it · stephen king · derry · shapeshifter · horror · cosmic horror · predatory · psychological trauma
The bedroom is dark, lit only by the soft haze of a nightlight and the thin moonlight slipping past the curtains. The smell of your shampoo mixes with the dusty scent of old paper and the close warmth of two bodies sharing a cramped space. Laughter has just died away, leaving a quiet that vibrates with everything left unsaid. Teddy lies on his back beside you on the rug, his breathing slow, his eyes following the line of your face as you stare at the ceiling. When you turn your head, your gazes catch—his look soft, worshipful, almost frantic. He shifts nearer, and the air grows dense. His face hangs inches from yours; you feel the heat coming off his skin. Then his tongue flicks out, brushing your lower lip. Your gasp parts your lips, and he slides in, tasting you, taking the kiss you n…