#Is it bad that I think this should be Canon?

[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

[fayedartmouth]

I'm so bad at this stuff. I only did a few of my longer, more notable fics.

Nowhere to Stand (and Now Nowhere to Hide): People actually give a shit about JJ so he doesn't die.

Best of a Bad Deal: JJ gets cancer, Kiara has a coming of age crisis, and it's still a happier ending than canon.

If I'm on Fire (You'll Be Made of Ashes, Too): Mike Carrera discovers he's an asshole in the most dramatic way possible.

I think most people I talk to have already been tagged! @princessofnothingcharming if you haven't done it, you should. Also @laylap2003 because your fics I love so much.

I'm bored and have many writer friends so let's have some fun!

Describe the premise of your fic/s in the absolute worst way possible and then tag 5 friends.

I'll go first:

Shadowed: Wind has middle child syndrome, tells Hylia she's can't tell him what to do because she's not his real mom, Four changes career track and becomes a sleep paralysis demon.

Tagging @not-freyja, @hotcheetohatredwastaken @tashacee @toyouhellohowareyou @weavingstarlight

[beneaththebloodylake]

knowing the gyakusai translaters have a habbit of randomly making things up instead of translating, i was curious about the 'yes daddy' line specifically from screenshots cause that sort of phrase is so ambiguous/context dependent. nothing like that between them came up when i played it, and i was curious enough to find the script (white is localisation, blue is a basic idea of what it says in japanese)

like, usually i hate how rubbish the translation is, but this ones so random its just funny not even annoying. (i still dont agree with the choices here though, these games do have some funny lines, but this doesnt really seem in character, and its just bad translation to randomly make stuff up anyway)

but in this part i did actually notice something else that id thought mightve been related. this is what yugami always calls mitsurugi

'That is a rule of the court, isn't it, Mitsurugi "danna"'.

this is the dictionary entry for that word

he doesnt mean it in that sense (probably actually means boss), but technically you could argue that hes calling him sugar daddy

[crookedchoppedkingdom]

Gideon Wilson Should Have Been in Brave New World

I've thought about how Brave New World could have provided more insight into Sam Wilson while including the character development he had in BNW. How the Red Hulk main plot wouldn't be considered a Bruce Banner sequel, and leave the Red Hulk reveal out of the trailers. Gideon Wilson is Sam and Sarah Wilson's older brother, who has direct ties to the Incredible Hulk. He supposedly connected to the same movie that is considered canon to the MCU. He was the one who argued the Abomination should be sent to a high-security prison. He even appeared in the She-Hulk show to speak at the Abomination's parole hearing.

What the movie could do is keep all the Red Hulk elements but instead of Ruth (bootleg widow) acting as the security consultant to Sam, it could be the legal consultant, Gideon. Gideon Wilson, in the comics, has a vendetta against Bruce Banner and overall with Gamma experiments, https://www.marvel.com/characters/mister-gideon. He is considered a recurring enemy of Bruce Banner until he realizes his anger towards Bruce was not healthy and decides to stop and help his team of superpowered people.

How to transition that into BNW: have Gideon replace the Leader's role. Have Gideon talk about working with Ross, what happened in Harlem, how much Gideon hates the Hulks. One conversation between Gideon and Sam can be a mirrored callback to the one Sam had with Zemo: when Gideon speaks about how dangerous and unstable Hulks are, Sam can talk about smart Hulk and Gideon can protest and state "it's a matter of time until they lose it". Have the scene of Ross almost losing it while in private intersplice throughtout the convo to hint Ross is turning.

Since a main complaint is that the movie doesn't focus enough on Sam himself. He can have a scene focused on how almost every villain he has faced has had a problem with the very concept of his supered friends. Super soldiers, assassins, Wanda, and now Banner. People who do great are often watched by those who are waiting for them to finally do bad. It could even make him snarkily say to himself or whoever he's talking to that he knows how that feels. Have Gideon confront Sam about running into the action without thinking about his family, and make a jab regarding Riley's death. Then we finally get some flashbacks with Riley, flashbacks with Sam's parents, and some background.

The movie would explain why Gideon and Sam haven't met up until this movie. It's because the brothers share a strong trait, fighting for justice. However, Gideon believes Sam's way of fighting for justice is absolutely wrong and can't stand to even be near the people around Sam, just like his comic version. Gideon could be at the press conference when Ross turns into the Red Hulk, could be the person who gets Isaiah out of prison, or sends Sidewinder to prison at the end of the movie. In the comics, Gideon ends up tracking down unregistered superheroes for a group that Rhodey is a part of. The second end credit scene (after the Leader tells Sam something big is coming) could be Gideon contacting Sam and telling him as his only favor because they are brothers, there is a person who he thinks Sam should really meet then *insert superhero here (hopefully Shang-Chi)* and Sam could say "I'm putting a team together".

Anyway, this is me rambling about an unexplored connection that is canon in the comics and established in the MCU that would stop the critique that BNW was a Hulk sequel and Sam was a side character. Even though I enjoyed the movie, I wish we got more of Sam's background because so far, it's not a lot.

[thesaintofaquarius]

See, the thing about Camus is that, he's not a Pretending to be Emotionless Hypocritical Thing that doesn't want people to feel anything ever and not be connected to those around them. There are actually a handful of canon examples that he finds merit in camaraderie and emotions that fuel people's will to fight and dedicate themselves to humanity and Athena.

He is, however, a firm believer of never letting his emotions get in the way of the decision he makes as a Saint. For him, letting your emotions dictate what you do and act, to the point of causing more conflict and strife is Bad. And he's real for that because he also doesn't really extend this mindset to anyone but his fellow saints, and even then, it's only when they're truly lashing Out. There are reasons he believes this — he is an Aquarius saint after all and they're SUPPOSED to be calm, cool and rational — and there are good reasons he's VERY strict about it with Hyoga.

The problem I keep seeing in this fandom is that his attitude as a Saint keeps getting translated as = you should never hold attachments with people or things and if you do you're Wrong, and that's just, not the case, at all? He just doesn't condone those attachments standing in the way of how you should act like a Saint, which includes people's pasts (because Saints are supposed to be warriors who protect the present and ensure the survival of the future for the next generation). You cannot let your emotions and attachments take your sight away from the bigger picture — ensuring that humanity survives.

Like, of course he cares about Hyoga. That's Practically His Son, but does he let that stop being from doing what he thinks is right? No. And yeah, you can argue that he was wrong to do so, but not on the fucking principle of what he believes in, because he WAS following what he preached! It just wasn't the correct decision in hindsight because there was no way for him (at that moment) to know that Hyoga would actually be able to awaken the 7th sense during the Sanctuary arc and survive a brutal death during then. There are also multiple examples of Camus being able to abandon, betray and go through extreme painful lengths to do what he thinks is right (and I will say it's BECAUSE he loves the world and Athena and his friends [1 Surt, I guess] that he does this), that's him acting and being true to what he preaches! And his whole "Hyoga you will remain here forever untouched in the freezing coffin" + the implication that he'll visit and he's crying in that moment it's so.... I don't know how to tell you this, but that's Literally His Son that he thought he killed, it's actually quite normal to tear up and cry and promise to visit someone's literal grave if they're that close to you.

There's a key difference between Hyoga's and Camus's situation here, though. Camus has proven time and time again that he will not let his past attachments stop him from what he believes a true Aquarius Saint needs to act like and he's not endangering anyone by the act of repeated obsession (he's not capable of that obsession anyway) and visits, and his convictions hold true when he's forced to betray Athena. Which ultimately contributed to all of the Hades saga happening the way it did.

Tldr: he is not a cold heartless bastard who thinks human connection is a farce while also having emotions and connections himself. Camus is actually a Big friendship is magic (and being a saint of Athena in a very emotional and dedicated way) believer if you look at him properly, but of course, media literacy where when the blorbo they like better is pitted against you, I guess.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 19 - Trapped In The Light

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Gotta have a party chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Irresistible by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 7.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: The plan begins, and Sam starts to notice things. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

Read on A03!

“No.”

“But-“

“No.” Bucky crossed his arms, giving Her the firmest possible glare he could muster when She was standing so close. 

Standing close, sort of pouting up at him, all doe eyes. Hair falling so perfectly over Her features. He wanted to brush it from Her eyes, so he could see the Moon turning safely in them-

Safely.

The key to this was safely. And a party hosted by a woman who was either trying to kidnap or kill Her was not safe. 

“There’s not a chance in hell you’re coming with us.” He grunted, and She narrowed Her gaze for a second, before turning away.

“Sam-“

“Hell, no.” Sam laughed, giving Her an amused expression. “You think I’m gonna be the guy that tells Bucky to let you do this? You’re lucky I ain’t shippin’ you off to Sarah after everything you pulled-“

“Everything I pulled?!” She pointed at Bucky, and he tensed. “He helped me! It was his idea to call Zemo-“

“He’s weak-willed,” Sam hissed Her name, and Bucky frowned. “He’ll do anythin’ for us if we give him a good enough reason-“

“Then he should let me go on the mission-“

“There’s not a fuckin’ chance I’m lettin’ you walk into a warzone, kid-“

She scoffed. “I’ve survived worse, Sam-“

“The fuck you have-“

She opened Her mouth, and Bucky’s hand shot out. She’d been about to say it, and he knew She didn’t want to. Half of yesterday had been spent with Her flat on the floor of the apartment, trying to figure out if Sam knew about Miles. Sitting up and grabbing Bucky’s knees with a pleading expression that had made his hands curl at his sides—it wasn’t the time to grab Her chin, tip it back, and kiss Her until she was giggling and dizzy, until he was touching Her enough to feel Her branded on his skin—to say Sam could know, don’t let him know.

And She didn’t think before she spoke. Not when She really cared about something, and wasn’t wearing one of her well-crafted masks. So She’d blurt out something about Miles or Her past, and that would be a whole other conversation they’d need to have with Sam. The one about Hydra and Belova already wasn’t going well. Sam had been looking at Bucky like he wanted to punch him all day—understandable, Bucky had been lying to him, and he’d rather Sam be pissed at him than Her—and Her leg had been bouncing so much Bucky was worried she was going to short circuit. 

He’d tried to redirect the energy into something useful. Anything but watching Her run herself into the ground, her eyes locked on Her phone and something wired set in the air, as if she was waiting for the world to snap.

“C’mon.” Bucky had offered Her a hand, and She’d frowned at him. “Let’s go.”

“Go… where?”

“Downstairs.” He’d grunted, then added, “Garage.”

She’d sighed. “Bucky-“

“I’m not makin’ you go home.” He’d flexed his hand, giving Her a pointed look. “You’re gonna drive yourself insane if you don’t move, sweetheart.”

“Are you taking me for a walk like a dog-“

“Yep.” He’d given Her a small, lazy smile, and She’d rolled her eyes, lips pulling between Her teeth.

There had been a chance She’d turn him down. And Bucky would’ve had to just keep watching Her collapse in on Herself, pretending it wasn’t goddamn killing him. Maybe he’d shatter a mug later, because he had so much anger, and none of it goddamn mattered. 

He’d been right. He’d never wanted to be wrong about something that bad, but he’d been right. Miles was doing exactly what he goddamn thought, and—worse—Bucky couldn’t do fucking shit about it. Lately he felt fucking sick with boiling fury all the time, and the Soldat was scratching at his skull more than usual, but it wasn’t useful.

She was tied to Dick for Brains, her life depended on the asshole, and if he made a move he’d likely just end up losing Her in the process. This couldn’t be the guns blazing attack he wanted it to be. If Bucky wanted Her free, he’d have to be goddamn careful.

But that didn’t stop the anger. Or the feeling like he was failing Her. The mission was to protect her, but she’d been bruised and beaten and small in his arms. 

And he’d fallen asleep. In a goddamn bed. She’d been the one that needed him, but then She’d hummed please, stay, and Bucky hadn’t really felt like he could fucking move. He had to stay. If She was asking that damn pretty, there was no other choice but to stay. And She’d been warm and beautiful in the dark, and the Soldat had faded into the background again as Her breathing grew steady, and he’d passed out. 

She needed him.

He didn’t know what the hell to do about any of this.

But in the office, She’d taken his hand. The metal one. And he’d gotten to lead Her down to the mostly abandoned garage—it was almost eleven at night—and found a shrouded corner, and worked on Her throwing a punch.

She’d sighed, and given him a sad smile. “Bucky, it won’t matter-“

“I know.” He’d grunted, trying not to glower, because he wasn’t mad at Her. “But if you gotta swing, I’m not lettin’ you miss.”

She’d scanned carefully over Bucky’s face, a tiny frown pulling at Her lips, and given in far too easy. No arguments. No quick words. 

He didn’t bother to ask why. It didn’t really fucking matter. Right now, only four things were important enough for him to dwell on for more than a moment. 

One, they had to be careful. She’d made it pretty damn clear to him, the morning after he grabbed Her off the street. Miles knew they were friends, he didn’t like it, and She didn’t want Bucky to leave but they had to be careful.

“He can’t…” She’d taken a deep, shaking breath, and Bucky had felt his jaw tick. He’d wanted to touch Her. Soothe Her or hold her until she didn’t look colorless and fearful again. It was like watching a sick bunny, and having no fucking power to save it. “Miles can’t know. He’ll hurt you-“

“He can try.” Bucky had muttered, and She’d sniffed, shaking her head.

“He will, Bucky. He’ll- I’ll hurt you. He’ll make me, and I won’t be able to stop it.” Her words had gotten choked, her gaze dropping to the floor. “He’ll make me fuck with your brain, and I- I don’t want to hurt you, Bucky, but he- I-“

She’d made a strangled sound, and Bucky gave up on trying not to touch Her. He’d crossed the kitchen to Her in one step, wiped Her tears with careful hands and offered his sleeve for her to blow her nose, keeping his voice low and firm. 

“Alright. We’ll be careful. But-“ He’d swallowed, and it had been a big jump. There was nothing left to stop him taking it. “I need you to tell me everything, Butterfly, alright. Anythin’ you think is worth me knowing, tell me. Can you do that?”

She’d sniffed again, but nodded, and Bucky had let out a long breath. 

“Good girl.” He’d muttered, stroking Her hair as he frowned at the air, and trying not to lose his goddamn mind when Her brow dropped to his shoulder. 

“I- I’m sorry-“ She’d mumbled. “I should’ve told you- I’m sorry-“

“It’s okay,” He’d sighed Her name, and held her carefully against him. “I’m gonna keep you safe, sweetheart. Swear it.”

He meant it. Her arms had wrapped around his neck, and the last words he’d been ready to say had been that’s what friends are for.

But this was past friends. They both damn knew this was past friends. He knew he loved Her, he knew he’d almost certainly destroy himself for Her, and she at the very least looked at Bucky like She wanted him. She called him. Kept him as Her partner, and trusted him to get them through this.

Because he would get them through this. 

The second thing that mattered was the plan, because it would get them out the other side. 

It was a rough plan. Not the best one in the world, but far from the worst. Steve had used less detailed, and far more risky plans, and walked out the other side. Sam had run on plans that consisted of do the thing, and he and Bucky were both still alive. So this would work.

They’d deal with Hydra and the government first. There was nothing to do as long as She was in danger at all angles. Then they’d focus all their energy into Her bond, and freeing Her of Miles. Maybe Bucky would get to throw the asshole off a roof. If he was even luckier, he’d get to drive his vibranium arm right through Dick for brain’s skull. 

Then, footnote, Bucky would ask Her to marry him. Or just date him. Or sleep in his bed, if only because he’d backed himself into a corner where he’d rolled over to see Her sleeping next to him once, and now he did it every morning—even when he slept on the floor—and it was going to drive him out of his mind. 

But he’d offer Her anything he had, even if it was next to nothing. Even if was just his heart for Her to hold—a place She could always go when She needed him—Bucky would give it to her. He’d keep decorating his apartment until it was somewhere She wanted to be. He’d finish that degree, and get a real damn job. Maybe one at the deli, because they all seemed to really damn like him now. He’d forget all about heroing—he wasn’t that good at it anyway—and find his way back to the person he’d been before the war. 

Not the exact person. But someone closer. Someone comfortable in themselves, who mostly just wanted to be happy rather than just get to the next day.

She’d already offered him that, just by existing. His apartment had color in it, now. And Bucky had also—somehow—talked Her into moving the Boy there, to keep him safe when Miles was in town. 

And the cat was weird. Bucky grew more and more certain, every night the Boy spent at his place—and She’d also been there the past week, after Miles left town again, but if he thought about that too much, he might think about Her shorts riding up her thighs on his couch and need to take a few deep breaths—that the creature wasn’t normal. 

He watched Bucky move. Studied him. And when She gave him an order, he’d listen.

It made Bucky more and more certain of the third thing. The thing that was going to help the second thing, and hurt his little fantasy. 

She was the Leviathan. 

They had to, somehow, deal with that. And Bucky hadn’t told Her, because he loved Her and knew her, and she’d freak out.

But he would tell Her.

Eventually, he’d tell Her. 

Right now, he just needed more proof than an odd cat and the fact that the Soldat kept muttering защитите пожирателя мира. защищай ее ценой своей жизни, over and over in his head. 

Protect the World Eater. Protect her with your life.

Zemo had called the Leviathan a world-eater. 

But Zemo had also said Bucky met the Leviathan, and he was pretty damn sure it was impossible to forget Her. 

His memory wasn’t the most reliable, though. 

And he already knew to protect Her. That was the fourth thing. All previous three might as well be nothing, because they all were just versions of the fourth one. 

Keep Her safe. 

Bucky had to keep Her safe. Keep the most beautiful woman in the world safe, the woman he loved, this perfect artwork of a person who somehow trusted him to take care of Her. 

He would. He’d get Her out of all these messes, then maybe grab Her gorgeous face between his hands and plead for a chance with Her. He’d take care of Her. Catch Her when she fell. Be there whenever She needed. All She’d have to do was keep making thing better, keep giving him purpose, keep letting him feel human again. 

And he’d do damn near anything for Her. He’d even be Sam’s plus one to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s stupid party, so they could see exactly what the CIA had on Her.

But what he wouldn’t do is let Her try and go to the party with them, because he wasn’t insane.

“You’re not goin’ to the party, Butterfly,” he muttered into Her ear, his hand still planted firmly over Her mouth. “It’s not safe. That’s it.”

She tipped Her head back to glower at him, and if Bucky moved his hand, this would be a perfect way to kiss Her. His arm around Her stomach, her body carefully shielded under his. She could melt right into him, and he could hold Her up, and she’d probably taste like honey, maybe make a pretty little sound against his lips-

Sam cleared his throat, and Bucky’s gaze shot up to find the asshole giving him an amused look. 

Shit. 

“He’s right,” Sam’s gaze fell to Her, but Bucky damn well knew this wouldn’t be the end of the conversation. “You’re a civilian, kid. You can’t shoot or fight-“

“I can punch,” She said, and Bucky froze. She’d pulled his hand off Her mouth.

She was still, so casually, holding it in Her own. 

Sam shot Bucky a glare—somehow aware that he was the one who taught Her to punch—and he gave a lame shrug. She was still touching him, so right now most of his control was being used to not hold Her tighter, or focus on how Her ass was pressed right against his dick.

“I’d be fine, Sam-“

“You’re the target.” He snapped. “I don’t care that you can punch, if someone was after Bucky I wouldn’t let him on the mission either.”

It wasn’t useful to snort, so Bucky choked on it. That wasn’t true, and all three of them damn well knew it. 

“What about the airport, Sam?” She snapped, crossing Her arms over her chest and raising Her chin. Bucky needed to move. He was holding Her, and he could see her tits, and he was going to do something stupid like shout that he loved Her. “Bucky fought at the airport, even when he was the target. And you didn’t stop him then.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I didn’t like him then.” Bucky got another glare, and for once, he didn’t think he deserved it. “Jury is goin’ back out about liking him right now.”

“But-“

“No.” Sam snapped over Her, giving Bucky a firm look, and he rolled his eyes. He hadn’t been about to waver on this one. He might be willing to swims across the ocean if She asked him to, but he wasn’t going to let Her swim with him. There were sharks and shit in there.

He needed to get better at metaphors. 

“He’s right.” Bucky grunted Her name, forcing himself not to flinch at the force of Her glare. “Won’t be safe for you.”

“James.” She said slowly, and Sam looked far too amused at how the blood drained from his face. “I am going to fire you.”

He gave Her a flat look. “Sure.”

“I’m allowed to go, I got an invitation-“

“Which is obviously a trap.”

“I don’t care-“

“I do.” Bucky snapped, and Her lips drew into a tight, pretty pout that he really wanted to kiss away, but wasn’t allowed to. “I give a shit if you walk into a trap, Butterfly, so you’re not fuckin’ doing it.”

Her nose wrinkled slightly, and Bucky could almost see the machine of Her brain moving. She was being quiet, too. That meant She was really thinking, which meant they were really in trouble-

“You’re both going.” She hummed, looking between Sam and Bucky with a pointed expression. “Which means you’re leaving me alone. Isn’t that more unsafe? Don’t you want to be where you can keep an eye on me?”

Fuck. 

Bucky focused on staring at Her nose, because it was the safest place to look. If he looked at Her eyes the Moon would be turning in them, and he’d fall into some sort of trance. If he looked at Her lips he’d want to touch them. And he loved Her, and goddamnit She was right—Bucky would always rather be where he could see Her—but he refused to risk Her safety for his weakness.

“Smart mouth, Butterfly.” He muttered, and Her nose scrunched further. It was adorable, and not at all helpful. “You’re still not goin’.”

If Bucky was just a slightly weaker man, the look on Her face could’ve killed him.

It didn’t.

But goddamnit, if he could feel how pissed She was, all the way in the cavity of his chest. And he pushed through it—She could be pissed at him all she damn wanted, Bucky was never going to let Her do something that would put Her in danger—but it still made him feel like a fucking dog when they left Sam’s office, he opened the car door for Her, and she stomped inside without a word. 

She didn’t talk to him for the whole drive, either. And he didn’t have a goddamn clue how this was ever something he’d preferred. When they got back to Her place mid-song, he let it run all the way to the end, but She didn’t beam at him. She just remained sunken into Her seat with a pretty glower, and when Bucky cleared his throat and muttered Her name, She ignored him.

“I know you’re pissed, but-“

“I want to help.” She snapped, still not looking at him, and he sighed.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I got that, but-“

“You’re just going to leave me here.” She muttered, glaring at Her hands. “Alone.”

Bucky frowned. “I’m not leavin’ you-“

“Yeah, you are-“

“No, I’m not.” There was a pretty solid chance She’d punch him, but Bucky took the risk anyway. Grabbed Her chin and angled Her face to his, saying Her name slowly. Firmly. “You can stay at my place, while we’re out. And we’ll check in. I’m just not letting your run into traffic, Butterfly. Okay?”

She was still pouting, but at least She finally looked at him.

With a sweet, pretty expression Bucky wanted to kiss off Her face. Maybe if he did it well enough, She’d stop moving not out of fear or anger, but relaxation. He’d take such good care of Her she wouldn’t want to move, and then her head would be clear when they brought Her back the files and She could use that big brain to sort through them. 

Because that was the mission. 

Files. 

They were just fucking getting files. 

It was only life and death for Her. For Sam and Bucky, it would just be poking around, getting into a computer, and looking for fucking files. The only thing She was missing out on was expensive champagne She could buy herself, and fancy food she’d probably hate. 

Bucky had tried to tell Her as much, and only gotten a scowl and an eye room in return. 

“It tastes better when it’s free.” She’d grumbled as he got ready to leave, and he was trying not to think about it.

How She was cross legged on his bed, glaring at him as he did his tie. It felt too natural. Too domestic, for something that wasn’t even his to have tamed. He was allowed to smirk at Her in the mirror, but he couldn’t turn around, stand over Her, and kiss her brow. 

It was torture. 

“I think you’ll live, Butterfly.” He drawled, holding Her gaze in their reflections. “I got food in the fridge, and you can use the TV and snoop around all you want.”

She scowled. “I wasn’t going to snoop.”

Bucky hummed, looking back to his tie, and Jesus, she was cute when She was mad at him. Not as cute as when She curled up near him on the couch and mumbled random facts about movie, but still. Damn cute. 

“Can I order food?”

“No.” 

“James-“

“If you order, someone will know you’re here.” 

“But-“

Bucky grunted Her name, giving her a firm look and fucking up his tie for the third time. “I’m serious. Stay put.”

She stuck Her tongue out at him, flopping down onto Her back. “You’re not my dad.”

“No, but I’m asking you nicely to not get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

“Oh, you’re asking nicely.” She grumbled. “That makes it so much better.”

Bucky hummed. “Good.”

She made a disgruntled noise, and Bucky felt his lips twitch. “What’re you gonna do if I set myself on fire?”

“Put you out.”

“Smooth words, Buck. Such a gentleman.”

“Only for you, Butterfly.”

She flipped him off, and Bucky chuckled, looking back to the mirrors. He couldn’t get the fucking tie. It wasn’t like he’d never done one before, but She was right behind him, and suddenly this felt like something he had to get perfectly. If he fucked up the tie in front of Her, it felt like the end of the goddamn world. She’d seen countless men probably do their ties one handed. She looked like a tapestry all the time, even when She was wearing sweats and big, fuzzy socks. Bucky shirt was wrinkled because he didn’t have a clothing iron, and he couldn’t even do a damn tie-

“Do you need help?”

Bucky froze. She’d propped herself up on Her elbows, looking at him with the softest, most nervous expression he’d ever seen on Her face. 

“I got it,” he muttered, and She frowned.

“Okay, but I- I know how. If you need. I’m good at it.”

Jesus, he bet She was. Bucky had seen how fast She typed, how She spun her pens in Her fingers, how She fidgeted with sheets and clothing restlessly, like her fingers couldn’t stand to not be doing something. And he’d had a few, weaker moment where he’d imagined those same fingers wrapping around his cock, maybe watching her use them to fuck herself, or just gripping the bed as he made her eyes roll back in Her head-

Control.

“Fine.” He grunted, mostly because Her position on the bed wasn’t doing anything to help him fight a boner. “C’mere.”

She beamed at him, all teeth and ease and just seconds ago She’d been glowering at him for not letting Her kill herself. He didn’t have a damn clue how She’d flipped this easy, but he’d have to be an idiot to complain about it. Bucky gave Her a small, tight grin as She stopped in front of him, and tried to focus on behaving. She was close enough he could hear Her heartbeat—it might be quicker than normal, but that might also just be his own fucking heart—and smell the floweriness of Her shampoo and perfume, and goddamn it, he might be drooling from just how beautiful She was. 

No bared teeth, no narrowed eyes. Just a gentle attention on Bucky’s tie as She bounced slightly on her feet, folding it into a proper knot. 

He didn’t know what the hell to do with his hands. He’d decided his gaze was best focused on Her nose again—less chance of getting lost in Her everything, and getting a very obvious strain in his pants—and he was trying to keep his body still for Her to work, but that just left his hands grasping dumbly at his sides. Behind his back would be strange. Crossed over his chest would be hostile. They—metal and flesh—both kept fucking itching to rest on Her hips, but that crossed the friend line so far it might ruin something.

She wasn’t ready yet. Bucky wanted to walk Her back against the dresser and kiss Her until she was grasp at his shirt, and his hands could touch Her anywhere, but that wouldn’t be fair to Her. They were both already risking it with Her staying around him. More would make it worse. 

He just had to wait. At least he could keep Her close while he did. Look at Her, and dream. It was far better than not having Her at all. 

But She might feel the same.

She had to, because She was blinking slowly up at him when she finished, her fingers lingering on his chest and Her breathing heavy through Her nose. She looked like an angel, She always looked like an angel, like something that had fallen from somewhere above Heaven and was still holding onto Bucky’s shirt like he was the wonder of nature.

“Done.” She whispered, and even Her voice sounded like bird song. Almost out of breath, delicate but strong all at once, floating through the air around them and asking Bucky to wander further into the woods. Follow Her wherever she went. Offer a place for Her to land, then keep Her there as long as she wanted.

His tongue flicked out over his lips, and Her throat bobbed. Her skin looked soft. His hands—the traitors—had grabbed Her hips without him realizing it, but She was also pressing Her chest right to his, so-

“Hey!” Sam called, apparently just barging inside, and they flew apart right before he got into the bedroom. “Lookin’ sharp, Buck, you ready to rumble?”

“No.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Sam said Her name, his voice tightening slightly. “Call us if you need anything. If there’s one fuckin’ creak outside, if the Boy starts yellin’ at nothing-“

“Call you.” She finished, tone bored. “Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky braced his hands on his hips, giving Her a firm look. “You gotta stay put, Butterfly.”

“I know, James.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile, and it didn’t make him feel better.

He grunted Her name, and she just shrugged. 

“You can either trust me and leave, or take me with you.”

Bucky scowled. “I’ll put a fuckin’ tracker on you, sweetheart-“

“Aw.” Her grin grew. “You’re worried about me.”

He grunted—She knew he was, She was just trying to poke him just right enough for him to fold—and gave Her one last glare. “Stay.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fucking Christ. 

Bucky had to force himself out the door. And it didn’t help that Sam had a wide, shit-eating grin the entire way to the car. Or that Bucky couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, half expecting Her to be trying to sneak after them. But it was just empty street. And Bucky had gotten Her here on his bike, which she wouldn’t touch Herself, so she didn’t have a way to follow them. 

She’d be fine. The Boy was there with Her, and something told Bucky the cat would defend Her maybe more than any security system. 

The Boy hadn’t defended Her against Miles. But She was also tied to Miles, and—the way She’d painted it—would literally die without him. But invaders didn’t have that problem. The Boy could attack them. 

Bucky was going insane. Leaving Her in the defense of the cat, and leaving Her at all. She was going to do something stupid. She wouldn’t put Herself in danger. 

But She also wouldn’t just sit still. And if Bucky got back to the apartment and She wasn’t there, the Soldat in the back of his skull might wash over his brain. Or it would just be Bucky, ripping the city apart until he found Her-

She was fine.

Not gone yet. Safe in his apartment. And She’d be fine. 

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. The streets were crowded, as they drove through the city, and Sam kept goddamn grinning at him. 

He liked that Sam hadn’t pushed him about it. For the drive, and as they got into the party Sam kept his thoughts to his damn self for once in his life. In fact, they barely spoke at all until they reached the location and Bucky froze, frowning at the address, then the building in front of them. 

“There’s no way-“

“Yep.” Sam muttered, glaring up the old Avenger’s tower. “Always been weird to see it, after Stark sold it. Haven’t been in it since that Ultron shit.”

Bucky frowned. “Ultron was-“

“Murder robot.”

“Right.” Jesus, too many damn things were always happening. “Course.”

And Sam still kept his mouth. Long enough to lure Bucky into thinking he’d gotten away with how he’d been looking at Her. He’d seen his own pathetic, puppy dog expression in the mirror before Sam had arrived. But maybe Sam had missed it. Or wasn’t going to say shit.

He didn’t like how quickly that illusion dissolved, once they were through the door and into the party.

“So,” Sam drawled, grinning at Bucky as they shuffled around the party, trying to appear as casual as possible while looking for possible ways out of the crowd. “You got anything you wanna tell me about, James?”

Bucky scowled, giving some senator a tight nod as they passed. “No.”

“C’mon, we’re best friends-“

“I’m only your best friend when you wanna know something.”

“Hey. Hurtful.” Sam frowned. “I’m serious, Buck, I’m not gonna be weird about it if, y’know-“

He raised his brows, and Bucky let out a long, slow breath, giving him a flat look. 

“Yeah, you are.”

“Nah-“

“And there’s nothing, Sam. She’s with Dick for Brains.”

He needed this conversation to be over. He couldn’t think about Miles, or white-hot rage would start to cloud his vision, and this whole mission thing would be hard to get through. It was hard enough for them to navigate the crowd—trying to walk the line between being seen by enough people to have an alibi, while avoiding Valentina herself so she wouldn’t put extra eyes on them—and not lose his mind about Her, unguarded save for one, strange cat. 

But Sam didn’t fucking drop it. 

“You met Charlie?”

Bucky grunted, and Sam hummed.

“She doesn’t let just anyone meet her siblings, y’know. I heard it took Tony years, and Happy’s told me he didn’t even know she had siblings until he was helpin’ her with insurance.”

That didn’t make Bucky feel better. It just meant he was important to Her, and he still couldn’t hold Her.

“I think you’d be good together-“

“You’ve told me that already.” Bucky muttered, and his phone buzzed in his pocket. “And I’ve told you, she’s got a boyfriend.”

“That everyone hates,” Sam said pointedly. “Shit, she hates him, and- Why the hell are you grinning at your phone?”

“Cause we got progress.” Bucky scanned over his screen, re-reading the message from Shuri.

Here are all the files we have on Hydra, and Zemo. Better safe than stupid. Message me with any puzzles, White Wolf, or I will fly to America and take your arm.

Bucky typed back a quick thanks, and Sam coughed loudly. 

“Progress?”

“More files.” Bucky grunted, forwarding them to Her email. They’d, hopefully, distract Her. Give Her something to do while they were gone.

“Yay. Files.” Sam’s tone was dry, and Bucky shot him a flat look. “C’mon, Buck, I’m tryin’ to give you my blessing-“

“I don’t want it.” Bucky grumbled, and Sam snorted.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were an old-fashioned, gentlemanly asshole-“

“No, I’d just have a better shot without your blessing, idiot-“

“Hah, so you do want a shot-“

“Sam-“ Bucky looked up with a glower, and his words died in his throat.

He should’ve known better than to think She’d stay put. That She’d just wait for them to get back. That She wasn’t a genius, but also couldn’t stand not to know something, and didn’t know how the hell to take care of Herself. Bucky needed to stop saving Her all the damn time, it was making Her too confident and reckless, and it was going to give him a fucking heart attack. 

Because She was at the party. Of course She was. She looked beautiful and elegant, like a statue brought to life, all captivating smiles and movements, and Bucky was going to break his own jaw. He shouldered right past Sam, his gaze narrowed on Her’s—the Moon shining in Her eyes as she held it with amusement—and the whole damn world narrowed down to just the two of them.

Bucky wanted to pick Her up, throw Her over his shoulder, and carry Her home. Maybe walk Her backwards against a wall—making sure nobody knew she was here—then kiss Her until her lipstick was ruined and Her mascara was running down Her face. He didn’t want to shout at Her—She always got so damn small when he did—but he did want to grab Her chin, tip Her head back, and make her explain the exact thought process of her too-quick brain, that had gotten her to believe this could possibly be a good idea. 

Sam shouted after him, but Bucky could hear the exact moment he realized what was happening. There was a motherfucker, then footsteps, but Bucky didn’t look back. She was giving him a smug little smile that was making his blood feel like it was on fire. He wanted to kiss it off Her face. She was beautiful, and infuriating, and Bucky loved Her but she was maybe the most impossible person he’d ever met-

“Hi, James.“ She hummed as Bucky stopped right in front of Her, the Moon shimmering in Her eyes. 

Bucky couldn’t be enchanted by it. Or Her the perfect curve of Her lips, or the way she took a step closer to him. Her dress suited Her perfectly, pushing up Her breasts and highlighting every firm and soft part of her that Bucky wanted to squeeze or sooth with his hands, and-

Control.

“What the hell are you doing.” He hissed, and She shrugged, eyes flicking over his shoulder. 

“Hi, Sam.”

“Are you fuckin’ insane,” Sam hissed Her name, and she didn’t look even slightly phased. 

“Yes. But you knew that Sam, so really, this is on you-“

“Butterfly.” Bucky grunted, he would not be affected by pretty doe eyes and prettier smile. “You need to go home-“

“I was invited.” She raised Her chin, holding Bucky’s gaze, and he was going to explode. “You want me to go, you’ll have to carry me.”

His jaw twitched. “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”

He didn’t miss the flush, or slightly sharper breath as She leaned closer to his body. “Fine.”

“Fine?” He raised his brows, and She nodded. 

“Fine.”

That was permission. Bucky could pick Her up, and carry her to safety. Maybe She’d squirm, and he needed to be put down like a dog but maybe She’d tug his hair and whine his name-

“Nope.” Sam grabbed Bucky’s arm, still glaring down at Her. “You two are going to draw more attention, and that’s the exact opposite of what we need.”

“Sam,” he hissed. “She’s gonna get herself damn killed-“

“So one of us will stay with her.” Sam grunted, giving him a firm look. “She’s here now Bucky. We can deal with how fuckin’ stupid she’s bein’ after-“

She frowned. “Hey-“

“-After we get the files.” Sam gave Her one last glare, and she smiled between them. 

“That sounds good to me.”

“Course it does.” Sam grumbled, looking back to Bucky. “You gonna go all protective asshole again?”

Bucky let out a deep, long breath. “No.”

“Good. Stay with her while I find a way out. No killing each other, or-“ He looked between them, and let out the most dramatic sigh in the world. “Doin’ other things.”

Sam walked away, and Bucky wished he’d taken one of those champagne glasses just to lob it as the back of his head. The man would be fine, and Bucky could snap that there weren’t other things to be done. She needed to go home, they could come back for the files if they had to, and it didn’t matter if She hated him—even if the thought made him feel sort of sick—because she needed to go the hell home-

“Sargent Barnes.” She hummed, suddenly standing at Bucky’s elbow, and he didn’t fucking understand how She was the only person in the world who could sneak up on him.

It was probably how She was all gnashing teeth and spitting, but still never sunk Her teeth into Bucky’s skin. Her shaking and cowering made him feel worse anyway, and some part of his brain seemed to have classified Her as less than a threat. Safe. Wouldn’t hurt him, probably wouldn’t hurt anyone, should be more worried about protecting.

And now She was smiling up at him, swaying in Her heels, and Bucky scowled. 

“What.”

Something almost wounded flashed over Her face, and her hand was timid as she reached out. Elbow still pressed to Her body. Fingers shaking slightly like She was sure Bucky was going to refuse Her. 

“You wanna dance with me?” She mumbled, frowning his tie—the tie She’d done, and goddamnit, She was pouting again—and Bucky sighed. 

“Alright, Butterfly.” He took Her hand, and couldn’t be imagining the way Her shoulders relaxed in a second. “You know how to dance?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, and Bucky regretted asking in a second, a sour feeling growing in his gut. 

“I taught myself.” She muttered, letting Bucky guide Her forward onto the floor. “When I was sixteen. Then I got a lot of practice.”

Bucky grunted, and he really didn’t want to think about it. Some old fuck—but still, younger than himself—hold Her the way he was, pressed right to his chest with their hands tangled together. 

His metal hand. She was holding the metal hand again. Like She never wanted to let it go. And that helped him not think about it, because it didn’t matter. None of that had been real. 

This was, in some fucked up sort of way, real. She wanted to dance with Bucky. She was looking up at him under fluttering lashes, smiling sweet and gentle, letting him lead because she trusted him. And he was still pissed at Her for pulling this sneaking after them shit, but he also couldn’t have expected more, or less, or different. 

She wasn’t something he really wanted to control. Not really. Maybe if She wanted him to, in the dark, Bucky could really damn easily picture himself guiding Her and letting her stop worrying about everything for everyone, all the damn time. But otherwise, She was unruly and feral and louder than She needed to be, and he loved it. How consuming it was. How he could run after Her for a million years and never break pace. He’d rip through cities and forests to stay at Her side. He’d never let Her stray into danger, and that was worth breaking things for. 

And She looked so damn nervous, it was going to drive him out of his mind. 

“You take my bike?”

She blinked up at him, frowning all damn pretty. “What?”

“My bike.” He muttered. “You use it to get here?”

“Oh. No.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think I’m ever going to ride that without you.”

Christ, that shouldn’t make him stand a little taller. “Yeah? Wouldn’t want me to teach you?”

“I- I think I’m okay.” She gave him a soft, curious look. “Would you? Teach me?”

Bucky nodded, and it didn’t even take a thought. “Anything.”

She started at him for a second. “Subway.” She mumbled. “I took the subway.”

“Ah.” Bucky frowned. “Jesus, Butterfly-“

“I took protection.” She muttered. “Pepper spray-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” He sighed, fighting the need to drop his brow to Her’s. “You didn’t goddamn need to be here, to take the subway to get here-“

“I want to help.” She pressed closer to Bucky, looking up at him so intently he could feel it in his bones. Swaying in his arms. Arguing, but not pulling away or giving up. “I need to help you, Buck, I- I can’t just wait-“

“Yes, you can-“

She shook Her head, eyes glossing, and Bucky could feel his heart. “I just want to be here, you’re doing this for me, I have to help.”

Bucky scanned over Her features, and he could see it. Her fear.

That if She didn’t prove a shining tool, She’d be scraped with the trash. He knew the feeling. It still scratched at the back of his head. 

So he muttered Her name, and let his hand tuck a little hair behind Her ears, giving her a small, sad smile. “I’m not just doin’ it for you, butterfly. I’m helping you. Which means you gotta let me help you.”

She still shook Her head. “I- I don’t need it, Buck-“

“Yeah, you do.”

She opened Her mouth to protest again, so Bucky spun Her around, catching her easily in his arms once more. 

She fit there perfectly. And Her eyes were still slightly hazed, but at least She was looking at him. 

“I’m here to do this for you, Butterfly.” He muttered, leaning slightly down. “Like it or not, you’re not running from me when you’re just gonna fall.”

She swallowed, and Bucky pushed on before She could protest. 

“You make me take days. Made me eat and watch TV. I’m not allowed to do the same for you?”

Far past friend territory.

He couldn’t fucking care, when Her eyes flicked to his lips for a second, and She looked so pretty melting against his chest. 

“It’s not the same.” She mumbled, and Bucky raised his brows. 

“It’s not?”

“I- I’m me.” 

“And?”

“It’s- It’s not the same, Bucky, it’s not, I’m worse.”

One day, Bucky was going to find whoever told Her that, and make them regret learning to speak. “You’re not.”

“I-“

“I told you.” He pressed His brow to Her’s, and she blinked at him so slowly. “You’re good. You make things better.”

“Buck-“

“You do. You make me better.” Bucky raised his brows, and She swallowed. “You gonna tell me I’m not allowed to be better, Butterfly?”

She shook Her head, lips pulling between Her teeth, and he was already a damned man. 

One kiss. Just one. Just stolen in a single, split second, and he could live the rest of his life never touching Her again. 

And She already had to know what he really meant. They were already risking it, by being out in public like this. And Bucky had never been a big risk taker—he’d mostly just followed Stevie, to try and keep him from dying—but he wanted to, here. If one of them had to make the jump, it should be him. He had less on the line, he was more durable, and if She didn’t meet him halfway, She could have Sam-

Sam. 

Fucking Sam cleared his throat, looking between them, and Bucky was going to throw him off the roof. She pulled away, flushed slightly, and Sam had a goddamn shit eating grin that was going to end in missing teeth and Bucky in handcuffs he’d just break to punch Sam again-

“Got it, lovebirds.” Sam held up a little thumb drive, and She frowned. 

“You- You got it?”

“Yep.” He shrugged, tucking the drive back into his pants. “Easier when I’m not tryin’ to sneak around with two idiots. Just looked up some keywords, downloaded files, boom. Sam out.”

“I hate it when you refer to yourself in third person.” She muttered, sinking a little further into Bucky’s side. 

He was trying not to think about it.

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t like fun-“

“I like fun!”

Sam gave Her a flat look. “Name one fun thing you like.”

She scowled. “I- I like music.”

“Uh huh.”

“I do-“

“Hey,” Bucky hissed, squeezing Her side and glaring at Sam. “Not here? Sam, if you’ve really got the files-“

“I got ‘em.” Sam glanced around the party—thankfully too crowded for them to be noticed—and gave a tight nod. “Let’s go.”

She cleared Her throat, curling into Bucky’s side as they both frowned at Her. “I- I need to pee.”

Sam blinked at Her. “You’re tellin’ me you crashed the party just to make us leave late-“

“I need to pee!” She grabbed Bucky’s arm, looking up at him with pleading eyes, and he folded. 

She needed to pee. He needed to take care of Her. 

“C’mon, Butterfly.” He offered his arm, and ignored Sam’s scoff as they move through the crowd. “Sam-“

“It’ll be up ahead.” Sam grumbled, shuffling after them. “To the left.”

Her steps stuttered slightly, and Bucky sighed. 

“Turn away from me,” he muttered in Her ear, She gave him a soft smile, and then disappeared into the hall. 

She’d be fine. It was just a bathroom, and Bucky could see everyone coming and going. Unless someone was waiting in a stall to grab Her, she’d be fine.

“Holy shit.” Sam stopped at Bucky’s side, giving him a wide grin that couldn’t mean anything good. “You’re in love.”

Shit. “Shut the fuck up, Wilson.”

“Nah, I’ve been around Her enough to know what someone in love with her looks like. And I’ve threatened the guys before, Buck, so don’t think you’re gettin’ off the hook-“

“Sam-“

“If it’s countin’ for anything.” Sam drawled Her name. “She never looks at them back. But she looks at you.”

She looks at him. 

She looked at Bucky, enough for Sam to make note of it. 

“I-“

Bucky’s words died in his throat, because there was a flash of blonde hair. Blue eyes, widening on his for just a split second, but long enough.

Fuck.

“Buck-“

“Get her.” Bucky hissed Her name, the Soldat roaring in the back of his head. “Get her now, Sam, get her home-“

“Bucky-“

He didn’t listen. He didn’t have time to listen. Belova was here, and she’d been heading to the bathroom. She’d seen Bucky and run, which meant she knew Bucky would go after her. 

Belova had been right.

Bucky gave chase. He let the years of instincts, beaten into his muscles and bones, take over. And Belova was slicker, but Bucky was faster, and he knew how to search a crowd. His memory might be unstable, but it wasn’t shit. He was looking for a suit and short hair, with a sparkly tie. And he could see it shimmering in the candlelight, see Belova sliding between people, and he was so damn close-

His grabbed Belova by the crook of her arm, and the woman spun around and punched him, square in the face. It wasn’t damn near enough to hurt him, or even make him stumble back, but it fazed him for a split second, and it was one too long.

Belova leaned in, words spitting between her teeth. “Не позволяйте им тронуть Левиафана.”

Bucky froze, and Belova yanked herself free of his grip. It was like she’d frozen him. Turned him docile, the Soldat begging to be allowed out of the most shadowed corners of his head. Strange pain split his skull, Belova seemed to materialize into thin air, and Bucky lost their best lead in a fucking party crowd, her words were still looping in his head.

Don’t let them touch the Leviathan.

And deeper in the corners of Bucky’s skull, the Soldat roared.

End Note: Sam clocked that man with 5 minutes of watching them dance. Bucky you are not slick. It's visible from space how down bad you are.

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[gpanada]

The whole niigo and their vocaloids are so hard to write and are so complex in so many levels that it feels like everytime i try to write them, it feels so ooc, it doesn't feel very them, which i understand that i truly wont get to write them perfectly but gosh they are so complex, especially with their interactions with eachother are so hard to capture (I have mad respect for the writers, especially the polyniigo writers)

Kanade might seem like a very simple and according to some, a boring character, she's just a depressed girl who has a savior complex who's trying to save Mafuyu, which is technically right but–

Kanade is not just that, she's more than that, that is being subtly shown in canon, Kanade is a girl who seems cold yet kind hearted, someone who is selfless for a 'selfish' reason, she is kind yet stands her ground when she believe something or someone is wrong, she is not easily persuade if she believe that she is doing the right thing, she's the leader, not only because she was the founder of the group but also because she is the reason why the others has yet to disappear, Kanade is someone who wants to hear her fathers songs again even if she doesn't show it or just pushes it away, Kanade is someone who just wants a family

Kanade has so much of an impact on the other niigo members yet she only sees the 'bad' effects she has caused to them and the others which i wanna talk abt

K's effects on Mafuyu's is pretty obvious since Mafuyu is the whole main focus of niigo, but i still wanna talk abt it

The way Kanade stood her ground against Mafumom and refused to listen to her demands and them having different beliefs on what is best for Mafuyu

Which made Mafumom act out a bit and controlled every single thing abt how Mafuyu act which makes Mafuyu realize how much N25 really means to her and caused her to have the courage to fight back and with the helped of Mizuki's words, had the courage to run away

Their friendship is so adorable to read as well

The way both of them help eachother one way or another and even if Mafuyu still doesn't understand that she cares for her(not only her but the others as well which I'll put more in detail later) she still does and do it

Ena's.. hmm i just cant stop thinking abt n25 wl2, Kanade was the one who founded and recognized Ena for her art, but as time passed on, she recognized Ena not only for her art but as a person, Ena has a soft spot for Kanade, Kanade was the one that found her and saved her when she was at her lowest, Kanade was the one that always found her whenever she was feeling down and in return treats her more kindly than the others, (KanaEna suppremacy/j) i just love them

And Mizuki... oh i have a lot to say, I love their interactions in Kana1, Mizuki was the one that helped Kanade and despite only talking in person for only a few months(?) I dont really remember, it was already obvious that they cared for her and eachother, also Mizuki was the first one to know other than Honami about her family, out of everyone in n25, Mizuki probably understands Kanade the most, she could predict and prevent on how Kanade would react and stuff, Afterall Mizuki is a smart character, i just wished we have more interactions between them, I've been living on KanaMizu crumbs ever since Kana1 released

Also Kanade saying "Mizuki is still Mizuki" was so cute i swear, Kanade understands that Mizuki was just showing who Mizuki is the whole time with just a secret abt their gender that they were afraid to tell and her appreaciating and saying thank you for being so brave and trusting them for sharing a big part of themsevles ahhh I cant

Im begging for more KanaMizu content

Whoever said Kanade only cares about Mafuyu should re-read the whole nightcord story istg

Next is probably the hardest person to write in pjsk for me is Mafuyu

Mafuyu is someone who is kind and gentle, one who wants to share the warmth she felt when her mother took care of her

For some she is the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the reliable honour student

To some she is a friend they wanna help, a friend who they wanna see happy and a friend who they admire

To niigo, she is a friend who is blunt, honest, one who is kind and is struggling to find their to self, a friend who they wanna help and want to be happy, someone who they will fight for just to ensure that she'll get better

She understands why her mother's way of love keeps hurting her as well because Mafuyu is a person that's whole nature is to please people ever since she was a child, and Mafumom's tendency to be in control, Mafu6 shows this well and shows as to why Mafumom and Mafuyu just won't work out in this current time and they'll just fall into old habits again

Mafuyu is blunt yet she cares, she shows this through her actions and not her words, (ironic for someone who writes the lyrics) well sometimes at least, she's honest and kind, she takes what her friends says to her by heart and does them even if she doesm't realize it, she cherishes the moments she has with niigo and feels lonely without it

She is a smart person, yet she is someone who knows what emotions you're feeling yet wont understand as to why your feeling that way

Mafuyu's frienship with Ena is always interesting to watch since those to are complete opposite yet similar

Ena is in simple terms, someone who feels too much and Mafuyu who feels too little, the're a perfect balance, Ena was the one that told Mafuyu to not let others push her around and to fight for what she truly wants, which encourage Mafuyu to well fight back and try to gain control over her own life

Also Ena finds Mafuyu as someone who can be honest with her and takes her critisism not as an insult but as a feedback to better improve her art, Ena cares for Mafuyu, making her stay at her house and even using that man's name in order for Mafuyu not to go home because she noticed how Mafuyu doesn't want to

They have helped eachother in so many ways even if they dont recognize it

Mizuki's friendship with Mafuyu is another one of those where those two understand eachother

Mizuki understands the pressure and having to pretend to be someone else and understands that it can becomes to much too handle, and Mizuki encourages Mafuyu to run away for anyonelse but to save herself from becoming broken completly

Mizuki told Mafuyu that its okay to run when things becomes too much, its better to run than to continue even when you know you cant handle it, Mafuyu learned to back down from something when she knows she cant handle it, she learned from Mizuki not too push herself to the point of collapsing and to just run away

Every single Niigo member helped her to grow and learn even when things become too much, they'll always be with eachother and rely to them

Ena's writing is so good, Ena is probably the character i relate the most

Her feeling like jealousy over the people who have talent and almost quiting art, the difference between me and her is that i let the feeling of no talent get over me and quit art to pursue music..

But this is not about me. I love the way she comes to accept that the path for the future is an unsteady and will come with many pain yet she still continues anyways

I love that even when she seemed to be always angry since she shows her pains through anger, she still cares and she shows it through her actions

They way she ran in the rain to look for Mafuyu, the way she always make sure Kanade's health is good, the way she makes sure Mizuki is comfortable

All those little things that makes Ena.. well Ena, Ena who's passionate over the things she loves, one where she would defend those she cares about in a split second, someone who keeps her promises, someone who is unpaitent yet will be if she needs to be

Ena who is kind and value her friends and family over anything else

I also love her sibling bond with Akito (the best representation of siblings in media) the way both of them seemed to hate eachother yet continues to have actions of care that makes the idea of them hating eachother so stupid

They execute it so well, it doesn't seem forced and just so natural, it reminds me of my siblings, im the youngest of my family

I just love the shinonome siblings that i could make a whole separete rant abt them

I also love her friendship with Mizuki

The way she doesn't get angry at her teasing and just plays along, the way she didn't spare a single second to make Mizuki come back

The way she just looks at them(niigo) with nothing but love i love Ena

And lastly Mizuki

Mizuki is smart, someone who notice even a smallest details and remembers it, she's someome who cares for her friends and value it more than anything else

She's someone who tends to hide her pain through humour and comedy, she's also emotionally smart, someone who notices and comforts her friends when they need it

She has trouble trusting someone yet when they do, they are loyal to them and cares for them

For Me, Mizuki is probably the easiest to write out of all the n25 members but that doesn't mean she's not easy to write, there's still many things i need to learn about her

There's probably still a lot of details i missed, afterall this is all just my understanding of the characters, also i haven't even talked about the cards and how they are connected, and also the songs and all the little details in the lyrics and instrumentals, there is so much more in Niigo that i have yet to understand

Which is why i love them, they are so hard to write

There is so much more i wanna say but this has been too long so maybe next time

Whoever is crazy enough to read all of it is probably.. well thats just wow im surprised well hello there

(also i have yet to read the Ena Bloomfest, BABY ENA WHOO but i will after i sleep)

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

#this is mindblowing#and interestingly the exact opposite of who graystripe is in canon#which version is healthier? who knows?

I would say this Graystripe is a better person but canon Graystripe is like, mentally healthier.

Okay this is me expanding on it because I've been thinking and it got long so a cut

I think a lot of it is Graystripe in this version of the story goes all in on Riverclan. Maybe Crookedstar chooses himself to be the one to train Graystripe, making a sort of parallel to Fireheart and Bluestar. Crookedstar sees this grief stricken tom who has lost so much and yet chose to loose more for what little he had left and sees himself in him, and thus chooses to help train him and console him, helps teach him more patience. Which as now Graystripe has a clan leader helping him out that's also Silverstream's father he feels EXTRA pressure to be the best Riverclan cat he can be.

He still helps Thunderclan a lot with the fire , that's like, an extra thing thats unusual and I think Graystripe is allowed to be like "do you guys like, need extra help with repairs" when it comes to a fire. He's still a bit torn between the two.

However once Crookedstar dies and Leopardstar clearly has it out for him for Whiteclaw's death. Graystripe triples down, he lies low, he doesn't warn Fireheart, and during the battle purposefully sticks to a different part of sunningrocks specifically so he doesn't see Fireheart and get tempted. Riverclan still loses the battle but Leopardstar has no reason to exile Graystripe and stews back in Riverclan, suspicious of him and still angry but as he's been a model warrior outside of general Graystripe clumsiness, she can't really do anything beyond give him the jobs no one wants to do without causing a fuss in Riverclan about it being unwarranted.

Then Tigerclan happens, despite Graystripe basically telling every cat this is a terrible idea please listen to him he was there when he was exiled from Thunderclan Tigerstar is BAD NEWS. Graystripe plans to take his kits across the border and RUN back to Thunderclan but before he can even put a whisker into action he's being cornered and forced into the traitor halfclan den where he fusses over his kits, terrified and regretting ever letting them go to Riverclan, he should have let Thunderclan fight for them, it wouldn't have been fair to Crookedstar but Crookedstar isn't here anymore and Leopardstar hates him and oh Starclan he's going to die here isn't he?

When they try to take his kits out to stand Trial he basically goes full papa bear and refuses. His kits are NOT halfclan unless he is determined to still be Thunderclan. HE will stand trial first, because if he is loyal and true, then his kits have no reason for split loyalties.

This means instead of it being Stonefur and two apprentices, its Stonefur and Graystripe. Tigerstar, seeing a chance for revenge, orders Stonefur to kill Graystripe to prove himself. Stonefur refuses.

So Leopardstar orders Graystripe to kill Stonefur to prove himself as Riverclan

And Graystripe has never been the best cat, he can be selfish, he can be cruel, he can be absentminded and self centered. He knows this, he wanted to be better.

He cannot be better when he knows his kits are on the line if he fails

Graystripe attacks Stonefur.

It's a vicious fight, but Stonefur is taken off guard as he didn't expect Graystripe to actually go through with it but Stonefur is still a fierce fighter. Graystripe manages to use his bulk to pin Stonefur though, he apologizes, but then he rips out Stonefur's throat.

He's in utter anguish over this, the guilt is immense, but...but his kits, his wonderful precious lovable kits would have been here instead, they will be here instead if he doesn't do it. So he will, for them, even if he can never face them again, he will prove himself so they don't have to, the most selfish yet selfless move Graystripe could make. One that haunts him for the rest of his life of wondering if that was really the best move he could have done, if maybe he should fought alongside Stonefur. This will torment him for the rest of the series.

Maybe he witnesses another execution where we get the Darkstripe beatdown and then the Blackfoot kill because its iconic and also solidifies that there is a very real chance if he ever slips, his kits will be the one in Blackfoot's jaws next. However, he has proven himself and his kits, they're allowed out.

I could even imagine Graystripe is badly wounded by the fight and no one is allowed to patch him up because they want to leave his fate up to Starclan even if he is allowed to be seen as a Riverclan warrior.

Tigerstar allows this because he sees how intensely traumatized Graystripe is and is like "it'll be a lot worse for him to keep him alive at this point plus i can torment him about it" plus his kits are a good resource even if they had to be used in a powerplay like this, might as well keep them now.

Graystripe however, is a selfish cat, even traumatized like this, he takes his kits the moments he can and crosses to Thunderclan to tell them what's going on in Riverclan. He is cagey about his own murder before Firestar pushes and he just kinda breaks down. Firestar tries to comfort him, even if a part of him can't look at Graystripe the same even if he still cares deeply for him. It's not enough though. He also gets medical attention while at Thunderclan

He stays in Thunderclan for the rest of the arc, but he feels out of place now, Thunderclan feels foreign, he can feel how the cats hate him as a traitor, and while they tolerate him because of the circumstances, he doesn't think they would ever let him back in. Food that isn't fish tastes weird, he misses floating on the river, he misses Riverclan cats he had befriended and grown close to.

So once Bloodclan is defeated, despite everything, he still returns to Riverclan.

He goes on trial by Leopardstar for his actions and leaving, Leopardstar is itching to finally exile him. However the clan is enough of Graystripe's side of him being forced and the fact it was Leopardstar's order and the fact the moment it was safe to return he did and they've lost too many warriors to turn him away that Leopardstar can't get away with exile without a full scale mutiny on her paws. Starclan also probably sends a sign of "hey, don't kick him out"

So she just demotes him to apprentice and gives him to Mistyfoot because Leopardstar just really fucking hates Graystripe and thinks Mistyfoot might solve it for her by being hostile enough to make him leave.

Mistyfoot and the now Graypaw have a terse relationship, Mistyfoot hates him, but she also knows he's also a victim here. She doesn't want to be around him, to train him, to be his mentor, but she just aggressively cold shoulders him. She is not hostile outside of some curt words occasionally, she just completely pretends he doesn't exist which gives Graystripe a moment of reflection on his poor job mentoring the now Brackenfur.

Everyone thinks this is kinda fucked up but really really funny as they look at Graypaw 32 moon old cat all like "ah nothing like a FRESH APPRENTICE come child we will teach you how to do a simple swat" which as annoyed as he is the goober cannot deny is really fucking funny to pretend like he's just a little guy apprentice are you gonna beat up a lone apprentice?

However this also means Mistyfoot never stops being his mentor for awhile, and being forced to work together on things. Causing slowly Mistyfoot's ice to thaw towards Graypaw because he sees how much hurt he's hiding behind his jokes and gags and how so repentant he is towards her and they have a lot of talks.

As much as I want to say Graypaw sticks around until Mistystar that feels a bit too long, it's probably mostly offscreen between books. for the sake of the reader he goes back to Graystripe but you just KNOW she was considering naming him Grayfur. Probably has a thing in between the first series and the second series, we can have a special edition about it or it can be apart of the shadow in Riverclan, maybe he was given a name with his kits.

When Sasha and her kits show up, Graystripe is 100% the number one defender of Hawk and Moth, his kits didn't deserve to be judged for him, so they don't deserve to be judged for being outsiders. He basically adopts them on the spot and even when the truth gets to him via Feathertail needing to talk to her dad about them being Tigerstar's kits when Sasha tells her he doubles down on the "doesn't deserve to be punished for their ancestry" and continues to dad them.

Though Graystripe thinks rather poorly of Sasha for leaving them, even if he doesn't voice it. Especially because he was kinda thinking Feathertail and her would make a cute couple and being grandpa graystripe to hawk and moth sounded great. Though part of him does blame Leopardstar for pushing Sasha, because Graystripe also fucking hates Leopardstar by this point and it's just kinda easy to blame her for things like this.

Then the New Prophecy starts and Graystripe is frantic about his kits going missing, believing they ran off because they couldn't take being in Riverclan anymore and he never should have brought them back. Still he has duties to Hawkpaw and Mothpaw as a surrogate father figure so he can't go far beyond the territory to search for them, especially as the twoleg nonsense starts to happen.

From then he fades more into the background beyond being worried for his kits and being awkward with Firestar over the arc. Then after the great journey he kinda goes off to contemplate his life choices, he promises he'll be back he's just...so much is lost to him now, he needs time alone. Which maybe has an impact on Hawkfrost? I dunno how Graystripe being a father figure to the river tiger kits would impact them, I haven't thought about it but he definitely supports Mothpaw wanting to be a medicine cat at least.

This causes immense shenanigans as he near immediately gets got by twolegs and he can still have his manga adventure with Millie albeit a few moons later. He can have a fun moment of teaching Millie how to swim, it's cute, we can fix Millie's characterization after the manga, I like Manga Millie, small kitty cat go boof at dog. He can still return in Sunset in time for the Hawkfrost drama it's fine time is meaningless in warriors.

Honestly the idea of graystripe staying in riverclan is so interesting to me like…imagine you changed your entire life for your children, moving to another group that distrusts you just so you can have them connect to their mother’s heritage. You gave up everything, your standing, your best friend, your siblings and parents, but you do it for your kids

And then they and likely you get tortured by the dictator who seized power after the death of the original leader, and then a few moons later they go missing, and only one of them comes home and then later moves to a different group to be closer to your daughters grave just like you moved for him after the death of his mother.

God, what do you even DO in that situation?? Do you move to the new group you certainly would be pretty ill adjusted for, do you go back to your original group to be back with the one person you have left? Stay where you are? Your wife’s grave is no longer here, your children are gone and you might never see the living one again. Who do you even live for anymore? Did you ever truly know how to live for yourself?

[chirpthingz]

ordem newsletter (july 2025) translation !!

this just got posted as of 4:55 PM (CST) in the discord/twitter accounts from cellbit himself. this post only contains the new images from content we haven't seen before! please note the actual newsletter has a slightly different format. the link is here!

tldr: end of last year was insane for ordem, edm development (dlc) plus console ports are going well, opd hq is almost done; some things had to be changed, hq vs. rpg "what is canon" nuance; initiation hq replaces canon but everything else is rpg first, more accessible versions of the hqs maybe soon, system similarities with tormenta addressed, new ordem seasons will use soh primarily. spinoff teaser at the end?

---

Very good... night? Day maybe? Afternoon?

For some time I have thought of making posts detailing a little better the development of Ordem's projects to keep you guys more updated.

Part of me liked the "mystery" of being able to arrive with a sudden surprise, but Ordem is already 5 years old and I think that it is time to be a little more transparent with whoever really is interested in what is coming. This update, outside of new things, and being the first, will have some clarifications on last year's releases that are worth it to make as well.

And, before everything, thank you for the patience and support like always. I know I take a while sometimes, but I promise you it will be worth it. Let's go.

POST 2024

The end of last year was insane, in all ways - positive and negative. Releasing EDM, a project of more than 4 years of development, at the same time as producing an 14 hour Christmas RPG special was probably the maximum overload of work I have ever had. I had a few medical problems as a consequence, and it was definitely a learning curve(?) of routines I will never repeat again. Despite all of that, both projects were an enormous success, which makes me very happy.

ENIGMA DO MEDO

Since the release, all the main bugs of EDM have been fixed and we have reached almost 10,000 reviews on Steam, 95% positive. Not bad for a little game about investigation and enigmas with a release focused on a niche group of people in Brazil. Seeing the reactions of the people, even from those who didn't know or care about Ordem, was what definitely kept me going. The art book – which got delayed because of changes in the Dumativa team – is still being produced and the development of the DLC is going well.

The new main mechanic of the DLC has already been amply tested and we are certain that it should work well, and now the team is working on blocking out all the new scenarios, which are a little more complex than the base game for a... ambiguous... motive. The DLC area should be the equivalent of a entire new region (the size of the Spiral Castle, more or less) – and, to get their, it will be necessary to resolve a little ~enigma~. Who would have thought?

Dumative is also continuing to work on the console port and is in constant meetings with companies for us to be able to have a global console release that should happen with the release of the new DLC.

BLOOD SPIN OFF

The development of the season has come back in full force. As a result of the exhaustion I mentioned above, the first few months of this year were rather stagnant for the production of the spin off itself. As compensation, at the moment we have advanced a lot in an internal project that will make a big difference: We are developing our own "tabletop" for the seasons.

It is a tool for internal use that should greatly lower the problems with the millions of improvises we had to do in the past seasons using Tabletop Simulator. This is the season with the largest number of 3D maps, and the most technically ambitious until now. The theming and the aesthetic of the season also have very different intentions than anything we have done before. There is always the chance that something will go wrong, and I would not be anymore motivated to try. The plan is that the new season will begin and end within this year.

DESCONJURAÇÃO Vol. 1

The production of the HQ is practically finished – and it is probably the story with the most adaptations in relation to the original RPG until now. This was inevitable, Desconjuração is probably the season with the most amount of information in each episode in the entire RPG. It is within it that Ordem is really established, with the complete explanations of the Entities, occultists, rituals, the Order as a whole organization, and dozens of new characters. I had so many fucking things to show. For being such a complex season, it [the HQ] also had many revisions. The last file of revision/adjustments/changes for the HQ that I sent to the team had 53 pages.

I think that Yabu did a good job of summarizing the first 6 episodes of the season, balancing well the focus for each character, which was difficult even in the actual RPG. It's impossible to put the entire RPG in the HQ, and maybe the people will miss some moments (such as Anthony's "lecture") – but many scenes were not removed entirely, some of them were just reorganized to appear earlier in the story.

I am also speaking with Jambo about the possibility of releasing the next volumes with another more accessible option that can still bear the costs of production. The editor releases, after a period of time, a digital PDF version, which is a much more accessible option than the physical print, but they will study the possibility of making a more "simple" version of the physical HQ for the next volumes. The HQs are a celebration and a way to relive these stories again – there is never a moment where I am revising and my eyes don't fill up with tears – and I think that this will always be the most important point.

HQ vs RPG

Continuing on that subject, it's time to finally address the big question!!! What should be considered "canon" in the Ordem universe now that the stories are being adapted? For me, it's relatively simple: Initiation is the only story where the HQ replaces the RPG canon. Some details/references of the RPG can still appear in the story, but the behavior of some characters in the RPG didn't make much sense, something we fixed in the HQ adaptation. For the other seasons: the RPG continues being canon. However, the NEW SCENES that didn't exist in the rpg and were added in the HQ (as flashbacks) were also revised by me and can be considered canon. So, outside of Initiation, the HQs do not ALTER the canon, they only add details. In other words, if a scene in the RPG was cut or altered in the HQ because of timing/page limits, it continues being canon as it was in the RPG. The dates/passage of time between seasons continue the same as they were in the RPG.

(translator's note: AGATHAAAAA 😭😭😭😭)

ORDEM PARANORMAL RPG

Currently, I am working with Jambo on some new content for the Ordem Paranormal RPG coming this year(?). We have some new ideas for little packets (canon, revised, and approved directly by me) that I think will be very cool to keep the game alive with a greater frequency and even explore characters in a new way. Cool. last year we also had a big release, Surviving the Horror, which I personally am very proud of. When the base system was created in 2021, using Tormenta (another RPG) as a base was something that seemed to make a lot of sense to me at the time, thinking that a majority of Ordem's fanbase (at the time) would be buying their first RPG and would not have bought Tormenta before. The story was also gigantic in Calamity, a season based on action in a gigantic war of powerful creations and dozens of people. Despite being very proud of the book as a whole: the artworks, ideas, texts of lore and the general quality of the book, it was my first experience with RPG game design (the development of EDM was about puzzles and narrative, something I was already very familiar with). Outside of this, I didn't know Tormenta very well – so I really was not the most capable in involving myself in questions of balancing or mechanics. Taking this into consideration, basing it [Ordem Paranormal RPG] on a successful system with years of balancing seemed the safest and smartest option to deliver the best first product. With the passing of years and evolution, of Ordem, the fanbase and mine, the similarities between Tormenta and the fact that it is a RPG based on fantasy start to weigh a little more, with many valid criticisms. The book works very well to realize seasons like Calamity, The Secret in the Forest, and Signs from the Other Side – which despite having investigation, are seasons about COMBATING the Paranormal. There is combat in almost every episode. But, there are of course, missing mechanics to develop more investigative, dark and slow seasons like Desconjuração, Initiation, and The Secret on the Island. Ordem, despite having action as one of it's pillars, is not JUST about fighting the Other Side. Sometimes it is about surviving it. It was for that reason that I decided to produce Surviving the Horror. This time I was much more experienced, and I decided to involve myself a little more in the decisions for design and balancing – Jambo also did a wonderful job of compiling all the missing elements that were lacking the most and brought very good ideas to make the system really feel like an Ordem Paranormal experience, much more original and unique. I feel that we hit the mark on this one, and I want to keep hitting it.

THE NEXT CHAPTERS

In the next Ordem seasons I will continue using primarily Surviving the Horror. As always, I will continue creating and experimenting with mechanics, creatures, and surprises that aren't in any book. I don't see the RPG seasons as a demonstration of what we have put in the books, but rather a new step in the direction of creating new things. That was how this universe was started, and it makes sense that it is how it will continue growing as well.

There is no way to un–do the mistakes of my inexperience in the beginning, but on the way I have learned to be a little more patient critical to make sure that things release better. And... it's too early to talk about, but we already have a new big expansion for the Ordem RPG in pre–development, that will only be revealed in the right moment.

AND IT IS HERE...

For now, this is all I have to say! I will return eventually, when I have a new relevant update. Maybe it would be cool to finish with an impactful phrase here? Don't close your eyes. Or something like that. I don't know I've never watched this thing. I've come to offer you... No. Not that one. JOEL 2:31 [translator's note: this phrase is biblical, and says: The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord come.]

---

aaaaaand that's done. this thing is long as shit. do you mfs know how hard it was to write this with half of a damn keyboard? anyways. NEW ORDEM SJAHTRHWASGDAHBDFSYIAHDASD ENIGMA DO MEDO!!!!!!!!!!!! AGATHA VOLKOMENN!!!!!!!!! NEW TABLETOP!!!!! AHSDGHASHDAHJD

[gayestofthegayssss]

3am rant about Calypso/Caleo in the Riordanverse without any research because my WiFi is off:

TLDR: Just because Calypso is bad in the Odyssey, doesn’t mean she’s bad in the Riodenverse and therefore not a reason to hate the Caleo ship. Still a bad ship tho.

Shorter TLDR: Odyssey Calypso ≠ Rick Calypso. Caleo still bad.

I hate how people use the argument to oppose Caleo with “Calypso kept Odysseus captive for years and therefore is a horrible person who doesn’t deserve love.”

While I’m not denying that it happened, are we forgetting the this is a universe by Rick? He knows that these characters aren’t accurate to the tee. Even if Odysseus is in canon, it doesn’t mean the exact story happened to him in the Riodanverse. It’s the same way that Apollo isn’t actually Shakespeare father, or how Athena isn’t George Washingmachines mother. Extending on this, could also point out that in actuality, Ares isn’t the horrible (abusive?) dad that he acts like in the Riodenverse.

Now, does this mean I support the ship? Hell nah tbh. Calypso’s belittling of Leo added onto his poor mental heath and self-esteem screams problems. I also think that the ship was rushed in a sort of need to have every character be in a relationship. I could go on, but it’s just to say that Leo should have stayed single and Calypso should have stayed in Ogygia. (I will say that the concept was really good, just maybe different dude).

If someone starts to go on about what Calypso did to Odysseus again to hate on a ship that’s from a different universe, I will be referring to this.

Now I have WiFi!: Doing a little research, it says that Calypso r@ped Odysseus but it’s only have said to be implied and interpreted as that in modern standards? I’m pretty sure she does but I thought I’d mention that “historically it wasn’t”.

[eldritchneuro]

So has anyone noticed how weird it is that in a manga about nuance, moral greyness and where almost all characters have a reasoning for what they do, such a cartoonishly evil villain like Chapel exists?

Well I might have an answer to that.

After all, it's almost like he's more of a concept than a person. And as a concept, what would he then represent? Consider his main targets of grooming, and what he values in them.

Both Wolfwood and Livio/Razlo are boys and marginalized in a multitude of ways - both are impoverished, orphaned young children (somewhere from 7-13 depending on canon), and whilst it varies a bit across canon, Wolfwood especially is represented consistently as somewhat ambiguously brown, including in Badlands Rumble if you reaaaaaallllllllly squint.

(If you want some more context on how something like that is coded towards a Japanese audience and how it's likely to be read by them, please cast your gaze to this essay by my beloved mutual.)

And of course, there's the fact that Livio/Razlo are neurodivergent and thus disabled, making them especially easy of a target.

(tw for moderately graphic depictions of seclusion and restraint)

Seriously, the fact that I felt the need to add a trigger warning should say all you need to know about these panels. Genuinely trumps the fifth moon for me in how horrifically uncomfortable I feel looking at them.

As for what Chapel values in his recruits kidnapees, that's pretty easy. He values strength, and not just through the view of generalized fighting prowess, but strength as an obedient weapon.

Notice how objectifying the language he uses is here. Livio/Razlo's status as a system is entirely stripped of anything but the value it brings to the combat ring, and Razlo's intelligence/street smarts is only noteworthy as this big way to talk up how powerful he is.

So in short, Chapel's targets are young, vulnerable men who he can use as weapons -And combined with Chapel's constant monologueing about how mercy is weakness and only the strong can survive?

Hmmmmm.

I think it fits pretty well that Chapel is the embodiment of the military institution - the remorseless, bloodthirsty machine that grooms and steals away a nation's children to be objectified and killed as nothing but meat shields.

With this reading, it also becomes obvious why Wolfwood maiming but not being able to finish off Chapel is notable: It's a stand-in for Wolfwood's own attitude towards violence. Wolfwood is not a bad man, despite what he thinks and whilst he's maybe a biiiiiiit too eager on the 'well there's no other way but killing/I'm already evil so might as well.' sentiment, that doesn't mean he likes violence and killing. So by him maiming Chapel, it shows that the fetishist view of violence Chapel represents now holds much less sway over Wolfwood. It hasn't entirely been rejected, but it has been weakened.

However.

You cannot kill the war machine with its own tools after all. Even if Wolfwood was able to kill Chapel in this moment, it would not destroy the Eye of Michael. It would not stop children from being stolen from their homes. Wolfwood is able to break Chapel's neck later on and not only does it still not kill him, it just sends Razlo into a berserk fury instead.

But that doesn't mean Wolfwood is helpless forever. Because he has Vash, and Vash's ideology - the antithesis of what Chapel represents. It's the ability to fight -and the ability to hope for a future- in a way that ensures no death comes from it. It is the ability to protect. And in that way, Wolfwood is completely successful. He isn't able to completely eradicate what the Eye of Michael represents but he is able to protect the kids of the orphanage, and he is able to gift both Livio and Razlo something they could have never had under Chapel or the war machine alike.

Freedom.

(Of course, there is the fact that whilst Vash killing Legato is framed as a case of tragedy with no right answer, Livio/Razlo meanwhile do go on to kill Elendria. Which could be another case of 'tragic no other option', but I'd like to think of it as Chapel's shadow having not entirely left them. They're still in the process of consolidating their new purpose as a protector, and that's understandably something that takes time.)

[pizzaboat]

Skulduggery absolutely didn't try to groom Valkyrie like Solomon did. To groom someone I think the groomer needs to try and leverage the power imbalance for their own intents, and Skulduggery refused to acknowledge a power imbalance at all.

The problem was that he didn't act like the adult and that created weird boundaries where a teenager was the best friend of a 400 year old war criminal that didn't believe in therapy. He treated her like an adult and she wasn't one. And Valkyrie did look up to him, so when he talked about how pointless therapy was she shrugged and went "fair enough" like she didn't desperately need intervention by book 5/6

Skulduggery was neglectful and irresponsible, but so were all the other adults. Like everyone knows Skulduggery has issues and they shrug and put their hands in their pockets when he takes on an impressionable teenager as his apprentice/partner

Things could only ever end horribly. The thing is that neglect is abuse. So technically while he never intended to harm her, he knew she would get harmed and he failed to intervene and stop certain things from happening that he should have never let happen

I know he acknowledges this in canon. So yeah, he never hit her, or was a bully or had any bad intentions. He just failed to be an adult

Unfortunately Valkyrie was surrounded by a lot of bad adults who called Skulduggery nuts or had thoughts about how unstable he was and didn't try to do anything about the teenager he was mentoring

Like, when she eventually snapped it was a "fork found in kitchen" situation

I disagree that Skulduggery abused and/or groomed Valkyrie, I don’t know where that idea came from or why everyone insists it

Extremely irresponsible? Yes. Extremely unhealthy codependent relationship? Yes. But grooming??

He should have stopped her from joining him back in book 1, literally everyone around him was saying this is an irresponsible thing to do, and neither of them were having it. He never forced her to come along, he just didn’t stop her

I think even Kenspeckle says in the books; he treats her too much like an adult. That’s the problem. He doesn’t steer her away from terrible decisions and just trusts her to look after herself. This is being irresponsible, not abuse or grooming

What Solomon tried doing was grooming; trying to train Valkyrie over a few years to become the Death Bringer, without even really explaining to her what it was

I just. Idk, I don’t think I’m articulate enough for this. Skulduggery and Valkyrie have an unhealthy codependent relationship, and maybe Skulduggery relies on her too much, mentally and emotionally. But I don’t think it was ever abuse

[hemlock-user007]

Alex Hirsch as Bill Cipher!

Bill's real Canon design

[qoldenskies]

i think its so funny when people take the way donnie acts at face value even though its a horrible lie because he's a horrible liar, while understanding leo is bullshitting very well despite him actually being GOOD at bullshitting. many such cases

[asparkinhereyes]

one of my fav headcanons for damian is that he's one of those kids who graduates high school early, and i just think it'd be funny if he was going to college at around the same time tim is, for the sole reason that it would drive tim batshit insane.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Image text: going back to the original i think if ladybugs cure had only not worked on alya i think it could be like. well we have Barely seen this but it happened in s1 right. about using lucky charm for selfish gain or whatever if her cure didnt work on alya because this secret was due to ladybug being kind of villainous i think she still could have said some bs lie to chat noir bc like. thats what she does Especially in this season but like. at the end. asking tikki what happened and why her cure failed and she has to come to terms with her powers becoming weaker when she isnt being. good chat noirs power could have been used at any time before then but he didnt Need to because ladybug was perfect and good at everything and her power was Safe so why risk it? but now ladybugs powers are kind of. wavering. so he has to fill in that gap which he of course will do!! but . ladybug is getting weaker while everyone else is getting stronger and he is so confused about Why i also think it would be a nice mirror to ladybugs cure that her cure goes everywhere and is mega powerful but chat noirs is very specific and delicate and small. a nice inversion of how lucky charm is a usually small object and cataclysm can destroy basically anything

I love this idea! If the show actually used intent to guide the powers, then that concept could have really shined here! Marinette's fear and guilt making the cure fail on Alya or even the reverse where the cure only changes Alya's memories and leaves everyone else alone because Marinette is scared about Alya and no one else.* Something to tie this failure to Marinette's guilt and not just the power randomly working a different way today because plot.

I was never a fan of the show's idea of what it meant to use your power for selfish reasons and I don't love there being an evil mode for powers, so I wouldn't play it that way specifically, but I love this general idea! Much stronger than the way canon played it!

*Side note: only erasing Alya's memories would work best if the revealed secrets were played as a good thing. As is, the episode shows revealing secrets as a bad thing and emphasizes that the secret keeper should get to make those calls which is not a message I personally agree with. In most cases, if a secret is harming someone and a third party learns about the secret, then I think the person being harmed should take priority over the person who "owns" the secret. It's one of my big issues with Revelator. What message is a kid supposed to take away from that episode?

So apparently Cat can use his power to remove the after effects from an akuma. Renna finds out Ladybug has been lying about Gabriel and has Ladybug says she can’t use miraculous ladybug to fix it so Cat uses “miraculous cat noir” to remove that memory so she can stay friends with Marinette (WTF?). Tho I’m pretty sure we have had Miraculous ladybug remove memories before, like in Oblivio. So idk what the point of that was.

That being said, if cataclysm works on something as insubstantial as memories, Cat Noir better brush up on his ‘The Garden of Sinners’ lore so he can start working on destroying conceptual things.

Also they decide on the team name Miraculers but Sabrina called them that in Daddycop so the timeline on that is wonky.

The explanation and introduction of Miraculous Chat Noir were terrible! I was honestly stunned when I read it. I know this series loves its retcon, but this is possibly the most blatant one we've seen.

Cat Noir: How come it didn't work, m'lady?? Ladybug: Nothing's broken...Secrets are not physical damage. (Rena glares angrily at Ladybug as she says the latter part) Cat Noir: Ladybug's power can fix things, not destroy them. Ladybug: (Gets an idea and looks at Cat Noir) This time to repair things we have to destroy them...

I have talked on multiple occasions about the fact that Ladybug's cure is not a Creation-based power. At least, it's not purely creation. While it often creates, there are multiple episodes where it destroys, too. There are even some where it's pure destruction!

I don't like that fact. I'm on the record as saying that Chat Noir should have a sister power that's used on the rare occasions when mass-destruction is needed. It's what I do in my own rewrite! But I never expected or even wanted canon to go there. Like many of the fixes discussed on this blog, I was discussing what the show should have done not what I'd like to see changed in the coming seasons. It's to late to fix this problem in canon since fixing it completely destroys the established lore! I genuinely don't know what this change means for Ladybug's cure moving forward because the way it worked in Revelator goes against the rest of canon.

Anon, you brought up the obvious counterpoint to Revelator: Oblivio, where the cure restored AND ERASED memories:

Fu: You two know your true identities, then. (they look at each other) Adrien: We're not supposed to? Fu: That's okay, the Miraculous Ladybugs will repair everything anyway.

Cat Noir: Wait. Do you think we'll remember all this… afterwards? Ladybug: Apparently, my Miraculous Ladybug reverts everything, so I'm guessing we won't.

Why did the cure erase these memories while leaving the Revelator memories? No idea. It genuinely doesn't make sense. Oblivio's mind-wipe power didn't directly cause the reveal. The reveal was an unintended side effect and yet the cure still undid it because it was akuma-based damage.

Meanwhile Revelator's power was revealing secrets meaning every reveal was intentional akuma damage, but this time the cure leaves the memories? Why? What was the logic? And why is Ladybug acting like her cure can't destroy things? It destroys things all the time!

For example, in Horrificator, the titular akuma covered the school and several people in purple slime. Ladybug's cure destroyed that slime, making this one of the episodes where the cure was pure destruction:

[Image description: the school boiler room filled with things that look like giant purple alien eggs.]

Here are a few more examples of the cure destroying things:

Timebreaker saw Ladybug's cure erase her clone from a different timeline (which was weird)

The Evillustrator saw the cure destroy all of the titular akuma's drawings

Princess Fragrance, Zombizou, and several other episodes saw Ladybug's cure free people from mind control, an act of destruction that is not physical so I have no idea why Revelator is acting like the cure was only ever limited to physical damage

Syren saw Ladybug's cure destroy an ocean's worth of water

Anansi saw Ladybug's cure destroy spider webs

Frozer saw Ladybug's cure remove the ice that was covering the city

Weredad saw Ladybug's cure remove the vines that the akuma created

Lies saw Ladybug's cure free the akuma's victims by destroying their magical paralysis, which is arguably another example of it destroying something that wasn't physical

In Multiplication, it's implied that Ladybug's cure destroys the Ikari Gozen clones because they only vanish post-cure.

These are just a few examples of times when Ladybug's cure happily destroyed both physical and non-physical things. It has never been limited to creation or to the physical so I have no freaking clue what the point of Miraculous Chat Noir is. Nor do I have any clue when it's supposed to be used because all of the above examples are times when I would have used it as a writer. Introducing it after all of these episodes and having Ladybug state that her power is only physical was just embarrassingly bad writing, though I am curious what this means for Ladybug's cure moving forward. Is it going to be limited to creation or is it going to work like it always has? I have no idea.

It was also wild that this new power wasn't something Adrien unlocked because he's a stronger person now or something that Plagg granted him because Adrien was finally ready for a new power. Instead, Ladybug is the one who comes up with the idea that this might be a thing and Chat Noir tries it out at her prompting because Marinette is the only non-villain character that is allowed to advance the plot. Chat Noir is just another one of her Pokémon:

Ladybug: (Gets an idea and looks at Cat Noir) This time to repair things we have to destroy them... Cat Noir: But isn't that wrong? Rena Rouge: No. Because it's meant to give people the ability to choose whether to share their secret or not. And that's repairing things. Ladybug: You are a good person, kitty. Trust yourself. Cat Noir: But how do I do it? Ladybug: Remember: There's always room to evolve. Cat Noir: Cataclysm (He focuses his energy on the cataclysm lifting it to the sky, it slowly increases in size) Cat Noir: Miraculous Cat Noir!

For those who didn't watch the episode, this is it. This is all it takes to unlock the power. They exchange a few words of dialogue, Chat Noir randomly decides to call out "Miraculous Chat Noir," and he gets this confusing new power. Yay? Lamest upgrade in the history of upgrades! The side characters upgrading to "adult" status was more dramatic! A fact that's especially embarrassing when you remember that the "adult" upgrade happened at the start of this same episode. Big flashy opening, incredibly lackluster ending.

If Adrien is going to get a new power, then he deserves to get it in an episode where he takes center stage. It should NOT happen in an episode that's all about Alya and Marinette. The temp heroes get better treatment than this!

While I like the idea of Miraculous Chat Noir, it's the kind of thing that should only be done in a reboot. I might even forgive it if it's done within the first season. But doing it in season six? Hell no! I know this season is a soft reboot, but soft reboots aren't actually reboots! They're still in the same continuity! In the established continuity, this new power makes no sense. What, did Gabriel secretly wish to change the lore of the miraculous after using most of them and realizing how bad it was? I can't say that I'd blame him. I'd be tempted to make that wish myself!