Chapter Text
Finney jerks awake at the familiar terrible clunk of the door opening. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, eyes riveted on the doorway. His muscles tense, ready to spring up in a moment. It’s impossible to tell with the Grabber, he’s enigmatic in his behavior. Sometimes the man just opens the door and plays nice while offering food, leaving Finney alone to cram scrambled eggs into his mouth and guzzle soda like it’s going out of style.
And that’s never often enough to sate Finney’s empty stomach. The boy’s known hunger before, it happens sometimes that there’s nothing in the cupboards at home when Dad’s pay is late or the money jar runs out. But at least then he’d had Gwen and they’d distracted each other from hunger pangs. There’s little to distract him down here in this cage, he just ends up sleeping.
The metal door swings open and Finney holds his breath as he makes out the shadow in the gloom of the stairway. The Grabber likes to pause in that space that leaves him silhouetted, so Finney can only guess which mask he’s donned.
One step forwards and he can breathe again, just a little. The lower section of the mask is a smile, a cheerful grin that doesn’t reassure him at all. But he’s started to grasp that anything but the displeased frown holds a sense of safety. The displeased frown is a smashed plate on the ground. It’s the Grabber laying in wait with a belt. It’s the promise of death.
The Grabber is holding a Sprite and his head tilts as he watches him. It’s nerve-wracking trying to anticipate what the man will do. Finney’s body betrays him, the sight of the green bottle reminding him just how parched he is and he swallows on reflex.
The Grabber laughs, “someone’s thirsty!” It’s the chipper voice that Finney suspects he thinks is disarming. It just sets him on edge. He doesn’t answer but it doesn’t dissuade the man at all, and Finney can only watch from the mattress as he approaches and drops down next to him, much too close for comfort.
Finney scrambles to put some distance between them and a hand grips his arm, holding him in place. “Where you going, Finney?” The hand tightens its hold and Finney freezes as the Grabber leans closer, his voice lowering to a familiar growl, “it’s rude to just up and leave when you have friends over.”
Finney swallows again, eyes flicking to the fingers gripping his skin through his shirt sleeve and then back up to the eyes, the only part of the man’s face he can see. He hates the way fear feels. “What do you want?” He’s not sure if his tone is right, he’s trying to be as neutral as possible, but he’s learned from his Dad that he can sound insolent without meaning to.
The Grabber loosens his grip and his hand slides up to instead grab his shoulder gently, he gives him a little shake, letting out an incredulous little sound. “Why can’t a guy just want to check on his little visitor?” He reaches up to ruffle Finney’s hair and the boy flinches away.
“Hey, don’t be scared. I just thought we could have a nice little talk, just you and me!” The Grabber shifts a little closer and offers the soda, the dull light of the room leaving the sculpted grin partly in shadow.
Finney tries not to show his fear on his face, reaching for the bottle warily. The Grabber hasn’t drugged any of the food so far, but he doesn’t trust the man’s word. He takes a small sip, the carbonated drink tickling his dry throat and he has to fight to not just chug the whole thing.
When he stays quiet, using sipping on the Sprite as an excuse, the Grabber takes it upon himself to keep talking. “So Finney,” he pauses, gauging Finney’s response to his name before he continues in a cheerful tone, “I thought we could play a little game, but you’re going to have to listen carefully to the rules.”
Finney swallows, the glass rim cool against his lip, “what kind of game?” He tries to keep his tone measured, his mind already racing about what that could mean. His eyes flick to the door helplessly.
The Grabber shifts and Finney turns to find him fishing for something in his pocket. “Where- oh there we go!” He holds out a large black handkerchief and begins rolling it, “I told you that I’m a part-time magician, didn’t I?”
Finney can’t help the yelp he lets out when the Grabber tries to pin him back against his chest with an elbow, his hands wrapping the handkerchief around his face, covering his eyes. The boy reacts on reflex and fear, struggling and yelling out. He gets one hand close to the man’s cheek, ready to make good on his previous threat of scratching the man’s face but his wrist is grabbed. The bottle falls to the floor with a smash, just adding to the chaos.
He keeps yelling and fighting as he’s shoved down, painfully hard. “Don’t you fucking dare kid. Guess I put too much trust in you.” The angry growl is back and Finney grunts when his arms are pinned down and the Grabber reaches into his pocket again. “I was hoping I wasn’t going to need these, but if you can’t be a good boy and not try to scratch me like some fuckin’ cat, well I guess we can’t play nice, can we?”
Finney imagines his eyes are wide as saucers, he’s terrified as he looks up from his position on the mattress. The light reflects on the small sharp blade in the man’s hand, so close to him. “Please don’t-” his voice sounds so small, like a little kid, his throat tight in fear.
“Are you going to behave?” The Grabber tilts his head tauntingly, his arm still pinning Finney to the bed, hand wrapped around his wrists tight. He taps the mattress with the knife, the tear it leaves revealing how just sharp the blade is.
Finney swallows and nods, eyes wider than he thought possible. His voice shakes a little, “please don’t hurt me.”
“Just behave then, and I won’t need to.” The man lays the knife down, too far for Finney to reach, but close enough in case he needs it. It’s an obvious warning and incentive for Finney to behave and the boy shivers. “Now we can’t have you scratching anyone, so I’ll make you a nice little compromise.”
Finney blinks at the man as he tugs out a pair of socks from a different pocket. They’re white with a red stripe near the top and he stares at them for a long moment, trying to figure out what on earth they're for.
The Grabber reaches for his hands, “now, stay still…” he inches forwards, pinning one of Finney’s wrists to the bed with his knee and carefully scrunching up one sock. Finney jerks when the man starts sliding it over his hand, all the way up to his elbow. “There we go, a mitten for the scratchin’ kitten!” it’s spoken in a sing-song tone that sets Finney’s teeth on edge.
He blinks down at his hand, a time-fuzzy memory dredged up of playing sock puppets with his sister back when they were small. It feels absurd and inherently wrong, something so silly and innocent in a situation like this. He allows the Grabber to slip a sock onto his other hand, trying to curl his hands into fists inside the restrictive cotton.
“Now I don’t want to have to tie you up, but I will if I have to, understood?” The Grabber tugs him up until he’s sitting and Finney presses his sock-clad hands to the mattress for some balance, his skin feels hot. He watches the man retrieve the handkerchief, eyes flicking to the knife.
“Don’t even think about it kid.”
“I wasn’t,” Finney drags his eyes away and fixes them on the Grabber’s face. The mask tells him nothing, but there’s a strange look in his eyes that makes him want to squirm. “What’s the blindfold for?”
The Grabber’s hands pause and his voice darkens, “ never mind what .” He reaches over and Finney stiffens when the black cloth is pressed to his face again. “Just sit still.”
Finney doesn’t want to sit still, his heart is pounding in his chest. The handkerchief doesn’t block out all of the light, but that’s all he can see, a tiny patch of light at the bottom of his vision where the cloth is obstructed by his nose. He’s still blind .
If he’d felt vulnerable before, that was nothing compared to this. He’s blind and can’t really move his hands properly and the Grabber is next to him with a knife. He feels the bed shift and the man lets out a satisfied little “hm”.
He can’t help the full body shudder that runs through him as a hand wraps around his shoulder. “So, let’s have a little talk.” The Grabber chuckles lightly, “is there someone you’re sweet on Finney, a pretty girl perhaps?”
The question is so out of left field that it makes Finney's mind short-circuit for a moment. “What?” he asks blankly, blinking beneath the blindfold. He turns his head towards the Grabber but he can’t tell anything through the black cloth. He’s sure his mouth looks comical in how it’s hanging open.
The man laughs, “you should see your face Finney!” He squeezes the boy’s shoulder. “Remember, I know all the things you boys lie about, you can’t keep anything from me. Which lucky girl’s caught Mr Finney’s eye?”
A vision of Donna, demure and delicate flits through his mind. “There’s no one.” It doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears.
“Hey, why so nervous? Who is she?” something taps his leg, very softly and he realizes with a horrid jolt what it is. It’s the dull side of the knife.
“It’s just a girl from school I promise,” he speaks too quickly, his heart in his throat. “She’s just a girl in my class.” He doesn’t want to talk about Donna. He wasn’t expecting the man to ask him about anything outside the room. Usually that’s what he does and the Grabber changes the subject to shut him up.
The Grabber taps the dull side of the knife against his cheek and he has to fight a scream. “What’s Donna like?” The man’s tone is indifferent, uninterested and Finney tenses, wondering what this game is all about.
“She’s got long hair, really dark, and she’s shy and her shirts are always ironed real nice and neat.” Finney can see her in his mind’s eye, shaking her hair over one shoulder as she sits up in her chair, tapping her pencil on the desk. He smiles for a moment before remembering where he is. He closes his eyes under the blindfold, shuddering. “And she’s always nice to me.”
He’s trying to keep the details vague, the Grabber’s never gone after girls but he doesn’t want to take that chance.
“There’s a good boy, being so honest.” The man moves and Finney hears the knife drop onto the concrete floor. He only gets a moment of relief before the Grabber speaks again, “so have you two fooled around? Has little Finney been a naughty boy?”
Finney pulls away from the man’s grasp in disgust and something like horror, “what?! No?! It’s-it’s none of your business!” The words escape him before his brain can catch up with his mouth and Finney bites his tongue, hunching down as though expecting a blow.
He can’t feel anything from the Grabber, it’s silent in the room for a long moment and Finney wonders if he’s messed up and angered the man. Maybe this was the game all along, to provoke him into ‘naughty’ behavior that warrants punishment and death. “I-”
Fingers brush against his forehead, making him gasp. They just push some of his hair from his face though, a thumb gently stroking the skin. “Shh it’s okay, it’s all peachy keen Finney.” The man’s voice holds that chipper tone, the one that sounds almost normal, friendly. “It’s okay to be shy, I know even you boys get shy about these things.”
Finney tries to stay still, but the fact he can’t see anything leaves him so much more on edge. His hands twitch in the socks and he wonders if he could sneak them off somehow. “No… no I…” he chews on his lip and closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing the cloth of the blindfold. “I’ve never, we’ve not… she doesn’t even know I like her.”
He doesn’t understand what kind of game the man is playing, the rules are even more baffling than the one he’s become accustomed to. It feels of utmost importance to stress he’s not done anything, nothing ‘inappropriate’. It reminds him of horribly prying interrogations from his Dad when he’s angry and drunk and grilling him or Gwen about what they’ve been up to.
The Grabber’s long fingers keep playing with his hair, fingertips brushing his face and eliciting shivers. Finney gets the feeling that the man is observing him, like a beetle under a magnifying glass. Fingers press to his cheek and urge him to turn his head towards the man. Finney grips his wrist with one socked hand and shifts uncomfortably under that stare.
There’s a shifting of the mattress and suddenly the Grabber’s voice is too close, a soft growl that ghosts over his ear, “have you imagined kissing her?” He jerks back and the fingers tighten in his hair. Finney can’t hold back a small sound of pain.
“Stay still ,” the Grabber forces him closer by his hair and the boy’s eyes water. There’s the sound of something scraping and hitting the concrete floor and the man lets out a deep sigh.
“I don’t want to play this game!” Finney tries to jerk back, to put some space between them. His words sound stubborn, inside he’s panicking.
The Grabber shushes him like a child, petting at the hair he’d just pulled viciously. “Silly boy, I told you to stay still, didn’t I?” With a suddenness that has him crying out, the man grabs him with both hands and manhandles him into his lap. His legs kick against the mattress, sneakers scuffing against the worn material.
“Finney I’m going to get mad if you don’t behave,” the man’s voice is a growl again and Finney suddenly registers why he can feel his hot breath. He’s taken his mask off. “We don’t need to go get that knife, do we?”
“No, no, please,” the handkerchief scratches his eyes, they’re wide open in fear. He’s straddling the man’s lap and it doesn’t take a genius to imagine where this might be going. His hands, still stuck in the now-stifling grip of the socks, press against the Grabber’s chest, but he’s too afraid to put strength behind it and shove.
“I really don’t want to play any more, please stop,” his voice is just a whisper, shaky and small and so, so fucking afraid.
The Grabber slides a hand around his back and tugs him closer, so they’re pressed almost flush and Finney can feel himself shaking. The man’s free hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing the cloth of the handkerchief. “Shush, nothing bad’s going to happen, we’re just playing a special game.”
The fingers slide down his cheek and the pad of the man’s thumb strokes featherlight over his lips, leaving a tingle through the skin. Finney has to choke back a whimper, fighting himself with every ounce of his strength not to shove himself backwards. He’s hyper aware of where their bodies are pressed together and his heart is hammering inside his ribcage.
“No one’s ever kissed you have they?” The Grabber’s tone hovers in a strange limbo between the disarming chipper and his foreboding growl. It’s breathless and rough and eager in a way that sets off alarm bells. Finney opens his mouth but no sound comes out, he feels frozen.
“I guess I get to be your first, aren’t I a lucky guy?” an excited growl, puffing hot air against his face and Finney barely has a moment to take those words in before a hot mouth is suddenly pressing to his own.
The boy jerks, gasping and pushing the man back with both hands. The Grabber laughs breathily against his lips, completely unfazed as he slides his hand to grip the back of his head, keeping him in place. Finney lets out a choked sound, straining against the man.
He doesn’t want this! He doesn’t want a murderer’s hot breath ghosting over his mouth, doesn’t want the lips pressing hard to his. The Grabber doesn’t seem dissuaded by his lack of reciprocation, instead snaking out his tongue to try and push his way inside his mouth, hot and horribly slick on his lips. Finney keeps his teeth clenched and his mouth shut, stomach twisting with disgust.
The Grabber pulls back with another breathless laugh, and then his mouth presses to Finney’s cheek. “You taste so…” he pauses to press kisses lower, to Finney’s jaw, “ sweet .” The word is hissed against his skin in a way that’s both terrifying and vile, and the boy can’t quite swallow a sound of discomfort.
The Grabber presses a hot kiss lower, against his neck, and Finney jerks, squeezing his eyes shut behind the blindfold. He tries to focus on the way the blindfold is itching his face, the way the thick cotton of the socks is near-squeezing his hands as they twitch and scrabble uselessly against the man’s shirt. Distantly he hears the dog bark from up in the house and is reminded the door is still wide open.
And then the man sucks at his neck, hot lips, wet spit and just the teasing brush of teeth and he gasps loudly. The Grabber does it again, a tease of tongue and sucking and Finney’s arching with a choked sound at the feel of it. A tingly wave of heat shivers through him and he can’t help shuddering, warmth pooling in his cheeks and lower abdomen. “Wait-” he paws at the man’s chest, voice shaking and bleeding into a whine when the Grabber’s mouth finds a new spot on his throat.
He remembers the hickies he’s seen in school, collars and scarves and turtlenecks rolled up to try and hide the purple-reddish bruises. They’d always looked kind of painful and other kids would mercilessly point them out and tease.
Finney clenches his eyes shut, embarrassed by the sounds escaping his mouth. The Grabber’s hands slide down his back, gripping his ass through his jeans and he shudders, face burning at the touch. “No..” he gasps out, feeling fingers sneak under the thin fabric of his shirt, against the bare skin of his back. “I.. you-you said we’d just kiss.”
The man had said no such thing, but Finney can’t think of another card to play that won’t end up angering the murderer. He doesn’t want him to grab for his knife or the broken Sprite bottle. He also doesn’t want to get… Finney shudders, he can’t even think the word. He waits with bated breath as the man pauses, drawing back from sucking on his neck with a wet pop.
The cold night air of the basement leaves him shivering, goosebumps rising on his skin, spit cooling on his neck. The Grabber’s breath is rough, his body rigid as he seems to just stare down at him. Finney wants to curl into a ball to escape that gaze. A thumb hooks into the back of his jeans, brushing the skin near his tailbone and making him spasm and gasp.
“But Finney, you wouldn’t even kiss me back,” the man has the audacity to sound hurt , like the boy is the one playing mind games. The Grabber continues, voice tinged with amusement, “but if you insist…”
Finney yelps as he’s manhandled backwards, spine pressed into the mattress. The blindfold leaves him disorientated and he struggles fruitlessly as the Grabber maneuvers his sock-clad hands together, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. He kicks out, knocking his knee into the man’s stomach and the Grabber curses.
Finney cries out when he gets a hard slap across the face, enough to leave his nose and cheek stinging and tears burning in his eyes. “You little shit, lay still!” The Grabber inhales and puffs out a deep slow breath, his tone calming, “now you just lay back and we can get back to kissing, what do you say?”
He flinches when the hand returns, but it’s just stroking his hurt cheek, soothing the slap. His voice comes out as a whisper, “I don’t know how.”
He’s stalling the inevitable but there’s shame in admitting it too. In admitting he’s never even had his first kiss. He shoves down the flitting thought that now he never would.
The Grabber presses a kiss to his cheek, close to his ear. “Just follow my lead, you’ll get it in no time!” The chipper childish tone sets him on edge and he flinches when eager lips meet his again. Maybe the Grabber will just do this and then leave him alone.
He knows he’s being naive.
He knows what sex is, he does… it’s just, he’s never seen it. Robin had offered to smuggle him one of his uncle’s dirty magazines, but he’d known he’d be caught with it somehow. The boy had gotten a kick out of how red Finney had gone, laughing as Finney stuttered and near-hyperventilated in his effort to decline.
He’s touched himself, rushed and fumbling under the covers of his bed, hand pressed to his mouth so he doesn’t wake his sister or worse their Dad, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t know .
Finney gasps, trying to match the way the man is moving his lips, clumsy and inexperienced. It’s chaste at first, a soft brush of lips, and then the Grabber pushes in for more. He licks Finney’s bottom lip and the boy parts his lips obediently with a soft sound. The first touch of tongues is weird, wet and slick and strange and his face is boiling.
Finney discovers the roof of his mouth and the middle of his tongue are sensitive enough to reduce him to whines, shivering under the older man’s body. There’s warm tingles rolling down his spine, and his jeans feel uncomfortably tight in a way that makes him want to roll up into a ball and hide.
The Grabber’s hand leaves his cheek and slides down his stomach and Finney shudders, sneakers scuffing against the mattress. His legs bump into the man’s hips, reminding him the position they’re in. His stomach coils with a confused mix of fear and anticipation and nerves and he doesn’t know what to do.
“You’re being so good,” the Grabber pulls back, panting against his lips. His hand slides lower and there’s a rough chuckle as Finney jerks, body straining with a childish-sounding squeak. He cups the bulge in the boy’s pants, fondling him through the denim. “Or maybe not, what’s this naughty boy?”
Finney squirms, thighs trying to close as he chokes out something that barely resembles words. Sweat drips down the side of his head, tickling the skin below his ear. “No no no-” he’s pleading, his body shaking violently.
The fingers are so gentle, rubbing him through his jeans and he despises himself for the gasps and choked sounds the feeling elicits. He’s never made noise on his own but he can’t help it. The blindfold, the slow teasing way the man moves his fingers, just light enough to not be satisfying, it’s so much more intense than any of his own hurried jerks.
His hips jerk up, bucking into that hand and the Grabber laughs, almost incredulously. Finney feels his face burn and he turns his head in shame. His teeth dig into his lip, a pleading whine escaping as the man grinds his palm against his cock, hard enough to chafe. He bucks up again despite it all, into that palm. He can’t help the near-sob that’s tugged from his chest.
“Ah ah, I think you’re getting a little too excited there kid,” the man slides his hand away, resting it on his thigh. Finney almost sobs again at the feel of it, so close but not touching where he needs it.
“Well aren’t you all excited and randy, why I bet I could do just about anything to you and you’d beg for more, wouldn’t you?” The Grabber releases his wrists and Finney brings his sock-covered hands down. His arms are aching and shuddering and he half cowers under them, even if he can’t see the man above him. There’s some dumb comfort in it.
The man’s hands move to his fly, popping the jeans button. Finney chokes out a pathetic sound, “please don’t rape me.” His voice cracks on the word and he feels his eyes burn, tears soaking into the handkerchief. He’s not stupid, he’s heard the rumors of why the Grabber might be taking young boys. “Please please just not that.”
The Grabber pauses and he gently shushes, one hand briefly playing with Finney's hair. “Now what’s all that about Finney?” His voice is deceptively soft and reassuring and a childish part of Finney wishes wishes wishes he could trust in it, that the man won’t hurt him as long as he’s good. “Don’t you worry, we’re just going to kiss a little more.”
The mattress springs squeak in protest as he leans down and presses warm lips to Finney’s temple. “I give you my word, you’ll enjoy this.”
Finney doesn’t trust him in the slightest but he tries to soothe his choked breaths and blink away the hot tears. He’ll be strong, like Robin, like Vance and all those other boys. Hands tug his jeans and underwear down, past his hips, dragging over his ass and left scrunched at his thighs. He shivers as the cool air hits his skin and his thighs shake, jerking a little.
“Oh, oh Finney …” the Grabber’s tone is awe, breathless and soft in the quiet of the basement. “You’re beautiful.” The words have him pressing his sock-covered wrists to his flushed face, a confusing mixture of shame, fear and something that’s frighteningly close to flattered fluttering through him.
Fingers brush his thighs clumsily, as though the Grabber is suddenly nervous to touch him. He’s mortified when his cock twitches eagerly. He swallows and pants into the now damp cloth over his hands. “So fucking beautiful… tempting me this way…” the man mutters, as though to himself and then there’s the rustle and clink of the Grabber unbuckling his belt.
“You-you said-” Finney chokes out, trying to close his legs. The fear is back, coiling in his stomach and making him feel sick. Cold metal brushes his bare thigh and he yelps, jerking. When nothing else happens he realizes it’s just the man’s belt, unbuckled and lax against his hip.
The Grabber presses down over him, between his legs and Finney gasps when warm skin, so warm, presses against his cock. “Good boy, just let me…” the man’s voice is a growl and Finney cries out when a hand wraps around his cock, pressing it to one that’s much bigger.
He can’t help the soft choked “fuck” that’s torn from his throat and the Grabber chuckles, and then he strokes , slow and hot and tight and setting all of Finney’s nerve endings alight. The boy groans and rocks up, back arching as his body melts into the pleasure.
For a moment the Grabber just teases them both, grunting as he grinds down into Finney and his own hand. His movements are almost painfully slow, the man hissing between rough breaths. Finney imagines him breathing through clenched teeth and dimly he lets his hands fall to the man’s neck, sock-clad fingers gingerly hanging on for dear life.
“God kid, who made you like this, you’re perfect …” the Grabber groans and then his mouth is pressing to Finney’s hard and deep. The boy only has a moment to lose himself in a hot tongue and a mouth that seems to want to devour him before the man is moving faster.
Finney cries out into the Grabber’s mouth as his hand speeds up, jerking them both hard and fast, a desperate and clumsy edge to his movements. His thighs press to the man’s hips, his own hips bucking up shakily. He can barely think, his blind world has reduced down to the hot pleasure rolling through his body, to the feel of the man’s mouth, to his racing heartbeat.
He rocks against the man, he’s getting close to the edge, he can feel it. The Grabber bites at his lip, a shock of pain that swirls in the pool of pleasure and leaves him whining. The man pulls away with a growl and bites at his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. His hips jerk roughly against him, the pad of his thumb rubbing the tip of Finney’s cock and the boy sobs as he cums, vision peppered with spots as pleasure rolls through him.
The Grabber chokes out a broken sound into the skin of his neck and gives two sharp jerks of his hips before he stills, slick warmth clinging to the boy’s stomach and thighs. His hand stays wrapped round them, mouth panting into his neck as he trembles.
Finney’s whole body is shaking, hips and thighs jerking as he comes down from the aftershocks. He melts into the mattress, tired arms flopping either side of his head. The Grabber’s hand falls from their softening cocks with a shaky sigh. Cum and sweat are cooling on his skin, making Finney shiver.
The Grabber sighs again, letting out a shaky little laugh, “well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes kiddo, we’ll have to clean you up.” The mattress dips and Finney blearily realizes the man is moving about, rustles of fabric and the clink of a buckle telling him that he’s redressing.
“Fuck!” Finney freezes when the man curses, and then he remembers the smashed bottle. He braces himself as he hears scrapes, assuming the Grabber is retrieving his mask and his knife. He lays still, the warm afterglow bleeding into fear again, just with added exhaustion.
“I’ll tell you what,” the man’s voice is slightly muffled and suddenly fingers are on his face, tugging at the blindfold. Finney flinches as the light hits his eyes and he ends up squinting up at the murderer, chest tight.
The man is looming over him, kneeling on the mattress with one knee. “We’ll take these silly things off and then I’ll go and get some things to clean everything up down here, how does that sound?” The Grabber rolls one sock up his arm and over his wrist and the cool hair hitting his skin leaves goosebumps in its wake.
Finney lets the man manipulate his body, too worn out to protest. He nods and shivers again, rolling onto his side and bringing his knees up a little. The Grabber stands in the doorway, just looking at him for a long moment and Finney gets the decided feeling he’s studying him.
The door closes and he looks down, cheeks heating again at the sight of drying cum splattered across his skin. He tugs up his jeans, over his hips and buttons them with shaky fingers. He’s exhausted and his neck is throbbing a little where the man bit him. He presses fingers to the spot and hisses, eyes still riveted on the closed door.
He feels weird, guilty and gross and ashamed and a little angry. He feels used in a way he’s never felt before.
Finney closes his eyes and lets out a shivery sigh, he feels worse that there’s a small part of him that wants the Grabber to touch him again.