a scale), and the Archangel—the angel who ranks above all others, like a first knight. Some Catholic teachings (I am not Catholic) tell of Michael as the head of God's Army, the angel of death, the judge of souls, and the patron of the Chosen People of the Old Testament. There are even prayers devoted to him to bless armies heading off to battle. Many protestants recognize the relationship between Michael and God and Christ, even suggesting Michael is Christ before he was born. Now, of course, I don't know how true this is because I'm not the One who made that Decision.

He's also known as the patron "saint" of chivalry, police and militaries, and paramedics.

This sounds a little like our Mike Wheeler. Until the party falls apart in ST3, he's president of AV club, the dungeon master, and has the final decision of who is let into the party. He dislikes Max, but helps her up when she falls, he jumps off a cliff to save Dustin from having his teeth cut out of his face, he protects Lucas from Billy when Steve fought him, and he is very much the one who adopts his friends like a guardian angel.

So, it's almost as if—

—there's another person who uses this imagery and sees these similarities, and this person could really use a guardian angel against a demon right now. Now, we don't know for sure if anyone in the party is religious or spiritual, but we do know at least one artist.

[snippychicke]

Your Kuro work is awesome! I've been on a Kuro kick lately and was wondering if you could write a prompt about a reader with the straw hat gang figuring out Kuro's identity like immediately and just messes with him by not revealing his secrets cuz she's a low morals gal as well

Maybe a little spicy 🫣

I am so sorry about the delay. Things have been harsh, but I really loved this idea. It has a bittersweet ending, but open to interpretation.

You had broken out of the marine prison at Shells Town the same time that Luffy and his crew-not-a-crew had stolen the Grand Line map from Ax-hand Morgan. And, well, one thing led to another and you were roped into the not-a-crew just like Nami and Zoro.

Unlike them, however, you were an actual seasoned pirate, and was amused by the antics of your Captain. That bright optimism and empathy seemed at odds with his dream of being Pirate King, and you wanted to see what would become of him. Especially after the events of Orange Town and the fight with Buggy the Clown.

And then you ended up in Syrup Village.

You remembered three years ago; the whisper of the Captain of the Black Cat pirates dying at Ax-hand Morgan’s blade. You hadn’t wanted to believe it then, considering you had seen Captain Kuro fight more than once through the years. It seemed like a cosmic joke that many of the pirate crews you had joined in your younger years had run-ins with the Black Cats.

It was either that or Kuro himself was hunting you down, just for those small heated moments as he toyed with the decision of allowing you to live like a cat playing with a mouse.

And seeing Klahadore? You didn’t fall for it for a second and knew that the ‘butler’ knew as soon as your gaze met his across the garden. His eyes narrowed slightly, and you could almost hear the silent command. ‘Silence.’

Oh, you’d be silent for now. But maybe it was your turn to play with him.

---

Zoro had complained about you wearing black, but you simply rolled your eyes. As soon as you saw the black dress with gold details, complete with a simple black velvet choker, a plan had formed instantly in your mind. You were going to taunt and tease the former pirate as payback.

And by gods the look on his face when he saw you, eyes widening just a fraction with a hard swallow making his adam’s apple shift. It boosted your confidence as he followed Merry and Kaya down the stairs, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Cat got your tongue?” you teased quietly, assuring no one else would overhear.

“Silence.” he hissed, eyes narrowing as he stood by your side, his posture still as stiff and rigid as always. “What are you doing here?”

“Funny, was going to ask you the same thing,” you teased as you sipped the cocktail you had been given. “The rest of the world thinks you're dead.” There was a bit of unintended bite to your words, but you hoped he wouldn't notice.

Who were you kidding, of course he noticed. You saw that familiar head tilt and raised eyebrow of intrigue, but thankfully he stayed silent.

And you tried. Really, you did. “...just tagging along with these wannabes,” you found yourself saying after a heartbeat. “They're… something else. Amusing, mainly, but oddly competent. Somehow.”

“Hmm.”

“Not like you, of course.”

You downed the rest of your drink and pretended not to notice Kuro (Klahadore?) look at you… and then cover a smile by coughing into his white butler-type gloves (so different from the black furred and bladed gloves that he used to wield. You still remembered what it was like to have one of those blades resting beneath your chin, the others carefully arranged as not to hurt you but could with the slightest twitch.)

“I see you haven't changed,” he finally stated. “You still can't control your mouth at all.”

“It's why I try to keep it occupied with other things,” you sighed before realizing how that may have sounded. (Or maybe that was your own thoughts dirtying the meaning and it probably sounded benign to everyone else.) “Wait, that's not--I mean--”

Thankfully you were saved as your conversation with the stoic butler didn’t go unnoticed by Kaya. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” the young woman lightly spoke as you floundered for words. “But… Do you two know each other?”

Kuro stiffened slightly, erasing any signs that he had actually relaxed in your presence. “We’re acquaintances,” he answered simply--or was that sharply?

Either way, you couldn’t help but scoff, “Is that what you’d call it?” You literally could not recall how many times you had been entangled with the Black Cat pirates, your life spared by the captain because of some odd whim every time. Each time feeling an undercurrent of something when he spoke to you.

Both Kaya and Kuro looked at you-- the former with surprise, the latter like he was about ready to murder you right then and there. You blushed as you rubbed your neck self consciously. “It’s uh, complicated.”

Thankfully, the young lady of the house smiled without asking any more questions. “That’s wonderful! I’m so glad you were able to reunite, Klahadore rarely ever talks about his past.”

You felt the itch to say something. Your drink was empty. You had no little plate of horse-dours or whatever they were called. You could feel the intimidating aura radiate from the fake-butler next to you, threatening you not to speak. “There’s nothing to speak of, miss Kaya,” he spoke with such soft kindness that seemed unnatural from the man you knew.

“Yep, nothing interesting. At all. We’d just run into each other. A lot. Either the universe decided it was a funny joke or he was stalking me, one or the other. Though I always did think of him as an oversized cat, ya know?”

Kuro just had to say your name and you shut your mouth quickly, sealing your lips to prevent anything else from escaping. Kaya was doing a poor job of hiding her smile behind her hand. There was a decided humored light in her eyes as she looked up at her ‘butler’. “I never thought about it, but I think you’re right. No offense, Klahadore,” she tacked on quickly at his dour look.

The expression shifted into something akin to endearing patience in a simple blink of an eye. “None taken, my lady. I’ve… heard the sentiment before.”

“I’m sure you have,” you coughed. “I’m gonna go get myself another drink, do either of you want anything?”

Kuro fixed you with that sharp glare of his. “I think it might be best if we move onto the dining room. Your lips hardly need any further loosening.”

If he had been worried about you ruining the birthday dinner, you were sure Kuro was sufficiently surprised when it was your ‘captain’ that handled that with a grin on his face to boot. You (unwisely) lingered around while everyone else retreated to the guest rooms, deciding to admire the eccentric decorations of porcelain plates adorning the walls and ceiling. (your favorite was the little tuxedo kitten with a blue bow around his neck, attacking a ball of yarn. No reason, of course.)

“Miss, do you need help to your room?” the maid asked (Sham? They looked like them at least).

“Uh, no I’m good,” you said with a faint smile, wondering if they remembered you but decided it was unlikely. “I was just, uh, admiring the decorations.”

Sham narrowed their eyes, clearly unhappy with your response but excused themself with a small ‘hmm’ and began to clean the dining room, making you feel very unwelcomed. You took the hint and meandered towards the hallway leading to the guest rooms. The place was sprawling and a monument to the family’s wealth, but you were blessed with an intuitive sense of direction and had already more or less mapped out everywhere you had been, noting servant’s passages behind the walls just by the sight of small seams in the walls.

The wealth and splendor of the house was something that itched at you as a seasoned pirate and thief. If it wasn’t for the fact you knew Kuro himself was likely watching you like a jaguar protecting its territory (or maybe hunting its prey) you would have pocketed as much as you dared. The truly-silver dining utensils. Bits and bobbles that could fetch a pretty berry on the black market.

So caught up in ‘admiring’ the display of a knife made of seastone and a hilt encrusted in gems (that could be sold for tens of millions of berries, if it was seastone. An ‘accident’ with Luffy could prove it too…) you failed to noticed the faint reflection in the glass.

A cotton-gloved hand wrapped around your throat, the other quickly grabbing your wrist from reaching for the dagger that rested in a holster attached to your upper thigh.

“I think not,” Kuro purred quietly in your ear, causing the knot of fear in your stomach to tangle with the flutter of butterflies that suddenly bloomed as you caught sight of his reflection. “I’ve been biding my time for three long painful years. As fond as I am of you, I won’t be merciful if you ruin this.”

Despite the underlying threat as he tightened his grip, you couldn’t help but smile. There was the Kuro you were more familiar with. It hadn’t made any sense for him to give up being a pirate captain for this. “Have I ever went against you, Kur-”

His hand tightened enough to choke you for a split moment as he pressed closer to hiss in your ear. “Do not say that name.” The pressure eased up, allowing to gasp for air, though his hand remained. “...but no. You’ve always been… obedient.”

You cursed both him and your own body for the way you trembled at the way he said the last word, how it stoked a fire deep in your belly. “If it hadn’t been for that mouth of yours, I would have had you join my crew.”

“Loose lips sink ships, and I might’ve done that once or twice,” you admitted. “But I kept the little secrets of yours I gathered through the years here,” you said, touching your chest with your free hand. “And this one will be no different.”

He hummed in thought, lips brushing the exposed part of your neck while his gaze met yours through the reflection. “We have two hours to kill before the last step of my plan comes into play. Why don’t we find a way to keep your mouth occupied until then?”

--------

“How did you sleep through all of that?!” Usopp exclaimed after everything, making you rub your neck (hoping that no one noticed the marks you tried to cover with the high collar of your shirt.)

“...I’m a very heavy sleeper.” That and Kuro had made sure you were well worn out by the time midnight struck. You were still amazed he was able to move, let alone act like it had been nothing as he kissed your brow and told you ‘Be a good kitten and stay here until I return.’

Which you were fully going to obey, considering you knew how vicious and uncontrolled he became when in the thick of it. Except daylight came, the metal shudders protecting the window retreated back into the wall… and he never returned.

Learning why had you twisted up inside for reasons you didn’t want to examine. You frankly didn’t care that it had been his plan to kill Kaya-- she was nothing to you, after all, and you had seen death so many times you were numb to it. Granted, to you the plan seemed a bit obtuse and over-the-top, but who were you, the woman with no plans, to argue with Kuro of the thousand plans.

But there was the fact that while Sham and Bucchi were now in marine custody, Kuro hadn’t been found. He had escaped (apparently after Luffy headbutted him through a window.) You were relieved. Delighted. Worried. Anxious.

To find him after three years of thinking he was dead, a few hours filled with admittingly some of the best orgasms of your life, and now this. Knowing he was on the run with no one watching his back, while you continued to tag along with a misfit bunch of pirates that were still not quite a crew.

Young, hopeful pirates that would likely soon realize that the world wasn’t as nice as they thought. The world was either kill or be killed; Plunder or be plundered.

Luffy called your name, a rare frown on his face as you shook yourself out of your thoughts. “Come on, Kaya said that she has a ship.”

You smiled tightly at the teen. “Thanks, but I think we should part ways here. I don’t think the path to my dream is with you, sorry.”

You expected him to protest, but instead there was a faint smile that seemed far to knowing and wise for his years. “Gotcha. Go chase your dream.”