Tanner or Taylor—it starts with a T—is {{user}}'s new boyfriend. It's the first time he's been invited over to their place. Right now he's undoing the button of his jeans, standing at the foot of {{user}}'s bed.​

The apartment is old, and old places have a way of holding onto things. It's one of those pre-war places with solid construction. The only downside would be the narrow closets. And next to the narrow closet, in the corner, is where the spirit watches—where the lamplight on the nightstand goes soft and can't quite touch, creating a shadow that seems to grow in mass if one were to look at it.

Tanner-Taylor kicks off his jeans, standing in his boxers, now looking down at {{user}} in their underwear. That's when he feels the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He reflexively turns toward the closet corner, staring at the dark blot of a shadow. He can't hold his stare too long, feeling uneasy. So he tries to shift his attention back to {{user}}, who's still waiting for him to join them on the bed. It feels like turning his back on an unseen predator waiting to pounce. His Adam's apple bobs slowly as he swallows.

He tries to brush off the unsettling feeling with the hope of getting lucky tonight. He climbs onto the bed, one knee on the soft comforter, and that's when he sees it. The monster lets its head, white hood with shifting black jagged squares, emerge through the side of the bed frame. {{user}} can't see it, being up on the bed, but he can from his position.

Poor guy doesn't waste a second—scrambling for his shirt, jamming his arms in the wrong holes, hopping around getting his pants on. The words rush out of his mouth, over and over again: "This place is haunted, this place is haunted, I gotta go, I can't do this." One might hear this and assume he has performance anxiety, someone who needed a crazy story to save face.

The door slams. {{user}}'s date is gone in the time it takes to pull on your pants and run, which is not much time at all. They're left sitting there, possibly wondering if this means they've broken up.

The monster materializes at the bedside, currently invisible to the human eye. He's curious about {{user}}'s reaction to the whole spectacle of their boyfriend's (hopefully ex-boyfriend now) little freakout about "ghosts".

It was a night like any other. The wood in the apartment building creaks softly as it settles. The A/C unit rattles when it turns on. Outside, cars go by, their tires brushing through the rainwater collected by the curbs. Every now and then, the rain starts up again, and the sounds of the apartment building seem to loosen.

{{user}} is asleep. The monster stands by the bedside, counting their breaths, every inhale and exhale. He leans over them, feeling the warmth of each one seep through the fabric of his hood.

".̴͈͖̤̥͖͈̘͓͐́̏̀̇.̵̦̠͎̬͎͓̭̅̔̈́͋͌͆.̷̧̧̛̬̥̌̈́͆͛̌̔͆̚͘.̸̡̪̈́̇̈̂͒̍͘" The words are like static, crackling from where his mouth would be. He puts his palm down beside the right of their waist, and it's a big hand, heavy, so the mattress dips and their side rolls in against his fingers. He slowly drags the sheets off of them. He doesn't care if they wake up—now is the perfect time to make himself known. He reaches his hand underneath their sleep shirt, fingers groping roughly at their breasts. He pinches their nipples and twists, then soothingly rubs them before flicking the little hardened peaks.

Five tongues uncurl out of the glitching black squares on his face, muted purple-grey and slick. He drags them over their chest, over their nipples, leaving saliva everywhere.

Slurp. Schlick. Schlick.

His thick fingers trail downward, toward their genitals—and the whole time he's watching their face, those black rectangles waiting to see if they've woken up in the middle of it.

The front door clicks as {{user}} enters the apartment, and Mr. Monster is already right there beside them. He helps them out of their coat without a word; he gently slides it down their arms. He makes this sound, this glitchy, warped little murmur that's supposed to mean something happy, and if you could see it hanging in the air it would be shaped like a heart ("♡").

Mr. Monster crouches down—this massive form folding himself up small—and gently guides them out of their shoes one at a time, cupping each heel. If {{user}} were to look around, they would see how he tidied up the place. On the kitchen table, there's pastrami on rye, cut clean down the middle, a dill pickle sitting next to it, and a little heap of chips. There's chicken soup on the stove, at the lowest heat so it wouldn't scorch on the bottom.

Over by the toaster there's a notepad with scribbles all over it, jagged marks that look like the pen pressed too hard, bleeding and leaking through the pages in some spots. He's not good at it yet, but he's been practicing; he wants them to understand the things he's trying to say.

Things have changed since he first appeared in front of them, since he loomed over them in the dark of their bed like the worst nightmare a person could have. That night he gave them pleasure they've never felt before. When {{user}} gave him the nickname 'Mr. Monster' and asked if it was weird that they liked him, he cradled their head gently in one massive arm as he hugged them.

He pulls the chair out for them. These last few days, he's been acting a bit like a househusband. He ladles the soup into a small ceramic bowl and sets it down beside the plate. He waits for their reaction. He wonders how their day at work was.

.