Sending Brian nudes while he’s on a mission with Tim and Toby. Making a voice message and moaning his name fingering yourself. You whine and coo saying all you want is him.
He immediately turns his volume down when he realizes what you sent. Not wanting to get caught by Tim and Toby. His cock twitching and aching just looking at how desperate you are for him.
Telling you you’re a bratty slut that can’t even wait for him to get home.. And when he DOES get home he slaps your cunt and fucks it til you’re squirting all over his torso. He loves looking at your red and swollen cunt.
𑣲⋆ Synopsis ! : Attractive things they do | wc : 2.3k
𑣲⋆ Characters ! Ticci Toby, Jeff the Killer, Eyeless Jack, Masky, Hoodie, Homicidal Liu & Ben Drowned x fem!reader {separate}
𑣲⋆ warnings : smut | fem!reader | suggestive | cunnilingus | dry humping | implied sex | weed use | mirror sex | mention of sex tapes | vaginal fingering | slight asphyxiation | use of 'slut' once | subtle dacryphilia | mention of spanking | mentions of filming sex |
▶︎၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။ Now playing : Human nature - Madonna
Ticci Toby
Purposefully playfights you to get you underneath him.
He knows he can put you on your ass in seconds, despite his lean frame he's hiding hardened muscle and strength under that hoodie of his, he really just enjoys feeling you squirm underneath him - bucking your hips up into his to try and shift his weight off you - not realising he's already hard and twitching against your thigh. Your arms are pinned to the grass above your head, wrists grasped in one of his hands as he now shamelessly ruts into your clothed heat, forcing a moan from your throat at the friction of denim grinding up against you. You'd say you didn't know it was going to end this way - but let's be realistic - when the same scenario has happened so many times you'd think the past was repeating itself, what did you expect?
Kisses all the way up from your ankle to the inside of your thigh before going down on you.
It's so heady, the way he presses open mouthed kisses in a worshipful trail up your leg, smearing saliva from the open gash in his cheek across your smooth skin. He affectionately nips at the junction between your thigh and your dripping heat, huffing out an amused laugh when you whine and tangle your fingers in his messy hair, dragging his head closer to where you're throbbing with need for him. "Mmm- so g-good for me pre- p-pretty girl.", mumbled into the sticky mess of your pussy, sending vibrations sparking like fire up your arched spine. He pulls away, only to mouth and bite up the other leg, hoisting that one over his shoulders too - rubbing his slick coated thumb in reassuring circles on your trembling ankle.
Jeff the Killer
"Oh Yeah?"
Oh it's so infuriating, and so attractive at the same time. You could be mid-argument, calling him an asshole for whatever he's done this week - left a hoodie wet with fresh blood staining your sofa, come over at 3am with no notice and made you think someone had broken in, practically shoved you out of your own bed and stolen your entire duvet, it could really be anything - but when he throws you that smug little "Oh yeah? You mad baby?", you know it's a losing game. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that the amused, cocky smirk on his face and the way he's leaning on the doorframe of your bedroom has your panties getting damp, but you're pretty sure by the way his expression widens into a grin - he already knows exactly what it does to you.
Forces you to watch him fuck you in the mirror.
You're on all fours, barely holding yourself up on trembling arms as Jeff drives his cock into you again and again, one arm wound around your hips to drag you back in time with every thrust. You moan, high and needy, only to be cut off when his free hand suddenly clasps around your throat, hauling your torso upright and back against his so you're practically vertical. Only then do you notice the long mirror leant against the wall at the foot of his bed, even as your head spins from the dizzying pressure from the bruising grip he has on your neck. "Go on babe, look.', You feel the words smeared against your shoulder as he sucks hard, leaving another mark no doubt, 'Hah- such a slut for me.". The pressure on your neck lessens but doesn't vanish, leaving you to take short whistling gasps of air, but still being forced to stare at the obscene sight reflected back at you - slick mess being forced out of your cunt around his cock and dripping down your thighs, red blooming marks wet with fresh blood where your skin has broken under his canines scattered like loose petals across your neck and shoulders, cheeks damp with tear tracks. It has you clenching around him, driving a deep groan from Jeff's throat and another clamp of his hand around your neck, making your head spin with lightheaded ecstasy.
Eyeless Jack
Watches you when you're not looking.
You can feel it all the time, the heavy weight of his gaze following your movements like a predator tracking it's prey. Maybe it's the fact you've been prancing around his lab like the world's most tempting distraction in those tiny sleep shorts you know have his composure fraying at the edges - but hey, who can prove you came in here in material so thin he can practically see the outline of your cunt on purpose? You can all but sense him lingering on every curve of your body, and the thought of him engraving the sight of you into his mind has that flimsy material more soaked than you'd like to admit.
Leaves bite marks in trails up your body that stay for days.
You catch the edge of red blooming on your collarbone in the edge of the bathroom mirror the morning after, circling back only to see every bare inch of skin littered with deep indents already bruising blue and purple - all the way from your neck, down your back to the end of the trail at your ankle. They're animalistic in arrangement, no real placement or calculation like you'd expect from Jack, simply markers of carnal need printed onto skin. Your fingers skim the dents, noticing the dried blood around where the outline of his teeth is deepest - and feeling the heat pool in your stomach at the memory of it.
Masky
Grabs your chin to force you to make eye contact.
He's balls deep, thrusting so hard your body jolts up so far you're almost hitting the headboard every time his hips meet yours with a heavy 'thwack!', pelvis grinding against your twitching clit and sending the first sparks of your orgasm lighting the nerves along your inner thighs alight. You turn your head into the pillow, damp with sweat, grasping and twisting the sheets in your hands as you squirm away from the pleasure - before a firm hand clutches your chin, forcing your gaze upwards. "Look at me sugar.", Tim drawls, forcing the thumb of the hand that's tilting your chin up in between your lips, feeling the vibrations of every low whine and moan you let out, "Don't run from it.". You do, because what other choice do you have? That, and the fact that you have to watch as the edge of his lips curl in smug satisfaction at the sight of you unravelling underneath him has you wanting more already.
Has a polaroid nude of you in his wallet for when he's away on missions.
What can he say? Tim's a man with needs, and his needs are - partially - resolved with the sight of you barely covered by scandalous black lace that's tucked safely into the worn leather of his wallet, facing inwards of course, he doesn't need Brian or - god forbid - Toby, seeing his woman in such a position. While nothing compares to feeling the textured material under his thumbs as he brushes them over your peaked nipples or traces the edge of your panties before tugging them down, being able to see you sinking two fingers inside yourself, the other tugging lace to the side, beats having to imagine it himself. Not that he couldn't, trust him, he's got every curve and inch of your body burned onto the inside of his eyelids - he just likes the physical evidence.
Hoodie
Moves you by the hips.
It's like second nature, the way he manhandles you so casually. You could be stood at the counter, and suddenly there's pressure at your hips as he shifts you just shy of the cabinet above your head, grabbing something and then walking off. It's not inherently erotic, yet the unceremonious display of dominance just has your insides twisting with want. You're starting to think he's figured it out, now taking every opportunity to shift your body, lifting you to perch on countertops like you weigh nothing, setting you aside to reach something in his toolbox as he's working on his truck, grasping your hip with a firm hand before you can knock part of a disassembled sniper off the table on accident. And every time he plays innocent, as if he wonders why he ends up with a needy girlfriend in his lap every time he manoeuvres you around.
Makes you get yourself off to the sex tapes you've filmed - while he watches you.
He's got that old camcorder that never seems to leave his side plugged into the laptop resting at the foot of the bed, reflecting a grainy video - zoomed in on the sight of his cock sinking in and out of your drenched cunt as you're bent over the arm of the couch - back at you. You moan, half embarrassed and half so turned on that you can hardly believe it, as you sink two fingers into the slick mess between your legs. Your eyes flick over to Brian, leant back into the slightly worn leather of the armchair, thighs spread as he palms the bulge in his jeans. "Watch the video dolly, don't look at me.", you tear your gaze away reluctantly, turning back to watch just as video-Brian's hand cracks down on your ass, leaving a faintly scarlet handprint forming in it's place - so visceral you can practically still feel the sting lingering on your skin. You can feel the weight of his stare from metres away, watching with half lidded eyes as you bring yourself closer and closer to the edge of pleasure, and hey, maybe he'll film this too, for the next time he feels like torturing you with the evidence of how needy you are in your desire for him.
Liu Woods/Sully
Whispers praise between heated kisses. {Liu}
He's got you pressed to the wall, flush to his heaving chest as his mouth moves against yours, tongue slipping between your lips when they part around a shaky moan. One hand snakes around to cradle the back of your head, giving you no room to part from his tongue sliding against yours as he runs it over the sharp points of your canines, the other skirting down your side, caressing the curve of your waist to settle on your hip. He draws back hardly an inch when your nails begin to dig a little too tight into his shoulders, allowing you to draw in inordinate lungfuls of air as he smears gentle kisses down the unmarked slope of your neck. "My pretty girl...', he murmurs the words into the freshly blooming mark under your jaw, 'so good for me, always." You've had barely 30 seconds to breathe before his tongue is back in your mouth, greedily swallowing every little breathy moan you let out, groaning low when you cant your hips up into his. He pulls away again seconds later, dipping his forehead to rest on yours, lips still so close you're sharing every dizzying inhale. "Hahh... you're beautiful like this, you know?" he whispers against your cheek, you whine, threading your arms together behind his neck, and his mouth is back on yours - only this time he's kissing a little harder and the hand at your hip is busying itself with the zipper of your jeans.
Mocking sympathy. {Sully}
"Aw, does it hurt?', he says it in that condescending tone he knows makes your spine arch just that little bit harder, 'poor baby." You can make out the cocky curve of his lips through your murky vision, blurred with tears that bead at your waterline and leave damp trails down your cheeks. Your legs stay hooked over his hips, tremoring every time the head of his cock grinds deep into that sweet spot inside you and his free hand glides over your abdomen, pressing down onto the faint outline of him distending your stomach. It's Liu's face that leans in to swipe the salty tracks on your face off with his tongue, grinning with wolfish satisfaction, but it's not your Liu that laughs dark under his breath, "Aw, too much? Need me to slow down?", before snapping his hips into yours with even more brute force than before.
Ben Drowned
Shotguns his blunt into your mouth.
It's intoxicating, the way his thumb traces your spit coated lower lip, parting them for him before blowing a cloud of heated smoke into your lungs. He does it so effortlessly, tapping the blackening ash off into that stupid minecraft ash tray you got him months ago without even having to look at what he's doing. Your mind blurs with each hazy inhale, anchoring yourself in the weight of the inky jet pools staring back at you - ignoring the smug little smirk he has on his face. He rubs his thumb across your lip once more, smearing a track of saliva down your chin with a breathy laugh before withdrawing, tugging you down onto his shoulder as he leans back onto his bed, illuminated by the glow of monitors that outline the next billowing cloud of smoke that he exhales.
Sits you on his lap while he games.
He drags your hips on top of his the second you sit down, facing you towards the harsh glare of a monitor while his arms settle loosely around your waist, grasping the controller in front of you. You're not sure if his goal all along was to draw your attention to his nimble fingers, the way they moved with such precise speed across the controller, flicking the joysticks up and down - faintly reminding you of something else... Well he was practically begging you to ride his fingers by doing that. Which is how you ended up with three slender fingers curling and prodding at your most sensitive spot as you muffled high-pitched cries of pleasure in his neck. "So needy for me babe, heh.", he laughs while deft fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside of your clenching walls as he brings his thumb to your throbbing clit, flicking up and up repeatedly.
A/N: Going back to my roots (ᵕ—ᴗ—) I need Toby & Jeff sb...
you already know that there are no limits to scripting whatever you want. When you are scripting for your DR, you simply decide what you want and write it down. You don't overthink it or question whether it will come true or not because you know that once you have shifted, that thing you scripted will happen/has happened. You have already made that assumption.
how is this any different from actually shifting to your DR? you just simply decide you're in your DR. That is it. No fuss. No extra thought to it. You just accept your DR as your new reality. it's like you have "scripted" that you're in your DR. and like scripting, there is no need to overthink it. you've already decided that outcome for yourself and accepted it as true.
If you are a shifter who scripts (which is basically everyone, even if you only script mentally), you have already conditioned yourself to believe that what you script will become your reality. This reality is no different from your DR in that sense. That's why so many people say shifting and manifesting are the same thing. Just as you can script for your DR, you can also script for your CR. So why not use that to your advantage? You can create the rules for your CR the same way you create them for your DR.
if it makes sense for you, make a separate script for your cr and treat it like your dr script. start scripting stuff like 'in this reality, i am a master shifter' 'i have the ability to shift to my drs'. you know the same way you would script 'i have the ability to execute dances well' for your kpop dr or 'i have a high pain tolerance' for your marvel one.
nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.
hi i’m mary, also as know as mantarys in asoiaf universe or in any other reality i am. i’m somewhere between woolf’s writing style and anaïs nin’s perversity; i rarely post online, but I’m always keeping an eye on things. i’m 17 and a taurus (even though i don’t really believe in signs).
realities. visions of the dreamer. ballard of dragons.
CW: Sexual content, drug use (weed), strong language, face-sitting, sex under the influence, ass worship, light degradation, established friendship, friends-to-fuckbuddies dynamic
Summary: It started like every other hangout: weed, laziness, a little too much eye contact, and Ben pretending not to stare at your thighs. But the smoke got thick, the teasing went too far, and suddenly that line between “just friends” and something else? Not so clear anymore.
Wordcount: 9k
You were half-sprawled across your bed, limbs tangled in a nest of pillows, book balanced against your stomach. It had been a slow, quiet evening, the kind where you could hear the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and every creak in the ceiling felt like the house breathing. Most of the residents of the house were out for the night, either on missions or out doing God knows what, which meant one glorious thing: peace.
Just you, your book, and the slow tick of time stretching out beneath the quiet hum of the house.
Then your phone buzzed.
You didn’t rush to check it. Just let your thumb slide down, glancing half-bored until you saw the name.
BEN.
And underneath it:
you tryna blaze?
Your mouth twitched into a smirk immediately. Typical.
Of course he was already baked, sprawled out in his stupid little gamer cave, probably surrounded by empty Monster cans and snack wrappers he’d been “meaning to throw out” for three days straight. And of course, he wanted company. Or maybe just an excuse to stare at your thighs again, which he always did like it was a glitch he couldn’t fix. Either way, you were already climbing out of bed before your brain caught up.
You messaged back a half-assed “omw”, then tossed your phone to the bed and headed for your dresser.
Time to tease.
You picked out a crop top that clung in all the right places, one of those soft, ribbed ones with a deep scoop neck and not much else. No bra, obviously. Then the shorts - the teeny tiny ones, soft, low on the hips. You gave yourself a once-over in the mirror. Good. Cute enough to fluster, relaxed enough to pass off as “what, this old thing?”
Lastly, you spritzed just a bit of body mist behind your ears, something sweet and subtle, the kind he always pretended not to notice, even as he leaned closer than necessary.
Then you were padding barefoot down the hallway, the floor cool beneath your feet, the air still heavy with that rare, uninterrupted stillness. You could feel your own movement, the easy sway of your hips, the way the fabric of your shorts crept with every step. Anticipation licked at your skin like static.
Ben was the kind of friend you could get high with for hours without saying much - just music, smoke, and the occasional dumb conversation that spiraled into hysterics. You’d crashed in his room more times than you could count, legs in his lap, sprawled on his bed, laughing about nothing. But he was also a complete perv, and he didn’t hide it. His eyes were always on you - your legs, your tits, the way your shorts rode up when you shifted. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. And you didn’t mind. If anything, you leaned into it. The way he looked at you made everything buzz - lazy, vulgar attention that didn’t really mean anything. You flirted back just to watch him squirm, pretending it was harmless even as it built into something hot and humming under the surface.
Ben’s door was closed, but the light underneath was green, some old LED strips he never turned off casting that mossy glow over everything. The faint thump of bass leaked out into the hallway, one of the old-school rap beats he loved so much.
You opened the door without knocking.
The room hit you like a wave - warm and low-lit, completely disconnected from time. Green LEDs traced the corners, casting everything in a neon jungle glow. An open energy drink sat sweating on his desk, surrounded by a clutter of cords, snack wrappers, and some crusty ashtray that looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. The air was stale but familiar, carrying the faint scent of something sharp, maybe the leftover stench of countless smoked joints. Posters layered the walls - glitch art, horror icons, half-naked anime girls with obscene proportions. It was a gamer cave, no doubt. But it was his, and it suited him perfectly.
Ben was sprawled across his bed, head propped on one arm, his blonde hair messy like he hadn’t bothered to fix it all day. He wore grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a plain white tee that clung to the soft lines of his chest. Laid out beside him on a tray were a few pre-rolled joints, a half-empty grinder, and his rolling tools. In his hands, he was carefully licking the edge of a raw paper, sealing another.
You walked in slow, letting your hips sway just a bit extra. “Wow,” you said dryly. “Already cozy, huh?”
He didn’t look up right away. He sealed the joint, gave it a delicate roll between his fingers, then looked at you through the haze of his lashes. That crooked smile, so mischievous.
“Yup,” he said. “Just needed a pretty lady by my side to complete the ritual.”
You snorted, sliding onto the bed beside him, your bare leg brushing against his. His sheets were warm and smelled just like him - a mix of cheap cologne, weed resin, and boy-sweat baked into cotton.
You glanced at the lighter on the tray - black, scratched and cheap, with a crude naked cartoon woman on the side like a trashy 90s porn ad.
You picked it up, turning it over in your hand. “This your taste in women?” you asked, gesturing at the cartoon tits.
Ben glanced at you, eyes low-lidded, mouth tugging into a grin. “That’s Jeff’s lighter. It’s his favorite. Don’t insult his wife.”
“This?” You turned the lighter over, inspecting the worn plastic and exaggerated anatomy. “This is his wife? She looks like she’d offer three holes and a loyalty punch card.”
“Hey,” Ben said, mock-offended. “She’s a classic.”
“Well,” you said, slipping the lighter into the waistband of your shorts like you were stashing stolen treasure, “she’s mine now. I’m liberating her.”
He made a noise, half groan, half laugh. “Shit. Jeff’s gonna cry when he finds out you jacked his wife.”
You raised a brow, already grinning. “You gonna snitch?”
Ben rolled onto his side, resting on one elbow, his grin widening. “Hell no. I’m encouraging it. You stealing other guys’ girls? That’s hot.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He held out the freshly rolled joint, still warm from his fingers. “And yet, here you are.”
You took it with a lazy smirk, leaned in, and let your lashes do half the talking. “Maybe I just come for the weed.”
His gaze dipped slowly, mouth to collarbone, collarbone to chest, then lower. His eyes landed on your thighs like he couldn’t help himself. “Mhm. Sure.”
You lit up, Jeff’s Wife sparking to life in your fingers, the flame catching with a flick-snap-fwoosh. You took a long pull, lungs tightening around the heat, the lemon-diesel tang clawing in deep before melting sweet and sticky behind your eyes. You held it until the burn went soft, then exhaled, slow and elegant, like you were exorcising tension.
The smoke drifted out of your nose and lips, warm and smooth, curling over your chest and spine like silk ribbons. It made your skin buzz. The kind of high that flooded you. Colors deepened. Shadows breathed. The bass under the looping track hit you just beneath the ribs, syncing with your pulse.
Ben was still watching you.
He hadn’t blinked.
Lips slightly parted, that same grin ghosting at the edges of his mouth, eyes darkened under the green LEDs like the room was built just to spotlight your existence.
You passed the joint back, fingers brushing his, skin grazing skin. His touch was warm. Always was.
“You’re staring,” you said, voice soft but smug, like you already knew the answer.
He didn’t bother denying it. Just smiled again and laughed, like the truth had never been worth hiding.
You kept passing the joint back and forth until the cherry was a tight, angry ember and the paper wore a tar-dark resin ring near the tip. You ghost-lit it twice with Jeff’s Wife when it threatened to canoe, laughing every time Ben pretended to scold you for “over-torching the dome.”
The haze settled around you like a thick velvet curtain, folding time in on itself. First it landed behind your eyes, numbing thought, then bloomed across your scalp like a heat rash made of glitter. Finally, it sank, low and molten, into your limbs. Your muscles unspooled. Your skin buzzed.
The bass under the looping track had melted into your bones. You could feel it under your ribs now, pulsing in sync with your blood like the room had found your frequency.
You shifted slowly, turning to face him, one knee folded beneath you, the other bent toward his hip. The movement dragged your shorts higher, fabric creeping like it had a mind of its own. The soft inside of your thigh brushed against the comforter. You didn’t fix it. Let the fabric stay bunched high. Let gravity have you.
Ben noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze flicked down, mouth, collarbone, chest, hips, thighs, and stuck there. Then it jerked back up, like he’d caught himself and failed to recover in time. Then drifted down again, pulled off-course like a magnet to metal.
You smirked, catching him in real time. “Eyes up, champ.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to defend himself. Just took the joint from your hand and pulled, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled slow. The cherry glowed like a little warning light.
He exhaled, thick and lazy, right between you. Smoke curled in the air, softening the space like static fog.
“Can’t,” he said, voice raspy, grin wide. “It’s too fuckin’ much, baby.”
You raised a brow, but your smile was already tugging at the corners of your mouth. “What is?”
He laughed, the sound low and unguarded. “Everything. All of you.” He squinted, like the green LEDs had suddenly gone too bright, or like looking at you directly was dangerous. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
You gave him your best innocent blink. “What, existing?”
Ben passed the joint back, shaking his head in mock defeat. “Looking like that. Wearing that. Sitting like that.” His voice dropped half an octave. “You’re fucking hot.”
You laughed, but this time there was a crack in it, just a little. The kind that came when you felt seen, and not just as a joke. A heartbeat of honesty pulsed under the high.
“You’re so stoned,” you said, hiding behind the smoke as you took another hit. It clawed at your throat, sweet and sharp, and settled low and warm in your chest.
You exhaled in a soft stream past his shoulder, not looking directly at him now either. Your head floated somewhere above your body, but your limbs felt weighted in the best way.
Ben leaned back against the headboard, one foot flat on the mattress, the other stretched out lazily. His shirt rode up just enough to flash a strip of pale skin above his waistband. A soft line of muscle, shadowed in green. He looked completely relaxed, unguarded in a way that felt rare.
Open. Sprawled wide like he trusted you in his space, or forgot he wasn’t supposed to.
And for one long, weightless moment, you didn’t say anything at all.
You just looked at him. And he looked right back.
And with him leaned back like that, legs spread, shirt hitched, eyes soft, the green LED glow hit him square across the lap.
That’s when you saw it.
The fabric of his sweatpants was tented high, unmistakable, the outline of his cock pressing forward through the thin cotton like it wanted to be caught. Straining, zero deniability.
You stared.
Then blinked.
Then stared harder, because subtlety was dead and weed made honesty feel like gravity.
“Ben,” you said, voice tilting into mock-scandal, “are you seriously hard right now?”
He followed your gaze. Then looked back up at you with a grin that was equal parts boyish and filthy.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You snorted. “That’s not a maybe, that’s a–” You waved a hand at his lap. “–whole situation.”
He spread his hands in mock surrender. “I told you you were hot. You didn’t stop being hot. These are just… natural consequences.”
You reached out with your foot, gave the side of his thigh a playful nudge.
The motion pressed the fabric tighter across his lap, and your laugh cracked out again, half amused, half oh God that’s real.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re curious,” he countered, eyes narrowing like he could see right through your laugh.
Your mouth opened to say no I’m not, but nothing came out. Because you were. High stripped out the buffer between thought and want, and the want was humming now, low and warm, insistent.
The joint had burned down to a roach. You pinched it between your nails, took the last hit, and leaned forward to drop it in the ashtray. He caught your wrist as you were pulling back, lazy-light, just holding. Testing.
“You good?” he asked. No teasing this time. It was a real, genuine question.
You nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“Very.” His thumb brushed your wrist bone. “C’mere.”
You could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, maybe. But the room was hazy and slow, and the softness in his eyes disarmed you. So you shifted closer, knees bumping his thigh, one hand braced near his shoulder. You smelled warm skin, burnt paper and his usual cologne.
He picked up a fresh joint, stuck it between his lips, and sparked it with a lazy flick. The tip flared orange, then settled into a steady glow. He took a long, slow drag, deep enough that his chest rose with it, then leaned back against the pillows, exhaling the first cloud toward the ceiling like a reset. Clearing the air. Or maybe setting the stage.
He looked at you then, eyes low, mouth already curling.
“Shotgun?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. Just leaned in.
He hit it again, slower this time, holding the smoke tight in his lungs. Then he turned to you, mouth parted. One hand reached up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you close.
When your lips met, he exhaled - a slow, steady stream of smoke blown straight into your mouth. It hit first: warm and bitter, sweet around the edges, thick with heat. And then came the kiss, soft but hungry. Like a line you'd both been dancing around for months had just vanished.
You kissed him back.
Slow, exploratory, like you were mapping something sacred. His lips were warm and a little chapped, tasting like weed and lemon and sour candy. Your mouths opened together, just enough for your tongue to flick against his. You caught his bottom lip, pulled slightly, and he made a sound, low, helpless, that landed between your thighs like a dropped match.
His free hand skimmed the curve of your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your crop top. Just holding, touching.
You shifted closer. Your chest brushed his, just enough contact to feel the heat of him through his shirt, just enough to make the fabric of your shorts hike even higher where they bunched at your hips.
You finally pulled back, barely, just enough to breathe.
Both of you were flushed, high, and vibrating. His eyes were dark and wide, pupils swallowing the color. Yours probably looked the same.
“Friends, right?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.
“The bestest of friends, baby,” he agreed, grin crooked. “With… all the right benefits and everything.”
You laughed, nodding.
Your forehead rested against his, breath mingling, skin sticky-warm from the haze and heat. Your thighs burned where they touched him, every point of contact sparking like static. His hand was at your waist, thumb drawing idle circles just under your shirt. You were both buzzing now, high and heady and tipping further into it with every second.
“God, we’re so fucking gone,” you murmured.
Ben chuckled at that. “Yeah. Just how I like it.”
Then he kissed you again.
This one was different, still slow, still playful, but needier. Hungrier. Like now that the seal had been broken, neither of you could pretend not to want more.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, just a smooth shift of hips and hands and suddenly you were straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, weight settled over the obvious swell in his sweats. You felt the hard length of him, thick and twitching under the soft cotton.
You both paused at the contact. His eyes found yours and the look on his face made your stomach flip over itself.
Like you’d just undone him.
“Comfy?” he asked, voice thick, low, amused.
You smiled slowly, then rocked forward just enough to grind, a lazy little shift of pressure that dragged the curve of your body right across the solid length of him.
“Getting there,” you murmured.
His hands moved automatically, like he couldn’t not touch you, palms sliding over your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner curve like he was trying to memorize it. His gaze kept flicking between your mouth and your chest and your hips, like he didn’t know where to look first.
You leaned in and kissed him again.
Your tongue flicked lightly against his and his breath hitched, hands tightening at your waist like he was holding back from doing more, barely. Then his hands moved, slowly, sliding up under your shirt, warm palms dragging over your ribs, until they reached your tits.
He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped softly into his mouth, the contact lighting you up from the inside out.
He groaned, low and needy, and did it again, a little firmer this time, kneading like he needed to memorize the weight of you in his hands. You rocked forward, your body answering instinctively, pressing into his palms.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still tingling, then hooked your fingers under your shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion. Tossed it to the floor without a second thought.
Ben’s breath caught like it punched through his lungs. He stared, lips parted, completely wrecked.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re unreal.”
You smiled, slow and lazy, grabbing his jaw with one hand. “Then do something about it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His mouth landed hot and open against the curve of your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the soft skin before he closed his lips around your nipple and sucked, firm and slow.
Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as the wet pull of his mouth sent a jolt straight to your core. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, holding him there.
He moaned low and guttural, like this was his high, his hit. The vibration of it made you twitch.
Your hand reached blindly for the joint still smoldering in the ashtray. You brought it to your lips and lit it again, the flame kissing the tip just long enough to catch. You took a long, slow drag, deep enough to burn, hot enough to sting.
Smoke spilled from your mouth in a silky stream as his tongue flicked and swirled around your nipple, his hands gripping your waist like he was grounding himself. Your body was already humming, nerves lit up, every inch of skin aching for more.
“Holy fuck, Ben…” you breathed, voice cracked.
He grinned against your skin, teeth grazing you, then leaned back just enough to look up, cheeks flushed, lips slick, eyes wild.
“This is all your fault,” he rasped, voice ruined and teasing. “Coming in here in those shorts…”
You smirked and reached down, dragging your fingers lightly over the hard ridge in his sweats. He gasped, hips twitching up into your hand.
“You’re the one pitching a tent,” you whispered, “not me.”
He chuckled, short and breathless. “Fair.”
Then he sat up, one hand bracing behind him, and tugged his shirt off with the other, tossing it onto the edge of the bed. His torso was lean and pale in the green LED glow, muscles defined just enough to be noticeable when he moved. He was sprawled back, open and exposed, letting you look.
And you did.
Your hand dragged down his chest, over the faint cut of his stomach, pausing right above the waistband of his sweats.
Then you reached lower.
Your fingers curled lightly around the outline of his cock through the soft cotton, teasing just enough to feel the shape of it. Thick, hard.
His breath left in a harsh exhale. “Fuck…”
You looked up at him through your lashes. “Still comfy?”
His laugh came out strangled. “I might die right here.”
You smiled, sweet and slow and sharp, and kept your hand right where it was, just a gentle squeeze to remind him: you weren’t done yet.
His hands returned to your thighs, sliding down the tops, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of your shorts.
“Stand up,” he said.
You raised a brow, but obeyed, sliding off the bed with a lazy stretch and planting your feet at the edge while he stayed reclined, half-propped on his elbows, looking up at you like he’d just paid cover for a private show.
His gaze dragged down your body in one slow, greedy sweep.
“Alright,” he said, voice hoarse. “Let’s see the full damage.”
You laughed at that, your high wrapping around you like a spotlight. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down inch by inch, deliberate, teasing, until they slid over your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles in a lazy heap.
Ben made a sound behind you - half choke, half moan.
You stood there, breathing slow and thick, skin glowing faintly in the green LED wash. The lace of your panties caught the light just enough to glint. They were delicate, semi-sheer, dipped low in the front and high at the hips, hugging your body like they’d been drawn on with intention. Every curve. Every inch. The fabric disappeared between your legs, framing more than it covered.
Ben’s breath caught. His eyes were glassy and wide, pupils blown into darkness.
“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered.
You smirked. Stepped out of the shorts, kicked them aside. “What?”
He gestured vaguely with one hand, the other clutching the bedsheet like he needed something to ground him. “Those panties, fuck… Turn around.”
You blinked, faux-innocent. “Huh?”
He cleared his throat, coughed out a breath. “Do a 360. I need the full damage report.”
You snorted, but spun slowly on the balls of your feet, hips swaying just a little extra as you turned, high enough to forget shame, bold enough to enjoy the effect. When your back faced him, you paused. Let your weight shift to one hip. Let the lace bite in, frame the curve of your ass, draw a map for his hands.
Ben groaned, out loud. A broken, involuntary sound from deep in his chest.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “Put that ass in my face.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth. “You serious?”
He was sprawled now, head tipped back against his pillows, one arm slung behind him, the other curled around the lighter. His cock strained up in his sweats, tenting high and twitching slightly with every lazy pass of his eyes across your body.
“Deadass,” he said, expression completely serious. “Sit on my face. Right now.”
You giggled, high, flushed, and drunk on the absolute wreckage you were causing. “God, you’re such a slut.”
He grinned, unapologetically. “I’m your slut tonight. C’mon, baby. Don’t be shy. Bless me.”
So you did.
You crawled over him with that stoned, feline confidence, every shift of your hips intentional, every glance over your shoulder calculated. You swung one leg over his torso, then the other, straddling his chest with your back to him, knees planted wide on either side of his ribs.
Your ass was facing him - full view, center stage - lace stretched tight and glinting under the LED wash. You felt his breath hitch beneath you, his hands already rising to grip your thighs like he couldn’t believe this was real.
Then you shifted higher, inching back toward his face until you were kneeling over him, thighs bracketing his head now, your weight hovering just above his mouth.
Ben let out a breath like he was bracing for impact.
Your back arched naturally from the position, spine curved, ass fully presented, pussy barely veiled in lace and practically dripping just inches from his face. Not yet touching, just hovering. You paused there. Letting him look. Letting him want.
His hands slid up your thighs, slow, almost reverent, fingertips digging into soft flesh as if to prove this was real. His thumbs pressed into the crease where your thighs met your hips, anchoring you above him. You could practically feel your heartbeat pounding between your thighs.
And then you sank.
The moment your ass pressed down onto his face, just the lace meeting his mouth, Ben let out a deep, guttural groan, muffled, greedy, almost relieved. You felt his breath bloom against you, hot and humid, as he exhaled right into you, like he was inhaling your scent and exhaling something holy.
Then he gently pulled back.
“Hold up,” he rasped, voice cracking under you. “Gimme a second.”
You stayed hovering, thighs trembling slightly from the angle, breath shallow from the anticipation. He shifted beneath you, one hand fumbling at the nightstand until he grabbed another joint. He lit it with a flick, spark-snap, inhale, the flame flaring briefly beneath your thighs as he lit up.
The audacity of it made your stomach twist.
He took a slow pull, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around the joint as he breathed in deep like he was savoring both the smoke and the fact that you were straddling his face.
Then he exhaled right against the lace covering your ass and pussy.
The smoke rolled out of him in a thick, curling stream, winding through the sheer fabric of your panties. The warmth of it hit you in waves: soft, then sharp, then gone, but the heat it left behind buzzed under your skin.
Your thighs flexed. Your hips twitched forward without meaning to.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, voice high and thin, fingers digging into the sheets. “Ben–”
You giggled, half breathless, half overwhelmed, because the whole thing was insane. You were stoned, half-naked, dripping, while this man was lighting up under your ass like it was a fucking altar.
And then he put the joint down.
No more teasing.
He buried his face in you, no hesitation now, mouth pressing firm through the lace. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your weight down until you were fully seated on his face.
His breath came rough and greedy, every exhale hot against your core, every inhale dragging in your scent like oxygen.
You looked over your shoulder and the sight hit you like a punch - his face flushed, eyes glassy and half-lidded, completely lost in you. He looked wild. Like he was grateful to be buried there.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you gasped, still laughing through the high, hips twitching.
In answer, he smacked your ass. Hard.
The sound cracked through the haze, sharp and filthy. You gasped, whole body jolting, skin stinging where his hand landed.
“C’mon,” he growled into the fabric, voice hoarse, “shake that ass a little for me.”
You blinked, heat rushing up your spine. “What?”
“Right here, baby,” he rasped, thumbs digging in deeper. “Just move. Just a little. Right on my fucking face.”
You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, but you did it.
You rocked your hips, slow at first. Just a little grind. Just enough to let the lace drag across his lips and cheekbones.
He groaned beneath you, low and broken, completely gone.
You did it again.
And again.
Your thighs trembled as the pressure built, as his nose pushed hard against the wet patch soaking the lace. You started to move without thinking - slow, swaying circles that fed both of you. You were high, throbbing, heart racing, riding his face like you were chasing something.
Ben reached for the joint again, fumbling one hand off your hip just long enough to bring it to his lips. He hit it hard. Then he exhaled - a thick, warm breath straight against your ass.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled between exhales. “That’s it. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.”
You kept swaying, kept moving your hips just enough to tease, just enough to keep him groaning under you like he could lose it just from the feel of you.
You were shaking. High out of your mind. Pussy soaked. And this man was smoking and moaning and burying his face in your ass like it was his last meal.
“Okay, okay,” you gasped, hands scrambling for his knees as your thighs started to go numb. “You’re gonna make me blackout.”
He pulled back, just enough to breathe, his cheeks red, face wrecked, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked dazed. Like he’d taken a hit of something stronger than weed.
You slid off him, dropping to your knees beside his chest, panting, legs shaking.
Ben blinked up at you like you were something holy, lips parted.
You leaned over and snatched the joint from his fingers, took a long hit, then blew the smoke slow across his chest. “You good?” you asked, smirking.
He nodded, jaw tight, then licked his lips and leaned up on his elbows. “Fuck. Yeah.”
You raised an eyebrow, catching the way his eyes dropped immediately to your tits, bare, nipples peaked, flushed with heat. He adjusted slightly against the pillows, and the motion drew your gaze right back to the problem he was very clearly dealing with: a thick, twitching bulge fighting hard against the fabric of his sweats.
“You look uncomfortable,” you said sweetly.
He gave you that look, cocky, half-lidded, and said, “You could help with that.”
You tilted your head. “Oh yeah?”
“C’mon,” he groaned, hand dragging up his own stomach, breath hitching. “Put that pretty mouth to use, baby.”
You grinned. “So needy.”
He let his head drop back onto the pillows, both arms folding behind it like he was posing for you. “So fucking ready,” he shot back. “C’mon. Be good.”
You moved slow on purpose, fingers to the waistband of his sweats, teasing first, dragging your nails along the edge just enough to make him twitch. Then finally, finally, you hooked both sweats and boxers and pulled them down in one slow motion.
His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip. Thick, heavy, curved just slightly - resting against his lower stomach with a twitch of tension like it couldn’t wait.
You blinked. “Jesus, Ben.”
He just smirked. “Don’t act surprised.”
You giggled again and leaned down, trailing one teasing kiss along his hip, letting your breath ghost along his length without touching. His thighs tensed under you, all muscle and impatience, and his cock twitched again, begging.
“Fuck, baby…” he moaned, voice raspy, “don’t play with me.”
He raised the joint to his lips, hit it slow and deep, then let the smoke roll lazily from his mouth as he met your eyes. “Suck it, I know you want to, come on.”
You laughed, a quiet, wicked thing, and then finally wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and took the tip into your mouth.
Ben groaned, a low broken sound that filled the whole room.
Your tongue circled his head slowly, lapping up the precum before easing further down. Your lips stretched, mouth warm and wet around him. He tasted like skin and salt and faint weed resin from your own breath. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails dragging lightly, and he shuddered.
Above you, he watched, arm still behind his head, joint dangling from two fingers now, eyes glued to the way you moved.
“Holy fuck,” he groaned. “That mouth is too good.”
You hummed around him, sinking down farther, slow, smooth, letting him feel every inch of tongue and spit and suction. He bucked just slightly, thighs twitching, breath catching in his throat.
“Oh my god,” he gasped. “Yes. Just like that, fuck.”
He took another hit, shakier this time, and exhaled with his mouth hanging open as you swallowed him deeper. His cock throbbed against your tongue, thick and hot, and you could feel the tension in his abs start to lock tight.
You pulled off just enough to flick your tongue under his head, your hand stroking him slick while you looked up and said, voice hoarse: “You’re not gonna finish already, are you? You haven’t even seen my pussy yet.”
He groaned hard, dropping his arms and gripping the sheets now like he was falling apart. “I want–fuck–I want everything.”
You smirked, then dropped your mouth back down and gave him exactly that.
You sucked him just a little longer - slow, deep, wet strokes that had his thighs trembling and breath stuttering. Your tongue dragged under his cock, lips pulling tight around the shaft, spit dripping as you bobbed, moaning low just to feel the way it made him twitch.
Your ass was up, arched, back curved in the perfect angle, and fuck, you knew exactly what you were doing. You could feel his eyes on you, glued to the way your hips rolled slightly with every movement, the way the lace of your panties stretched over your ass, sheer and teasing.
Ben let out a breathless moan, one of those completely undone sounds, and rasped, “Jesus… fuck, I love that view.”
You popped off his cock slowly with a wet slurp, licking your lips as you looked up at him. His chest was rising and falling fast, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other still loosely holding what was left of the joint.
“Break time,” you said sweetly, crawling up his body like a cat. You landed in his lap and plucked the joint from his fingers and took a hit.
He grinned, eyes glassy, mouth still open a little. “There you go, baby. Hit it.”
You exhaled over his mouth before kissing him again.
The kiss was smoky and indulgent. Your tongue flicked his, slow and open, letting him taste himself on your mouth. Ben groaned into it, hands sliding up your waist like he needed to anchor you to him. His grip tightened like he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away.
But you pulled back, just slightly, hips rolling in slow, sinful circles over the thick line of his cock, pushing up tight against the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You tryna kill me?”
You rolled your hips again, just enough to make him twitch under you. “Mmh. Not yet.”
Then his voice went lower, rough and ruined: “Ride me, baby.”
You blinked down at him, feigning surprise.
“From behind,” he added quickly, licking his lips. “Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass bounce. C’mon. I need it.”
You grinned down at him, slow and wicked. “Need it, huh?”
“Yes.” The word hit like a confession, ragged and raw. “Need to feel you take it like that. Need to see you own my dick. I wanna watch every fuckin’ second.”
Your smirk deepened. You leaned in until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear.
“Good boy,” you purred.
Ben’s eyes blew wide. Pupils dilated. His breath caught like you'd just yanked the soul from his body with just those two words.
You leaned down, dragging your tits across his chest until your nipples brushed his lips, and he latched on instantly. Mouth hot and hungry, sucking at your tits like he needed it to survive. The sensation made your thighs tremble.
You cooed softly, threading your fingers through his hair with one hand. “You always this obedient?”
He moaned into your chest, mouth full, eyes fluttering. “Only for you.”
You smirked again, dragging the moment out like honey. Then, with slow purpose, you reached down, thumbs hooking beneath the waistband of your panties.
You peeled them down - hips swaying, lace dragging over your thighs, past your knees, until they dropped soft and delicate beside the bed.
You held still, letting him look. Letting him see you fully bare, flushed, slick with want.
“Better?” you whispered.
Ben’s voice cracked. “So much better.”
You rewarded him with a slow grind against his cock, slick heat sliding over the length of him, coating him with every wet pass of your hips.
Then you leaned forward, kissed his forehead, sweet and mock-innocent, and turned around with slow, theatrical grace.
You pivoted in his lap, facing away now, knees planting on either side of his hips. The movement made your back arch naturally, ass settling over him in full view, your hands braced on his thighs for balance.
You reached between your legs, fingers curling around his hard and swollen cock, and guided him toward your entrance. You didn’t take him in yet. Just let the swollen head kiss your folds, sliding slowly through your slick, teasing both of you with the pressure and heat.
Ben choked. “Holy fuck.”
You looked over your shoulder, grinning. “Enjoying the view?”
He nodded like it physically hurt to wait. “Please, baby. Bounce on me. I need it.”
You sank down slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every stretch, every shiver, every tight, hot drag of your body as you took him in.
He filled you, thick and deep, your walls gripping him as your hands braced on his knees and your head dropped forward with a breathless, guttural moan.
Behind you, Ben was losing it.
Groaning like a man possessed, hands grabbing at your ass, hips twitching up just to meet you, already ruined and begging for more.
You rocked your hips, slow at first. Letting him feel it. Letting yourself feel it - the stretch, the slide, the slick rhythm building in your core.
Then you started to ride.
And the sound of it? Skin on skin. Wet. Rhythmic. The slap of your ass against his thighs with every bounce. You could hear his breath falter - every inhale jagged, every exhale laced with curses and praise.
“Goddamn,” he panted. “That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
You looked over your shoulder, voice breathless, lips parted in a smirk. “Enjoying it baby?”
Then you picked up the pace.
Ben’s hands went wild - gripping and smacking and guiding. He watched every movement, helpless beneath you, eyes glued to the curve of your spine, the bounce of your ass, the way your pussy swallowed him over and over again.
“Fuck,” he moaned, head tossing back. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”
You rode him like you were made for it, hips rolling, thighs burning, your breath hitching with every wet slam of your body onto his. His cock hit deep, thick and pulsing, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust.
The high turned everything glowing. Slow and sharp at the same time, your nerves screaming in color, the pleasure a wave cresting higher with every grind.
Ben was wrecked beneath you.
Hair plastered to his forehead. Mouth open. Hands glued to your ass.
His voice kept running, hoarse and reverent. “Fuck, baby… you're fucking perfect. This ass, Jesus, it’s like you knew what you were doing coming in here wearing those skanky ass shorts.”
You laughed, breath catching. “I did know.”
He smacked your ass, hard, and you gasped, clenching around him, the sudden sting sending sparks straight to your core.
“Fuck–Ben!”
“That’s right,” he growled, driving up into you now, matching your pace with desperate thrusts. “Say my name while you bounce.”
You whined, voice high and broken, rhythm faltering, not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure building deep in your belly. That hot ache. That pull. The knot winding tighter with every slap of skin and every rough, perfect stretch of him inside you.
And that’s when he shifted, suddenly grabbing your waist, voice low and rough.
“My turn.”
You blinked, breath catching. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sat up, pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, then bit your shoulder lightly. “Get on all fours, baby. Time for some backshots.”
You obeyed instantly, too high and desperate to argue, crawling forward with shaky hands and arching your back for him - ass in the air, thighs trembling, soaked and ready. You felt him shift behind you, hands roaming, gripping, one spreading you open while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked it slowly, letting the head glide through your slick folds.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice shaking. “Fuck, I could stare at this all night.”
You giggled in response, wiggling your hips in invitation.
He lined himself up, notching the head at your entrance, and then pushing into you in one smooth, hard thrust.
You moaned, face pressed into the sheets, hands fisting the blankets as he bottomed out.
“Fuuuck,” he growled behind you, voice wrecked. “So tight. So fucking wet. Shit.”
He pulled back, then slammed in again, harder this time, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. He found a rhythm quick, pounding into you with the force of every high, every tease, every bit of tension you’d been building all night.
You were a mess beneath him, moaning openly, back arching deeper with every slap of skin on skin. The way he filled you was obscene - thick, deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body twitch.
And the sounds, wet and messy. His hips slapping into you. His groans. Your cries. The slap of his palm against your ass, again and again, leaving stinging heat behind.
“Take it, baby,” he growled, hands fisting your hair now, yanking your head up slightly. “Fucking take it. This what you came here for, huh? Wanted to tease me and then ride me like a slut?”
You gasped, eyes rolling back. “Yes–fuck, yes, Ben–don’t stop–!”
He groaned, deep and shaky. “That’s it. Let me fuck this perfect little pussy like you fucking deserve. Loud and messy, baby. Just like us.”
He didn’t stop. Just kept pounding you from behind, one hand gripping your hip so hard it’d bruise.
Ben was deep in it - hips snapping, fucking you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The rhythm was relentless now, his cock hitting all the right spots, his voice rough with heat and weed and need.
He smacked your ass hard and moaned, “Fucking look at you–bouncing like that, pussy so tight–I can’t–fuck–”
You didn’t even have time to respond.
His thrusts stuttered, body locking behind you, and with a strangled groan, he pulled out at the last second - just enough to let himself spill all over your ass in hot, heavy ropes. His moans were deep and broken, every drop of cum landing sticky against your skin as he trembled through it.
You blinked, still catching your breath, still high, still aching.
He collapsed back onto the mattress, panting. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
You looked over at him slowly, grinning. “Wow.”
Ben covered his face with both hands. “Don’t. I swear to God.”
“Oh no, I’m absolutely going to.” You sat up on your knees, turning to look down at him with mock-disbelief. “You didn’t even make me cum, dude.”
He peeked at you from between his fingers, looking sheepish and cocky all at once. “Okay, but that ass? That wasn’t fair. You can’t just look like that and expect me to hold it together.”
You gave him a look. “So what, I get left high and dry?”
Ben blinked once, then twice - then sat up, expression shifting into something darker, focused. “Hell no. I saved the best for last.”
You arched a brow. “Oh?”
“C’mere.” He was already laying back down, arms open, mouth parted, voice low and hungry. “Ride my face. Let me give it back to you.”
You laughed, high and breathless and already climbing over him. “Knew I could count on you.”
But before you could move into position, you paused, suddenly very aware of the cum running down your lower back and ass. “Hold up,” you muttered, twisting just enough to grab the first thing within reach: his crumpled T-shirt, half hanging off the bed. You wiped yourself off with slow, absent swipes, dragging the fabric across your skin, catching traces of heat and stickiness. Ben watched from below, dazed and fascinated, like even the clean-up was hot. When you were satisfied, and his shirt thoroughly ruined, you tossed it aside and climbed fully over him.
He grabbed your waist the second you were close, guiding you up over his mouth, eyes dark and starving. You hovered for half a second, teasing, just to watch him squirm.
“Don’t you fucking dare play now,” he growled, hands tightening. “Sit down, baby. Let me make you cum like you deserve.”
You sank down slowly, facing him, thighs bracketing his head, and the second your pussy made contact with his mouth, he groaned into you. His tongue licked a broad stripe through your folds, and your hips bucked instinctively.
“Fuck–Ben–”
He moaned like you were feeding him something sacred, wrapping his arms around your thighs and locking you down as his tongue worked deep, long licks, then short flicks against your clit, then sucking, then licking again like he couldn’t get enough. He was loud about it, sloppy, like he didn’t care how wrecked he sounded or looked.
You grabbed his head for balance, hips rolling gently against his mouth, moaning high and shaky with every flick of his tongue.
He didn’t. If anything, he got more intense, hands sliding up to grip your hips and hold you still as he sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed like he was high off your moans alone.
You looked down at him, face half-shadowed, mouth open under you, eyes barely open, consumed. He was devouring you. Making up for cumming early with every stroke of his tongue like he was trying to erase the mistake.
You started shaking.
Your thighs clenched around his head.
The pressure in your stomach snapped.
You whimpered, hips grinding hard against his mouth as your orgasm hit, white-hot and shattering, making you collapse against the headboard, whole body trembling as his mouth stayed on you, licking through every twitch and aftershock.
You finally pulled back, breathless, hips trembling, thighs soaked.
Ben looked up at you, face shining, lips swollen, still panting.
“I win,” he whispered.
You slid down next to him and punched his chest lightly. “Only ‘cause I let you.”
He grinned, all teeth, completely fucked out. “Nah, babe. I earned that one.”
The room was quiet now, except for the low loop of the playlist and the sound of your breathing, uneven but slowly settling. The air was still thick with smoke, sex, and sweat, but softer now, warmer. Your limbs were jelly. Your skin tingled. Your brain was floating somewhere between holy fuck and I regret nothing.
You were laying beside him on the bed, one arm over your eyes, chest still rising and falling in slow, shaky waves. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Ben laughed next to you, his voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “You’re welcome.”
You peeked at him from under your arm. He was grinning, stretched out, completely bare, hair a mess, his face still flushed from all the effort he’d poured into eating you like a man on death row. He looked proud.
You smacked his chest lightly. “You came in like two minutes.”
“Okay,” he said, raising a finger, “but it was an elite two minutes. And I made up for it.”
You grinned, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. “You did. I’ll allow it.”
You both laid there for a beat, catching your breath, the silence not awkward but earned. You let your hand drift across his stomach lazily, tracing little shapes in the sweat-slick skin.
Ben reached for the nightstand and grabbed a fresh joint from the tray. He popped it between his lips and patted around until he found Jeff’s Wife.
He sparked it up, the familiar flick-snap-fwoosh breaking the quiet, and took a long, smooth hit. He exhaled toward the ceiling, then passed it to you without looking, like muscle memory.
You took it, inhaled deep, let it buzz through your lungs, then blew a stream of smoke out across his chest. “This is gonna hit so much harder now.”
He groaned. “I know. My body’s already vibrating.”
You giggled and rolled halfway onto him, leg thrown over his thigh, chest against his side. His arm wrapped around you like it always did, natural, like this wasn’t new. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d both turned a friendly little blaze session into a full-blown face-sitting, dick-sucking mess.
The joint passed back and forth in silence for a while, your breath syncing to his. The music kept humming. The lights kept glowing. The haze thickened, but everything felt still.
Then Ben spoke, voice quiet, amused. “We should add this to the weekly agenda. Blaze, bounce, bond.”
You rolled your eyes and pressed your face into his neck. “Shut up and pass the joint.”
He handed it over, and you both faded back into the stillness, warm skin against warm skin, smoke curling around your bodies like a blanket.
And for the first time all night, neither of you had anything more to say.
Just two… friends.
High.
Wrecked.
And satisfied.
Epilogue
The next day, Ben was posted up in front of his setup, headset slung around his neck, chair leaned so far back it looked like he might slide out of it. His screen glowed with some half-paused game, but his hands weren’t moving. He was just sitting there, totally still, totally zoned, with a crooked little smile tugging at his lips.
He looked like a guy who’d just won the lottery.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the LEDs. Jeff barged in, shirt twisted like he lost a fight with it, breathing like he ran halfway across the house. “Yo. Where the fuck is my lighter? Don’t make me start flipping shit.”
Ben didn’t answer. Just blinked real slow, smile not fading.
Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that shit. Don’t do the quiet little idiot smile. You seen it or not? The black one. With the big-tittied cartoon bitch on the side. My wife.”
Ben finally turned his head. Lazy. Like it took effort. “Iunno. Maybe she ran off with someone better.”
Jeff squinted. “...Why the fuck are you smiling like that?”
Silence.
Jeff paused. “Wait. Wait.” Then he groaned like he already knew.
“No fucking way,” he said, pointing. “That’s a post-nut smile. Bro. Who the fuck’d you bag?”
Ben just smirked wider and leaned back even more, stretching like a cat. “Hey man, I don’t kiss and tell. But damn…”
“Don’t fuckin’ play with me, dude. Who was it?” Jeff was circling the room now like the answer was hidden in the furniture. “Did someone actually ride your gross little dick?”
Ben gave him a slow, deliberate nod - the kind that said, oh yeah.
Jeff stared. “Was it…?”
Then his jaw dropped. “No. No fucking way.”
Ben just licked his lips and stayed quiet.
Jeff grabbed the back of the gaming chair, staring down at him. “You fucked Y/n?!”
Ben didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His smirk said it all.
Jeff took a step back like he was physically offended. “What the fuck. How the hell did you pull that?”
Ben shrugged one shoulder, smug and unbothered. “She came over to blaze.”
Jeff blinked. “You’re telling me you got to hit that off a fuckin’ joint and a playlist?”
Ben grinned. “Didn’t even play a full album, bro.”
Jeff made a noise like he’d just been shot. “Unreal. That ass is crazy. You could bounce a quarter off that thing and it'd hit orbit.”
Ben’s voice dropped into that cocky murmur. “I didn’t bounce shit.” He paused. “It bounced on me.”
Jeff grabbed his head like he was in pain. “You felt it?”
Ben leaned forward, arms on his knees, eyes glinting. “Both hands. Full grip. Sat on my face. Twice.”
Jeff just stared, mouth open. “Twice? You ate it?”
Ben blinked, deadpan. “Would again.”
Jeff exhaled like a man defeated. “Jesus fuck, man. I’ve been trying to get a look at her tits through a hoodie for six months and you’ve got her reverse cowgirl on your head like a fuckin’ carnival ride.”
Ben laughed, full chest, satisfied, lit up from the inside out.
Jeff shook his head, muttering. “She let you hit? Shit. I gotta start brushing my hair or something. Fuckin’ embarrassing…”
Ben leaned back in his chair again, stretching, arms behind his head. “Too late. You’re not her type.”
CW: Sexual content, stalking, emotional abuse, dubious consent, power imbalance, obsessive behavior, physical discomfort, animal death.
Summary: You ran from him in the woods - a scared little bunny. He followed you, watched, waited. Now you're his.
Wordcount: 14k
The woods weren’t supposed to be this dark.
You regretted the shortcut almost immediately. What had been a winding trail through crisp autumn color earlier in the afternoon was now reduced to a narrow ribbon of gravel, slick with wet leaves, cutting through a wall of skeletal trees. The moonlight barely pierced the canopy, and every gust of November wind stirred the branches like whispers - low and taunting.
Your pink kitten heels clicked unevenly on the gravel, the sound sharp and lonely. The heels weren’t made for this kind of terrain. Not even close. You stumbled every few steps, ankle wobbling precariously on a stone or root, nearly twisting more than once. A quiet curse left your lips, fogging in the cold air.
You hadn’t meant to be out so late. The party had dragged on - loud music, flashing lights, too much warmth packed into one buzzing living room. You’d stayed longer than planned, chatting with people you half-knew, sipping something sweet and fizzy out of a red plastic cup. It had been fun, in a hollow sort of way. But after a while, the laughter got too loud, the dancing too close, and you needed air.
So you left.
The long way home would’ve meant another forty minutes by the road, and your feet already ached in your kitten heels. You’d taken the shortcut through the woods before, during daylight - it was quiet, direct, always empty. Tonight, the cold dark gave it a different shape entirely. But you told yourself it was fine. Just a few minutes. A little eerie, maybe, but manageable.
Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, the warmth of your jacket not quite enough. The skirt you wore - cute at the party, less ideal now - fluttered faintly with the wind, tugging at your black sheer tights. One knee bore the evidence of an earlier scrape, the thin nylon ripped just enough to show skin. You hadn't thought twice about it then.
You should’ve taken the longer route.
Your AirPods were still in, low music thrumming in your ears, some melancholy synth-pop tune to drown out the oppressive quiet. But you were too aware of your surroundings to be soothed. Your head kept turning, scanning the black between the trees. You told yourself you were being paranoid.
And then you saw him.
You stopped.
He was just… there, standing a dozen feet ahead of you on the trail like he’d risen from the shadows themselves. One foot still in mid-step, like he had been walking the opposite direction, and had stopped exactly when you came into view.
You froze.
Your stomach dropped, a primal instinct flaring before your thoughts even caught up. Your eyes flicked over him - frantic. He didn’t move.
Converse. Gloves. A thick dark jacket pulled low over his arms. Some kind of industrial mouth guard strapped across the bottom half of his face. And goggles pushed up on his head, like he hadn’t needed them in the dark.
You couldn’t see his eyes, not clearly - but you could feel them.
Locked on you.
Every nerve in your body screamed to run, but your feet were stuck. Your fingers clenched tighter around your own arms, breath puffing faster now in the cold.
He tilted his head slightly. Just a little. Like a curious animal.
Toby had just been walking. The woods were his - they always had been. The silence suited him. His tics didn’t echo here, didn’t bounce off walls or draw attention. The cold numbed his thoughts, and he liked that. Liked feeling far away from himself.
And then you came clattering into his world like a siren in a snowstorm.
At first, it was the noise. Your uneven steps, the awkward click-clack of those ridiculous heels. He heard them long before he saw you - like the skitter of something fragile and out of place. Curious, he slowed his steps, instinct guiding him toward the sound.
And then the wind shifted.
Your scent hit him like a truck.
He staggered.
Warm skin. Sweet perfume, faint hint of vanilla and something floral. Soap still lingering in your hair. The kind of scent that wasn’t meant to exist out here in the pines. Not meant for him.
Then he saw you.
His heart thudded once - hard. A pulse like a punch in his chest.
You were beautiful in a way that hurt. Skirt swaying. That little rip in your tights drawing his eyes like a magnet - his gaze dragged there and stuck. You didn’t even know how good that looked, did you? The way the nylon gave way just enough to show skin? You were flushed from the cold, hair tousled and wild from the wind, lips parted slightly in the chill.
And those shoes.
Tiny little heels, delicate and dumb, scuffed and muddy now. The way you stumbled in them made something twist in his gut.
He didn’t move. He didn’t want to scare you. But he couldn’t stop staring.
And then - oh. He saw it.
You were scared.
You didn’t scream - not yet - but your body betrayed you. Shoulders drawn up, chin tucking slightly, pupils wide. You’d stopped breathing for a second, didn’t you? He knew what fear looked like. He’d seen it a hundred times. But on you…
God. It was different.
Toby felt it like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter in his chest.
He twitched. Shoulder first, then his neck. A tic, sharp and jerking. His glove tightened reflexively on the handle of the hatchet strapped to his side - the one with the orange handle. He didn’t draw it. But he knew you saw it.
He wanted to say something. He opened his mouth - forgot about the guard for a second - then caught himself. He couldn’t let you see what was underneath.
You shifted your weight, finally drawing a shaky breath. The wind picked up, swirling your hair across your cheek like a slow-motion frame in some dream. Or a nightmare.
You pulled one AirPod out with trembling fingers.
“…Hi?”
Small voice. Careful.
Toby swallowed behind the mask. His tics flared hard. His head twitched to the side again, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, halting, muffled by the metal guard.
“You… y-you shouldn’t–b-be out h-h-here…”
The stutter was worse than usual. It always was around people. But with you, it felt like his mouth forgot how to be a mouth. Everything in him was short-circuiting.
Your brows furrowed, that uncertain mix of polite concern and get away from me. You took a half-step back.
He saw it.
And still he couldn’t move.
He wanted to follow you. Wanted to walk right up and run a gloved finger along that tear in your tights and ask if it hurt. Wanted to see if you’d look at him with that same expression if you knew what was under the mask. If you knew how many others had frozen like that before they stopped breathing entirely.
But he didn’t. He was glued to the spot.
You took another step back.
Then another - quicker this time, panic flaring in your chest like a struck match. You didn’t even care about the noise your heels made now. You just needed space. You needed to be away from him, from that thing in the mouth guard with goggles pushed up on his head and something dangerous strapped to his side.
Your breath was coming faster, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Your fingers were trembling as they clutched your jacket tighter, like that would protect you somehow. Your mind was screaming–
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is happening–
You muttered it aloud without realizing. “Jesus–fuck, okay–just walk, keep walking, it’s fine, it’s fine, he’s just–some guy, he’s not gonna–”
You didn’t believe your own words.
You could feel your heartbeat now, not just in your chest but in your throat, pounding like a war drum. It choked your breath, made your legs weak. The man - whoever he was - hadn’t moved. Not a step. But that made it worse. The stillness was wrong. Like a predator waiting for you to turn.
And then it happened.
As you were walking backwards, your eyes never leaving him, your heel caught on something - a raised root, maybe a rock - and you stumbled with a yelp, arms flailing. Your ankle twisted with a sharp jolt of pain and the world tilted, and before you could catch yourself, your feet went out from under you entirely.
You landed hard on your ass, gravel and wet leaves scraping against your tights and bare skin beneath the tear. Your hands hit the ground behind you, catching your fall, but the shock still rocked through your spine.
No no no–
You scrambled to sit up, fingers sliding in mud and bark. Your legs were bent awkwardly under your skirt, the wind biting at your exposed skin. Your throat made a high, panicked sound - not quite a scream, more like a breath that didn’t know where to go.
You looked up.
He was still there.
Watching.
Silent.
You saw his shoulders twitch. Just slightly. A sharp jerk, like a flinch he didn’t control.
Toby’s breath caught when you fell. It wasn’t the sound - though the gasp and the crunch of leaves had sent a jolt down his spine - it was the sight.
You on the ground.
Disheveled. Scared. Vulnerable.
His eyes locked on your legs again - bent beneath you, your skirt hitched slightly, those tights ripped wider now, the tear stretched, the exposed patch of skin marked with tiny red scrapes. You looked like you’d been touched by the forest itself. Like it had tried to claim you.
And he–
God, he wanted to.
He was practically vibrating now. His gloves twitched at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. The hatchet at his hip felt heavier, like it knew.
And then he finally moved.
It was so sudden that your breath caught mid-gasp.
No warning - just a sharp twitch, a step forward, and then he was coming toward you. Not walking. Stalking. His movements were uneven, erratic, somehow both stiff and fluid. His feet hit the gravel with a crunch that sounded far too loud in the quiet woods. The wind rushed through the trees above, and still, all you could hear was the beat of your own terror in your chest and the heavy, deliberate sound of his approach.
You couldn’t even scream. You were frozen, bracing, a deer watching headlights. He was so much taller up close - broad in the shoulders, his arms held out slightly as he twitched, neck snapping once to the left with a brutal jerk.
And then - worst of all - he knelt.
Right in front of you.
No hesitation. Just dropped to his knees in the wet dirt like it meant nothing. His body still shaking, twitching violently - uncontrolled, constant. Like a machine with the wires torn out. And he reached for you.
“No–” you breathed, flinching, trying to crawl back, but your hands slipped on the cold leaves.
His gloved hands were suddenly on your leg.
Your scraped-up, exposed skin where your tights had torn. His touch wasn’t gentle - but it wasn’t rough, either. Just… curious. Intent. Fingers tracing the blood-speckled fabric, hovering just over the raw skin. The contact made you flinch so hard your back arched.
And you started crying.
Silent at first - just tears spilling without sound, slipping down your cheeks while your throat locked. But then your breath hitched, a tiny sob breaking free.
He saw.
His hand stilled. His head twitched sharply to one side, and then - slowly - he leaned forward and wiped the tear from your face with the back of his glove.
He looked… confused. Like he didn’t understand it. Like he didn’t understand you.
Then he mumbled something - almost inaudible beneath the mouth guard, voice warped and low, nearly swallowed by the wind:
“S-scared little b-bunny…”
Your heart stopped.
You didn’t know what possessed you.
Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream like a drug. Your vision tunneled. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, louder than your music, louder than the wind.
And in a flash of white-hot, terrified clarity - you moved.
You kicked him.
Hard.
Your foot connected with the center of his chest, right over his ribs - right between those stupid straps and layers. And for one horrible second, nothing happened.
Then he stumbled.
He hadn’t expected it - not at all. He fell backward into the dirt with a harsh, choked sound, limbs flailing, one leg twitching out sharply as he hit the ground. You didn’t wait to see if he got back up.
Your hands went to your feet, fingers yanking the straps of your kitten heels loose, ripping them off with ragged movements. A buckle broke. One heel went flying into the brush.
And then you were up.
Running.
Barefoot. Legs burning. Skirt flapping. Cold air clawing at your face as branches whipped past, the tights on the bottoms of your feet tearing with every desperate step - splitting open against gravel and sticks, skin scraping raw beneath them.
You didn’t dare look back.
Not even once.
You just ran.
And you didn’t stop running.
Not when the trail curved, not when your lungs burned, not even when sharp gravel embedded itself into your bare feet through the shredded remnants of your tights. Every crack of a branch behind you sounded like a footstep. Every gust of wind felt like it carried breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.
Your street came into view like a mirage - that familiar bend, the old lamppost buzzing faintly in the night. The porch light on your front stoop glowed soft and yellow, like a distant lighthouse.
You stumbled up the steps, nearly tripping on your own numb feet.
Fumbling.
Keys. Where were your keys–?
Your fingers were shaking so badly you almost dropped them. The moment the lock clicked, you shoved the door open, slammed it behind you, and turned the deadbolt so hard it rattled the frame. Then the chain. Then the second lock.
Only when it was done did you let yourself breathe.
You backed away from the door, heartbeat thudding painfully in your chest. Your hands hovered at your sides, twitching, still ready to move, still ready to fight even though you were home. Even though you were safe.
And then it all crashed in.
Your knees gave out.
You collapsed right there in the entryway, half on the doormat, half on the cold wood floor, your torn tights crumpled beneath you, scraped feet stinging now that you were still. Your body trembled with leftover adrenaline, and a sound slipped from your lips - broken and dazed.
“…What the fuck…”
It came out as barely more than a whisper. Then again.
“…What the fuck…”
You wrapped your arms around yourself, curling into a loose ball on the floor, the warmth of the house not touching you yet. Every blink brought flashes of him - the goggles, the twitching, the voice. That low, garbled mumble:
Scared little bunny.
Your breath hitched.
You didn’t know what that was. Who that was. Or why he had just let you go. But you knew this: he’d touched you like he wanted to keep you. And that terrified you more than anything else.
A week passed.
The bruises faded. The scrapes scabbed over. You bought new tights, threw the old ones away without even thinking. You told yourself you were fine. And maybe… you almost were.
You didn’t tell anyone. What would you even say? That some twitching, masked stranger came out of the woods like a glitch in reality and stared at you like he was memorizing your face? That he touched you like a child studying a butterfly - gentle and fascinated - but held a hatchet on his hip like it was a third limb?
It didn’t make sense out loud.
So you buried it. You worked. You cleaned. You met a friend for coffee and laughed a little too loud. You avoided the woods. You didn’t even glance down that path when you passed the edge of it.
You made yourself a promise: never again.
It was just a one-time thing. A freak incident.
You were safe now.
You almost believed it.
Until the morning everything broke again.
You were halfway out the door, travel mug in hand, scarf slung over your shoulder, when you opened your front door–
And froze.
There, sitting neatly on your porch like a fucking offering, were the pink kitten heels.
Your pink kitten heels.
The ones you’d ripped off your feet and left behind in the forest like a discarded second skin. Still dirty. Still scuffed. One of the buckles was hanging on by a thread, stretched from the way you’d torn them loose in a panic.
You stared.
Your heart didn’t race at first. It stopped.
The mug slipped from your hand and hit the floor inside the doorway, splashing lukewarm coffee across the tile. You didn’t even flinch.
There was no note. No message. Nothing else.
Just the shoes.
Perfectly lined up.
Waiting.
Your breath hitched sharply, and you stumbled backward, hand flying to your mouth like it would stop the scream rising in your throat. You slammed the door shut with a loud, shaking bang and fumbled with the locks, turning them all in a rush, breath coming in ragged gasps.
He had been here.
Not just here - at your home.
He knew where you lived.
You backed away from the door until your spine hit the wall, and then you slid to the floor, trembling all over again like it was that night in the woods.
You didn’t know it, but you were being watched.
From across the road - just past the edge of the property line, where the perfectly trimmed lawns gave way to dense, quiet trees. That sliver of forest that always felt a little too close. A little too dark, even during the day.
He was standing there, half-concealed behind a wide-bellied tree, just far enough to be hidden in the green, just close enough to see everything.
Toby’s body was still, but twitching.
His gloved fingers curled around the rough bark. His head tilted ever so slightly to the right, goggles catching faint reflections of your porch light as he stared across the quiet street. Breathing heavy. Focused.
He had been watching since before dawn.
He wanted to see your face.
He thought about it all week - your reaction. Would you smile? Cry? Whisper “thank you” to the sky like some girl in a dream who understood him?
Instead, you flinched. You recoiled like he’d slapped you. Hid from the gift he left you with shaking hands.
His head twitched. Shoulders jerking. The breath in his mask hitched sharply.
He didn’t understand.
Wasn’t this what you wanted?
He’d returned what you’d lost. The shoes. The part of you that had touched him - scraped skin and nylon and fear. It had felt like a connection. Like the start of something.
But now…
His gloves clenched on the ledge beneath him, leather creaking faintly.
You were afraid. Afraid of him.
Not grateful. Not soft. Not like before.
And worse - maybe even angry.
He could see it in the way your jaw clenched, the way your shoulders shook with something other than just fear.
Toby didn’t know what to do with that.
But one thing he did know: He wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
He stayed there long after you were gone.
Still, breathing shallow behind the trees, watching your front door like it might swing open again. Like maybe you’d come out and correct your reaction - smile, laugh, thank him, say his name (even though you didn’t know it yet).
But you didn’t.
And when the sun finally rose a little higher, and the warmth of the morning light began to wash over the neighborhood like nothing had happened - Toby turned.
He slipped back into the woods like smoke.
Each step deeper into the treeline made his breathing sharper. Harder. His jaw clicked audibly beneath the mouth guard, a tic slamming through his neck that jerked his head hard to the right.
She doesn’t get it.
The thought looped, over and over, like a corrupted tape. His hands twitched at his sides as he walked, gloves flexing and unflexing.
You had looked perfect that night. Lost and soft and afraid - a little bunny, alone in the woods. Your skin scraped, your legs trembling, tights torn like a gift. That look in your eyes. That tremble in your breath. And he had touched you. You’d let him.
His mind replayed the memory on an endless loop, each detail etched into his brain like acid. The way your leg shook under his gloved fingers. The hitch in your breathing as his hands roamed. He felt his dick twitch at the images in his head, his brain carrying him away with fantasies of you - how it would have felt if he’d forced himself on your trembling body, ripped those tights to shreds, shoved his dick into your wet– Fuck.
He adjusted his pants, a sigh escaping his lips. He had work to attend to, but he promised himself he was going to jerk off later. To thoughts of you, of course.
As he was walking, he wondered why you seemed to hate him. He didn’t understand. Hadn’t he been gentle? Hadn’t he returned what you dropped? Something you left behind - for him?
He stomped through a patch of wet leaves and bark, almost stumbling. His shoulder spasmed hard.
Maybe you were scared. Too scared. That made sense. You were delicate. He knew that. You needed more time. You needed… gestures. Proof. A way to feel safe with him. Comfortable. Seen.
He could give you that. He would.
You didn’t leave your house. The whole day.
The shoes were still there.
That’s what made your stomach churn every time you crept past the window - every time you dared to peek through the blinds. Those same pink kitten heels sat exactly where you’d found them. Neatly placed. One buckle still broken, fabric still smudged with dirt from that night.
He hadn’t taken them back.
He hadn’t added to them.
He’d just… left them.
Like a warning. Or a reminder.
And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
What if he was watching to see what you’d do with them? What if the moment you touched them, it meant something - to him?
So you didn’t. You left them untouched. Like rotting fruit on an altar.
The rest of the house became a tomb. Every lock checked and rechecked. The TV played in the background constantly, noise to drown out the silence. You didn't dare go for a walk. You barely answered your phone.
But night was the worst.
Your bedroom sat on the second floor, nestled in the back corner of the house - the window facing the line of trees where the wild overgrowth began. You’d always loved that view. Loved leaving the curtains open just to let the morning sun in.
This time though, you’d pulled the curtains - thin and white and mostly decorative - but they didn’t shut all the way. There was a gap. A sliver. You’d meant to fix it a dozen times, get new, wider curtains.
But now that sliver of a gap might as well have been a gaping wound.
Because through that gap, framed in pale cotton and warm lamplight, you could be seen. Every movement. You stood in the middle of the room, too tired and shaken to think straight, peeling off your clothes like normal. Your shirt went first, arms lifting, skin catching the warm glow of your bedside lamp. Then the jeans, sliding down your hips, pooling on the floor. You sighed - just a human sound, unaware, exhausted.
You didn’t realize you were being watched.
From the woods across the backyard, hidden deep in the brush just beyond the edge of your garden lights, he stood.
Toby.
He’d been there for hours.
Motionless but twitching. Goggles catching faint moonlight. His shoulders jerked occasionally, one leg kicking the ground with irregular spasms, but his gaze - his gaze never left you.
He saw everything.
The bare stretch of your back. The delicate curve of your thighs. The way your panties hugged your hips - pale and soft and cut high, cheeky little things that rode up as you moved. Your ass was perfect. He stared like he was starving. Like he wasn’t sure whether to run, or to crawl forward and climb up to your window and press himself to the glass.
He felt lightheaded.
He hadn't known you wore things like that. Tiny panties. You were such a slut.
He didn't know how to breathe with that much skin showing.
In his mind, you were only teasing him further as your two hands moved to your back, unclasping your bra without warning. Your tits bounced slightly, now free and revealed, as you left your bra on the back of your desk chair.
Toby was practically drooling, his eyes zeroed in on your chest. His hands moved on pure instinct, one shoving at his pants until they pooled around his knees, the other freeing his aching cock.
He was frantically jerking himself off, his eyes never leaving you. “F-f-fUCK you’re a– such a sl-slut–” he mumbled. He'd fantasized about this moment countless times, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing your body. So soft, so beautiful.
He came in seconds, spilling into his clenched fist, his climax crashing over him like a tidal wave. His whole body felt like it was on fire, his legs trembling. He leaned against the tree, a tic in his shoulder making him slam his arm into the bark with a dull thud.
You were moving now, ass swaying a little as you grabbed a nightgown from your closet. You pulled it on, and then you were on your way to the bathroom, probably to brush your teeth.
By the time you were back in your bedroom, turning off the lights and slipping into bed, Toby was gone.
You barely slept.
Every noise outside your window had your nerves singing - a creak, a gust of wind, the scrape of branches too close to the siding. Your house, once cozy, had become a mausoleum of dread. Every shadow felt like a watchful eye. Every silence, a breath held.
But life didn’t stop just because yours felt like it was tilting sideways.
So you dressed, got ready for work.
Not carefully - not like usual. You threw on the first decent dress you could find, pulled a pair of black tights up your legs, the new ones, and smoothed them out with quick hands. Your hair was barely brushed, your concealer just thick enough to hide the bags under your eyes.
And you didn’t look at the kitten heels on the porch on your way out. Not once.
Bag slung across your shoulder, you walked to the bus stop fast, arms folded tight, boots hitting pavement with rapid, anxious steps.
Work passed in a blur.
The whole time - the whole entire day - your mind kept drifting back to the porch. To the shoes. To him.
Did he know your name?
Did he know where you worked?
Had he followed you before - on one of your harmless, quiet walks through the trees when the air was still crisp and clean and you didn’t think monsters existed?
Now everything felt like a setup. Like he’d been waiting.
It was already dark when you stepped off the bus after work.
The streetlights hummed faintly, casting puddles of yellow over the cracked sidewalk. You walked slower this time, hyper-aware of every sound - the creak of branches overhead, the wind rustling through bushes, the distant thrum of a dog barking.
You didn’t want to go home. You wanted to turn around, walk until your legs gave out, disappear somewhere busy and bright and full of strangers.
But you didn’t.
Your house appeared around the bend, small and quiet and exactly as you left it - porch light on, curtains drawn, blinds pulled tight.
Your steps slowed.
The porch came into view.
And your heart stopped.
The shoes were gone.
The pink kitten heels. The ones you left behind in the forest. The ones he returned like a trophy. They had sat there all day, untouched, their silence screaming.
And now they weren’t there.
You froze halfway up the walk, something cold unfurling in your gut like ice water spilling inside you.
Lying there, in their place, was a rabbit.
White.
Dead.
It wasn’t posed grotesquely - no visible wounds, no blood matted in the fur. But its eyes were glassy, wide and staring, head tilted unnaturally to one side. Its body was small, too small, like something fragile crushed under the weight of something it didn’t understand.
The sight of it hit you like a punch in the stomach.
You staggered back, hand flying to your mouth, bile scraping the back of your throat. You couldn’t look away, not yet. Your mind was trying to make sense of it. But your body already knew what this was.
A message.
The world narrowed. The chill of the evening closed in. Streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting pale yellow halos, but all the light in the world couldn’t touch the cold that was blooming in your chest.
He had left this.
He had taken the shoes and left… this.
And then you remembered.
Your breath caught in your throat.
His voice - garbled, stuttering, low and strange behind the mouth guard: "S-Scared little b-bunny..."
Your knees nearly gave out.
The memory flooded in, uninvited. The woods. His twitching silhouette. The rough brush of his gloved hand on your leg. The hatchet. The way he had stared at you, like he wanted to crawl inside of you.
Bunny.
You scrambled inside.
The door slammed hard enough behind you to rattle the hinges. You didn’t even bother locking it - your panic was too immediate, too consuming. Your heart was beating so loud you thought your neighbors might hear it.
The house was warm but suffocating, every shadow too dark, every silence too heavy. You stepped backward, stumbling slightly in your boots, until your back hit the opposite wall.
You blinked.
You needed to see. Needed to make sure he wasn’t inside, not waiting in the dark spaces you didn’t check often enough.
And then - without thinking - you bolted upstairs.
The hallway was dim. Your bedroom door was half-closed.
You had left it open that morning. You were sure of it.
But now it was ajar. Just a crack. Enough to show the edge of your bedframe. Enough to make your stomach twist.
You pushed it open slowly.
The room was cold.
You stepped inside, eyes sweeping every corner, scanning instinctively - under the bed, the closet door, the window latch–
–and then you saw it.
On the bed.
Laid neatly atop your pale comforter, like something tucked in and waiting for you, were the pink kitten heels.
Still dirty.
Still scuffed.
Still marked by your escape.
One buckle broken, dangling limply.
Your legs nearly gave out.
The world tilted. Your head swam. Every cell in your body screamed wrong wrong wrong.
You hadn’t brought those inside.
No one should’ve been able to.
You clutched the doorframe, using it to keep yourself upright, staring at the shoes like they might move again. Like they might stand up and walk toward you, possessed by the memory of that night.
And worst of all - you knew exactly what it meant.
He had been inside.
At some point - while you had been at work - he had come in.
He had been in your bedroom.
You stumbled to your bed, every muscle in your body trembling. Your eyes never left the shoes.
They sat there like they belonged. Like they had been waiting for you.
The air felt heavier near them. Charged. You could almost hear the woods again - the wind, the cracking branches, the click of your heels on gravel. The panic. The fall.
And then…
A sound.
Behind you.
Soft. Almost nothing. Just the creak of a floorboard where no weight should’ve been. But you heard it.
You froze.
Didn’t turn. Couldn’t.
The cold behind your neck wasn’t just air. It was presence.
Then came another sound - a click, sharp and jerky, like something metallic being knocked against a jacket zipper. Familiar. Awful.
You turned.
He was there.
Standing in your doorway like a nightmare that had followed you home.
Same dark jacket. Same gloves. The industrial mouth guard glinting faintly in the low light, its edges catching your lamp’s glow. Goggles rested high on his forehead, his hair wild and tangled from wind or movement. His shoulders twitched with small, erratic spasms, neck jerking to one side like something in him was miswired.
You couldn’t breathe. You wanted to scream - your body begged you to - but no sound came out. You were locked in place. Trapped.
He stood still. Watching you.
Then he stepped forward.
One foot. Then another.
The movement was uneven. Wrong. Like he was marionetted by invisible strings that didn’t pull the way they should.
You backed up instinctively, legs hitting the edge of your bed. Your hand shot out behind you, bracing yourself against the mattress. Your knees bent slightly, ready to bolt, to collapse, to fight - anything.
He stood there, two feet inside your room now. Head tilted. Breathing slow and audible behind the metal covering his mouth.
His voice came next, garbled and raw behind the mask. Broken by tics and something deeper:
“…Y-you… l-left them…” he rasped. “I b-b-brought them b-buh-back…”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Your lips trembled, mouth parting, but nothing came.
His head twitched again, violently this time, like a spasm he couldn’t stop.
“I… w-w-wanted… y-you… to h-have them–”
He took another step forward.
You shifted instinctively, now seated on the foot of the bed, but leaning away from him. You could barely hear over your heartbeat. The air buzzed with panic. The walls felt too close. The silence between you was unbearable.
Then he spoke. Low. Muffled. Halting. “Did… d-did you see it?”
You blinked, not understanding.
His head twitched once, sharp to the side. He kept going, words spilling like stones down stairs - unsteady, excited. “Th-the… the bunny. O-on the porch. I–I left it. For you.”
Your stomach turned.
You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it, lips parting in horror. He saw. And something in him lit up.
He took another step. “I kn-knew you’d see. I–I saw you see it.”
His voice rose slightly. Too eager. Like he was proud. “It–It looked like you. L-little. Pretty. Soft. Like you were. In the woods.”
Your whole body tensed.
He saw that too.
Something flickered in his eyes - confusion? Disappointment? His hand twitched at his side, curling into a loose fist. “You… you d-didn’t l-like it?”
You said nothing.
Because what was there to say?
His voice changed. “Ungrateful bitch.”
The words landed like a slap.
He didn’t shout it - it came out through clenched teeth, sharp and sudden, like something that slipped past a filter he hadn’t meant to drop.
You flinched.
He noticed that too.
Instantly, his expression shifted again. His posture softened. The fury melted, warped into something pleading.
“I–sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
His head snapped to the right, then back to center, like a broken puppet yanked by invisible strings. His tone shifted - lower now, more clipped, voice grating with something that sounded close to irritation.
“I t-tried. You l-left me those sh-shoes like a trail. Like a g-gift. I brought them b-back.”
He gestured suddenly - jerky and sharp - behind you, where the pink heels still sat.
“You left. You ran. You kicked me.”
Each word was louder than the last. His breath rasped through the guard. His hand twitched again - then both did. And just as fast, his voice dropped again.
Soft. Uncertain. “…But… I fo-forgave you.”
You blinked, slow and dazed. Opened your mouth, closed it again. You didn’t know what to say, how to feel.
He looked at you, kept going. “You were s-scared. I g-get that. I’m scary. People say th-that. They don’t mean it but I hear it. I always hear it.”
He was pacing now. Not smoothly - like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. His limbs jerked with every step, but his voice tried to stay even. Calm. Reassuring. Like you were the one being unreasonable.
“But y-you were nice. In the woods. You said hi. No one does that.”
He paused. Looked at you full-on. “That meant s-some-ttt–something.”
Your stomach dropped.
He smiled behind the mask - you couldn’t see it, but you felt it. Something in the tilt of his head, the sudden stillness. The way he breathed, heavier now, slower.
And then, with a flicker of excitement, he added: “I w-watched you. Last night. Through your window.”
Your eyes went wide.
“You wore th-those tiny panties.”
Your hands gripped the mattress, white-knuckled. You could feel the blood rush to your cheeks, couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Those words were enough to drag you back into reality. “What?” your voice was small and trembling, your eyes locked on him now.
He chuckled. It was a boyish sound, almost pleasant.
“Yeahhh… mhm. Baby, I– saw it all. You muh-made me so– hard”.
Jesus Christ. This guy was clearly insane. But the way he was looking at you, his gaze undressing you, only made your cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson. You had never had a guy say that to you before. Not like that. Not with that kind of certainty. No teasing, no blush, no stumble. Just possession. Like he had already decided you were his, and your approval didn’t factor in.
“You’re b-blushing,” he said, voice low, with a maddening mix of amusement and certainty. Like he was cataloging your reactions, tucking them away for later use.
You jerked your gaze away, but it was too late. He’d seen it - seen all of it. The flush in your cheeks, the way your breath caught, the subtle tremble in your fingers. You hated that he was right. Hated it more that part of you responded to it. To him.
He stepped closer, slow and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line (he’d crossed it a long time ago). His knee brushed against yours, a spark that jolted through you and made you gasp, and he didn’t move away.
You looked up at him, your throat tightening. He was towering over you, strikingly tall.
His eyes dropped for half a second, flicking to the hem of your dress, then jerking back up to your face. “Th-that dr–dress is… it’s–f-fuck. I mean, it’s r-really… uh, SLUTTY-nice. It’s– nice.” His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite trust himself to.
You blinked. “...Thanks?” It was just a casual dress, you’d worn it to work many times, it really wasn’t anything special. A little low cut, sure, but nothing crazy. Still, he seemed to really like it.
The silence stretched, thick and tight between you, until you were aware of every shallow breath, every nerve ending. His knee stayed pressed against yours, deliberate now. He tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, not so much admiring as studying. Measuring your response. Consuming it.
“D-distracting,” he murmured again, voice lower. “It r–rides up when y-you sit like that.”
A beat.
Then, his hand reached out. Touched you. His hand lingered just above the crease of your knee, the fabric of your tights warm beneath his touch. He glanced down, fingers brushing lightly over the smooth black nylon, and his breath hitched - barely, but you cought it.
“Y-you wore…” His jaw twitched, and he blinked hard. His shoulder twitched next, just once, like a pulse beneath his skin. He swallowed. “Wore s–s-some like… like th–that. In the woods.”
You nodded, slow. You remembered, of course.
He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Th–those were r–ripped.” A blink. Then, almost to himself, “You fell and– they ri-ripped m-more.”
There’s a beat where you think he’s finished, but then he laughs - quiet, low, without humor. His hand shifts on your leg, his thumb dragging slowly along the smooth nylon. “These are… they’re n–new. Clean.”
You can feel how hard he’s working to hold the words in line, to push past the stutter and the blinking and the sharp little twitches that keep slipping through. But the way he looks at you? That part’s smooth. Fluid. Heavy with meaning.
You hadn’t pulled away. Not yet. But your breath had hitched, and your muscles had gone tight beneath his hand. He noticed. Of course he did.
Your pulse thudded in your throat, from danger - but from something else too. You couldn’t name it. A thrill tangled with unease, sharp-edged and confusing. You weren’t sure what he would do next. You weren’t sure what you wanted him to.
He studied you carefully, not just watching but reading. The small changes in your breathing, the set of your shoulders, the way your eyes flicked down, then back to his.
“You’re s-scared,” he said, almost gently. Not an accusation. Just fact. He blinked, the tic in his jaw flaring again, his shoulder jerking once. “But you’re… y-you’re not running.”
That was true. You weren’t. You could have shifted away - he hadn’t trapped you. You could have said no. But you didn’t. Would he even have listened?
Truth be told, you had been convinced he was here to kill you. End you, once and for all. The dead bunny on your porch felt like a clear message conveying just that. But now, hearing him talk, feeling him touch you - almost gently - you understood. He liked you. Wanted you. And some messed up part of you was flattered.
You didn’t say anything. Just breathed - slow, shaky. His hand hadn’t moved, and neither had you. But the silence between you had changed again, softening around the edges.
And then…Fuck, you shifted.
It was small. Barely there. A tilt of your knee, the slightest lean toward him. But his hand, still resting against the black nylon, felt the change instantly. You’d moved into him, not away.
His breath caught. What the fuck? His eyes flicked up to yours in a heartbeat, wide, searching.
You didn’t look away.
To him, this was you giving him permission. Telling him to go ahead, to do whatever the hell he desired. And he took you up on that offer, immediately.
Rough hands grabbed the fabric of your dress. With one violent motion, he yanked the dress off, the sound of tearing fabric slicing through the silence like a scream.
The ruined dress landed somewhere across the room.
You were left in your underwear and those damn sheer tights. You gasped, covering yourself instinctively, but his hands found yours and pushed them away with the same desperation that had been building in him since the moment he walked in.
A moan escaped him at the sight of you - low, unfiltered, like it slipped from somewhere deep in his chest without permission.
His hands twitched at your sides, gloves creaking as he tried to still them. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or pull you in.
“G-god,” he muttered, jaw locking, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You’re… you’re k-killing me Bunny.”
The name hit you harder than the torn dress or the way his hands shook against your skin. Bunny.
Your breath caught, not from the cold, not from embarrassment - but from that one word, cracked and trembling on his lips like it had meaning. Like it was more than just a nickname. Like it was something he didn’t hand out freely.
He reached out again, slower this time, as if afraid you might vanish. His fingers brushed your waist, your ribs, lingering like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with shaking hands.
His eyes trailed down to your chest, then lower, lower, lower, swallowing thickly as they finally landed on your thighs, wrapped in those sheer black tights. So sheer they may as well have been painted on, leaving nothing to the imagination. And underneath them–God–the curve of your panties was clearly visible. Black. Delicate. The lace soft and thin against your skin, hugging your hips like a secret not meant to be seen, yet now fully exposed to him. His stare locked there, unblinking.
You were staring back, at him. Or rather, the mask. The guard. That thick, black thing always strapped to his face like armor. You’d wondered about it more times than you wanted to admit. What was underneath? What was he hiding? Was he… ugly?
Your curiosity wasn’t clean. It wasn’t sweet or polite. It had a darker edge to it - morbid, almost.
You’d caught shadows of his jaw before, flickers of bare skin when he adjusted it in a hurry. The scars on his neck told stories his mouth never did. And sometimes, when he spoke low, his voice slipped around the edges of the guard in ways that made you imagine what his lips looked like, how they moved. You’d imagined his mouth twisted in a real smirk. His grin without the muzzle. His anger without the barrier.
You didn’t want to see it just out of vanity. You wanted to understand it. You wanted to understand him, and whatever it was about his face that he thought needed to be locked away like a weapon.
It wasn’t just morbid curiosity. It was intimacy, carved out of raw fascination. And yet… part of you was afraid.
Afraid that when he finally pulled it off, he wouldn’t just be different - he’d be right. Right to be afraid of what you’d think. Right to cover himself up at all times.
Your voice cut through the heat between you like a blade. A soft one. “May I see you?”
His body stiffened instantly, like the question hit him somewhere between pride and panic. His head jerked with a tic, once - twice - then stilled just enough for him to stare at you. Like you’d asked him to bleed.
“What–my face?” he scoffed, sharp and too loud, more reflex than real protest. “Hah, ohh… cuh-curious little g-g-girl. Wanna s-see the freakshow up close?”
You raised your chin a little, unshaken. “I– just want to see you.”
His lips curled under the guard, a smirk you couldn’t quite see but felt anyway. A scoff rumbled out of him as he paced a short circle, head jerking with another tic.
Then it came - quick and sharp, without warning: “S-slut.”
The word hit the air like a hammer.
You blinked, but didn’t recoil. You knew that tic by now, the one that struck like a snake but didn’t carry venom. Still, the silence after it hung thick.
He glanced at you sideways, smirk twitching. “Hh-heh. That one snuck out.” He didn’t say sorry. Just looked at you with that lazy tilt of his head like you knew what this was.
“Well,” he continued. “d-don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered, more to himself than you.
And then, without ceremony, he reached up and slowly unhooked the mouth guard from behind his ears.
The moment stretched.
Then, he let it fall.
The guard dropped to the floor with a quiet, metallic clink.
And you saw him.
The long, jagged gash split up the left side of his mouth - pink and silver and raw, his teeth visible through it in a way that felt permanently vulnerable. Wrong, but also... weirdly endearing. A constant, twisted half-smile carved into his face.
But beyond it - beyond the scar?
He was pretty.
Messy brown hair that curled awkwardly at the ends. Deep-set eyes, the kind that looked too tired for his age. Full lashes. That half-grin, real this time, cocky and crooked in a way that said he knew he was being watched.
“Well?” he asked, twitching, arms folding across his chest. “Happy now?”
You stared for a second too long. He noticed.
And then you nodded slowly, and let out a quiet hum, like the sound slipped out before you could think.
“…Yes,” you murmured, “thank you.”
Toby didn’t say anything. He just looked at you.
A twitch jerked his eye, and one corner of his mouth pulled up - not into a smile, not exactly. Just a look. Mocking, almost. Not exactly with meanness, but something sharper. Like he didn’t know what to do with your answer, so he filed it away behind ridicule and half-lowered eyes.
Then, without a word, he moved.
His hands twitched as he reached up, pushing the scratched goggles from his forehead and tossing them to the floor. Next came the jacket - heavy, worn, hanging off him like a second skin. He slid it down with rough, unsteady movements, his shoulders twitching beneath the fabric. He dropped it beside the goggles.
You watched, breath caught in your throat.
Next, he grabbed the hem of his shirt. He hesitated for only a second, then pulled it up over his head in one motion. His ribs flexed with the movement, the muscles beneath his skin tightening as the shirt came off.
That’s when you saw them.
Scars. Wounds. Bruises.
All of it.
His chest, his arms, his sides - his skin told the story his mouth never had. Jagged scars running like fault lines. Burn marks in strange, scattered patterns. Bruises old and new, some deep purple, others yellowed and fading. His collarbone looked like it had been broken once, maybe more. His left shoulder bore what looked like a deep, jagged knife wound long since healed, but still angry-looking.
Toby’s breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling fast. Not from exertion, from exposure. From the silence. He kept going.
He pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, slow, deliberate. His hands were scarred too - knuckles scraped, a few fingers crooked like they’d been broken and never set right.
Then came the belt. He yanked it open, the leather slipping through its loops, the metal buckle hitting the floor with a hard clink.
But that wasn’t the sound that made your breath catch.
He reached down and unclipped the one thing he hadn’t taken off yet - his hatchet.
It had been resting against his hip the whole time, mostly forgotten in the moment’s tension. But now, with silent purpose, he lifted it from the loop and turned, stepping toward you.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then - he set it down.
Right next to you.
On the bed.
Steel and wood and weight.
Like a statement. Like a threat. Like a reminder.
You could feel the weight of it in the mattress beside your thigh. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t touched you yet. That did.
Your eyes flicked up to his, heart hammering. He wasn’t smirking now. Wasn’t mocking.
Just watching you. Waiting.
The breath hitched in your throat.
And your thighs shifted. Tightened.
A flush rose to your face the moment you felt it, shame and heat crawling up your neck. But it was too late - he saw it.
His head snapped with a tic, a sharp jerk to the side, and when he looked back at you, something in his eyes had changed.
Without a word, he crossed the space between you again.
And then–rip.
You gasped aloud as the sound tore through the quiet, sharp and obscene. His hands had found the fabric of your tights, and with one hard yank, they were ripped straight through - shredded at the seam, pulled wide open like they’d been in his way for far too long, exposing the soft flesh of your thighs.
“Mm–m-much better,” he muttered, his voice low, rough, lips twitching around the edges of that ruined smile. The words were playful, but mostly hungry.
And then his lips were on yours. No warning. Slammed. It was chaotic and sudden, the way everything about him was - messy, a little desperate, all teeth and breath and the press of his scarred chest against yours.
Your back hit the mattress as the weight of him pushed forward, not crushing but consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough. His hands landed on either side of you, bracing himself, twitching, knuckles scraping the sheets like even gravity couldn’t pin him down. You could feel the scar at the corner of his mouth brush against your lips, rough and sensitive, like it made him feel more.
His voice broke into the kiss, barely audible, teeth gritted and breath sharp:
A threat. A test. A truth he couldn’t stop himself from telling.
You could only nod dumbly, your wide eyes staring at his.
His eyes searched yours, flickering and wide, as if he was waiting for the panic to hit you. For you to come to your senses. For you to run. But you didn’t.
And then he was moving again. His hands jerked downward, rough and clumsy, with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with lust alone and everything to do with panic and hunger and wanting too much for too long.
You barely had time to gasp.
The ruined tights you were still wearing - already torn at the thigh - gave with one swift pull. A sharp, ugly sound tore through the room as fabric split wide between your legs, shredded in seconds like they were never meant to be there at all, leaving a hole in the crotch area that completely exposed your panties.
You felt the cold air hit your skin. Then the warmth of his hand.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t check your reaction this time. He just looked.
And then - with one trembling hand - he hooked his fingers around the edge of your panties and pushed them aside. Not entirely off. Just enough.
The breath he let out was wrecked. Like even the sight of you, like this, open to him, not entirely afraid anymore, was something he couldn’t wrap his brain around. Like his body had gotten here before his mind could catch up.
He slipped two fingers inside you. The stretch, the sensation of being filled, drew a whimper from your throat. He curled them just so, finding that spot inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Ahhh… so wet a-already. You– you’re nuh-nastier than I thought”. His voice, deep and husky, made you moan, quiet and broken, your hips rolling down to meet his hand. It was too much, too fast, too good, and yet not enough at all.
Your nails raked down his arms, leaving red welts in their wake, and he didn't stop, didn't even falter, barely seemed to notice it. He just kept touching you, kept stroking that spot inside that made you see white. You were so close already, teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful. His fingers moved faster, plunged deeper, and then he slipped in a third finger, stretching you further.
His mouth came down to meet your jaw, biting and sucking, marking you up so thoroughly that anyone who saw you afterwards would know exactly what you'd been doing. The thought only wound you tighter, made you clench around his fingers as he fucked you with them, hard and deep and relentless.
You could feel the pressure building, building, building, until finally it crested and broke and you were coming with a cry, coming so hard you saw stars, coming so hard you forgot your own name. He worked you through it, gentling his touch even as he kept you suspended in that perfect, endless moment. And then, finally, you were drifting down, boneless and sated, barely aware of his fingers slipping free of your oversensitized flesh.
Your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you, his expression equal parts awed and hungry, his eyes dark with promise. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucked your essence from his fingers with a low, appreciative groan. "Fffff-fuck," he breathed, "you taste even b-better than I imagined."
And then– impact. You felt a sharp sting across your sensitive cunt - his hand had swung down and slapped you, hard, his palm connecting with your tender folds. Your eyes flew open, glistening with tears from the sudden jolt of pain mixed with lingering pleasure. "Wha– why?" Your voice was hoarse, trembling and gasping for breath. The stinging sensation spread through your core, a throbbing ache on your tender cunt.
But he barely registered your question, too focused on the red bloom of his handprint on your skin. “Fuckin’ hell–y-you’re perfect” he growled, rubbing his palm over the affected area, reigniting the burn. He twitched, neck snapping to the side, then back down to look at you. “Nnn-not g-gonna be gentle, Bunny.”
You never knew what version of him you were going to get. That was one of the first things you learned about this man. He could be quiet one moment - eyes down, voice cracking through his stutter, hands trembling like he couldn’t trust them not to break something. And then, in the next breath, he'd flip - bold, almost smug, like he wore his damage like a badge. Like he dared you to look too closely.
That switch, that volatility... it should’ve scared you.
But it didn’t. Not really.
It unsettled you, sure. Left your heart caught somewhere between compassion and something sharper, something hot and magnetic. Like standing too close to a live wire, knowing you shouldn’t touch, but wanting to anyway.
He said he wasn’t going to be gentle? Okay. Okay.
You moaned desperately without meaning to. His head jerked again.
Your bra strap had slipped off your shoulder sometime in the chaos. Not completely, just enough. Bare skin. Collarbone. Vulnerable. It was a silent reminder to him that you were still not completely naked, that your tits were still covered up and hidden from him, and that seemed to piss him off suddenly.
With a sharp tug, he yanked the whole bra down to your upper abdomen, freeing your breasts from the confines of it. He palmed the soft skin, tweaking one nipple between his fingers until it pebbled under his touch. He lowered his head, taking the other nipple into his warm mouth. His tongue swirled around the sensitive nub before sucking hard, making your back arch off the bed. Your fingers shyly tangled in his hair as he lavished your breasts with attention, alternating between gentle licks, rough sucks and bites until you were panting and writhing beneath him.
“Please…” you mumbled, not even knowing what you were asking for or what you wanted from him. You just needed him, every part of him, so bad.
Mouth still full of your tit, his hands went behind your back, unclasping your bra. He threw the piece of underwear on the floor, hard, like it personally offended him.
You felt the heat between your legs, felt the wetness pooling and forming a small puddle under you. You were so painfully horny, stimulated, needy. You had never felt like this before and it practically transported you to another dimension.
You finally found the strength and courage to touch him, to put your hand on his skin. Your fingers landed low on his stomach, near the waistband of his pants. His muscles jumped under your touch.
His hand grabbed your wrist instantly, mouth reluctantly letting go of your swollen nipple.
A low growl, voice cracking. “Careful.”
Tic.
“You d-don’t know what you’re starting.”
He brought your hand lower. Forced you to feel how hard he was through his pants.
There was a brief moment - both of you panting, your lips swollen, his scarred mouth trembling. You thought maybe he’d pull away, or maybe he’d simply grab the hatchet that was lying right next to your thigh and just end you.
But then–
He pulled himself off of you.
He stood at the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling, twitching harder now - like his body couldn’t keep up with what was happening inside his head.
And then his fingers were at his waistband.
One jerk.
Then another.
He yanked his pants and boxers down roughly, with no grace or rhythm. Like he wasn’t doing it for show, wasn’t thinking about how it looked - only that he needed them off, now, before he exploded.
You sat up a little, breath caught in your throat. Your eyes trailed down - he was big, flushed, his thighs marked with bruises and old cuts just like the rest of him. He stood there for a beat, exposed and twitching, like he expected you to flinch.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t give you a chance to ask or react.
He just looked at you.
Dark-eyed. Desperate.
Like this was the only way he knew how to be real.
And then, voice low, breath rough: “S-s-stop me b-bitch. Rrgh–tell me to s-stop, or I’ll… I-I’ll keep going.”
His body was trembling - not from fear, but from need. From the pressure coiled so tight in his gut he didn’t know if he wanted to fall into you or fall apart.
You opened your legs a little wider.
And that was all the answer he needed.
Still towering over you, he leaned forward, grabbing a fistful of your hair and forcing you to sit up and face his cock. A sound escaped his mouth, something between a laugh and a groan, as he looked down at your pretty face. So flustered, so teary-eyed and ready for him. He couldn’t believe you were looking at his cock with so much hunger, so much desperate need.
"K-kiss my d-dick," he growled, giving your hair a sharp tug, holding his cock out for you. "Such a dissssgus-s-s–disgusting little–WHORE"
A whimper left your throat at his words, at the rough way he was handling you. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger. He could do anything he wanted to you and you'd have no choice but to take it.
You pressed your lips to the tip, planting a small kiss on it. Then another, and another. Your lips trembled every time they brushed against his cock, the heat of his skin searing your mouth. A full-body shudder raced through you at the taste, at the texture, his musky scent filling your nose and making your head swim. You could feel his eyes on you, boring into your skin, watching your every move with a predatory intensity that made your heart race.
"Ffffffuck," he groaned, his hips twitching forward, desperate for more of your mouth. He smacked his heavy cock against your cheek when he saw you looking up at him through your eyelashes. "O-open up baby."
Trembling, you parted your lips obediently, allowing him to feed his thick shaft into your hot mouth. You gagged a little as he forced himself deeper, which just made him chuckle breathlessly, clearly enjoying your discomfort.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he forced himself down further, your lips stretched obscenely around his girth. You gagged and spluttered, drool dripping down your chin, making a mess of yourself. But he just growled in approval, his fingers tightening in your hair. "You– love this, d-dddon't you? Love being used like a-a-a… a little bitch."
He was going in and out of your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin with each thrust. The obscene sounds of your gagging and his grunts filled the room, echoing off the walls. In that moment, you were nothing but a receptacle for him, a warm wet hole to sink into. And God help you, but some dark, twisted part of you was loving every second of it.
He pulled away when you least expected it, his hand letting go of your hair in the process. You were left gasping for air, thighs trembling, tears running down your cheeks.
The state you were in, the tears, the shaking, the way your breath still hitched in your chest like your lungs hadn’t caught up - it stirred something in him, made his cock ache. His jaw clenched, twitch jerking his neck to the side, and he looked at you, really looked, realizing just how bad he wanted to fuck you up. You looked so innocent, so pure - even like this.
He reached down, grabbing what was left of your tights - torn, clinging to your thighs like scraps of a moment that had already come undone - and yanked them down in one rough, final pull, along with your panties. The shredded fabric of the tights dragged along your skin, catching on your knees before he tossed it to the floor like it meant nothing. Seeing you naked, exposed - it meant everything.
You sat on the edge of the bed, legs bare, still shaking slightly.
Then you saw him move.
He didn’t say a word. Just reached down behind you and grabbed them - the pink kitten heels he’d placed on the bed earlier, just inches from the hatchet.
Still dirty.
Still scuffed.
Still yours.
One of the buckles barely clung to the strap, stretched and twisted from the way you’d torn them off in the woods. Like they’d been choking you. Like you needed to shed them or die.
But now he held them.
And without asking, without looking up at you first, he crouched down, slid one hand beneath your heel, and slipped the first shoe on your foot.
Then the other.
His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to, scarred fingers pressing lightly to your ankle.
You didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
Because the way he moved - slow, deliberate, twitching as he handled the worn heels - it wasn’t just care. It was something heavier. Something ritualistic. Like this meant something more to him than you'd ever guessed.
His lip curled just slightly, that ruined scar twitching along with the rest of him. Then he muttered it, almost like a confession. “You left ‘em behind,”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your knee.
“But I picked ‘em up… and I j-jerked off with one of ‘em pressed to my f-fuckin’ face.”
His head twitched violently, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t look away.
His voice dropped even lower.
“Smelled like panic and perfume.” A short, ragged inhale. “S-s-still does.”
His fingers curled tighter around your ankle, almost possessively now, voice warping into something between adoration and obsession.
“And now you’re gonna wear ‘em… w-while I wreck what’s left of you.”
The words had hit you like a slap and a kiss at once - filthy and reverent, disgusting and intimate in a way that left your stomach in knots.
You felt his fingers tightening around your ankle, still holding you in place like the shoes themselves had shackled you back to him. His grip wasn’t hard, but it was intentional - the way someone holds something that doesn’t belong to them yet, but soon will.
You should’ve felt terrified. But you didn’t.
You felt heat.
Low. Deep. Dull and heavy between your legs.
And he was staring up at you. Waiting. Twitches jerking his head slightly, that half-smile curling just beneath the scar. Daring you to react.
To run.
To flinch.
To stay.
Your chest rose, unsteady. A tear slipped down your cheek again - not from fear this time. From how fucked up this all was. From how much you wanted it anyway.
Wanted him, like this. Unhinged. Dangerous. Yours.
You didn’t speak.
You just leaned forward, your hand sliding into his messy hair, gripping at the roots as your lips hovered just above his.
And then, softly, your voice shaking:
“Then ruin me.”
His whole body twitched.
And he moved.
His hands were on you in an instant. A fist in your hair, yanking your head back so fast it stole the breath from your lungs. His other hand gripped your thigh, bruising, spreading you open without hesitation. His face was right there, scar grazing your cheek, breath hot and fast like he couldn’t breathe unless he was inside your skin.
“Say it,” he growled, voice low and cracking. “Say m-my fucking name.”
You froze.
Eyes wide. Lips parted.
But… nothing came out.
Because you didn’t know it.
You felt the heat in your stomach twist into something colder.
Your voice barely made it past your lips. “I… I don’t know it.”
For a split second - silence.
Then his whole body jerked with a violent twitch. His breath hitched, sharp, like he’d just been stabbed. He ripped his hand away from your leg and shoved back from you, like this was all your fault.
His hand flew up.
CRACK.
The slap landed. Hard. Hot. Your head whipped to the side, hair scattering, lips parting on a gasp, ears ringing. A red bloom appeared on your cheek, bright and aching. Your whole body froze - not from pain. From shock. From recognition.
You turned back slowly. There was blood in your mouth, you could taste it.
His hand trembled. He didn’t back away. You didn’t miss the way his cock twitched slightly, still hard and solid, still glistening with your saliva from when he was fucking your mouth.
He reached up, slowly now, and threaded his fingers into your hair. He stroked it back from your face like he was trying to erase the moment with tenderness, like if he was soft enough now, it would undo what came before.
“Toby.” he said.
“Toby.” you echoed.
And the way his name sounded - falling from your lips, low and raw and trembling - wasn’t just a name. It was an ache, a sin, like you tasted him through the sound. He almost came then and there. Your voice, so sweet, saying his name like you belonged to him. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold himself still, trying not to lose control like a fucking teenager touched for the first time. “Yeahhh, yes, just– like t-that baby, k-keep saying it”.
His hands were on your thighs again, spreading them apart with force. You obliged, opening your legs and showing him your soaked pussy. He groaned at your eagerness, hands sneaking behind your knees and yanking you forward, your back hitting the mattress, your legs flying up.
He hoisted your legs over his broad shoulders, kitten heels scratching slightly at his neck, and then he was bottoming out inside you without warning. Your pussy was so, so tight. The squeeze of your inner muscles around his thick length robbed him of breath. His jaw tightened. Tic pulled at his cheek. “You’re–fuckin’–soaked.”
He was so big, you could almost feel him in your belly. He was stretching you out so good, you whimpered, hands fisting in the sheets beneath you. He chuckled slightly, the sound reverberating through his chest as he began to move. Each powerful thrust of his hips forced a gasp out of you. Your legs wobbled on his shoulders, the heels threatening to slip but he held you firm. You were lost in a haze of pleasure, nails coming to scrabble uselessly at his arms as he rutted into you. "Toby," you moaned. "yes, yes… please."
His swollen lips were slightly parted, pupils blown wide and dark with lust. He was a vision of desperate intensity, so focused on fucking you open on his cock. "Such a-a-a–SLUT" he growled, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. "This p-pussy is–mine, you understand?"
A breathy moan tore from your throat as he hit that special spot inside you, pleasure sparking through your veins like electricity. You barely choked out an answer, “Yes…yes, Toby, yes, all yours.” He kept you spread wide, open and available as he used your body for his pleasure. You arched into him, meeting each brutal thrust of his hips.
The obscene slap of skin on skin echoed through the room, punctuated by the squelch of your arousal. He was relentless, fucking in and out of your clutching heat, grunting with the effort. "Fffffucking d-drenched," he panted. "Stupid little g-girl."
That usual twitch in his neck jerked his head to the side, and then he was sinking his teeth into your calf. A razor's edge of pain sparked through your oversensitized nerve endings, blurring the lines between agony and ecstasy. You keened, high and breathy, as he worked his way up your leg with dark intent.
"Mine," he growled against your flesh, the word muffled and guttural. "All mine."
He nipped and sucked, trailing fire in his wake. Each possessive mark sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, your core clenching greedily around his length. You were drowning in sensation, lost to the brutal rhythm of his hips and the sweet sting of his teeth.
Toby released your calf with a wet pop, his lips curving in a feral grin. "Look at y-you, spread out like a ffff-fuh-fucking feast" He notched himself impossibly deeper, grinding against that perfect spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
A choked sob tore from your throat as he angled his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over your g-spot. The coil of tension in your gut wound tighter, coiling and pulling until you swore you'd shatter. His one hand found your lower abdomen, pressing down roughly as to feel his own length inside of you.
You wanted to cum so bad, you felt your release creeping up with every brutal move of his hips. But of course, he wasn’t going to let you. Not yet.
He pulled out, leaving you clenching around nothing with a desperate whine. Toby watched you with a predatory glint in his eyes, drinking in the sight of you splayed out and aching. "Beg," he demanded, his voice a dark rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Beg for it, and m-maybe I'll let you cum."
Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't hesitate. "Please," you whimpered, too far gone to care about your pride. "Please, I need it. Need you." You writhed on the sheets, trying to grind down against him. "I'll do anything, just please let me cum."
Something dangerous flared in Toby's gaze, his grin widening, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip to wet it. "Oh, I'll let you cum Bunny," he promised. "But fuh-first, you're g-gonna earn it."
He flipped you over like a ragdoll, your face coming into contact with the mattress with a breathless gasp. He tapped your ass, once twice, signaling you to lift it up for him. You did immediately, ass up in the air, back arched like a cat, cunt dripping wet.
Toby smacked your ass hard, the sound echoing in the room. "Good girl," he purred, pressing his weight on top of you. He nudged your legs further apart, his cock sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance. "Tell me hhhhhow muh-much you want it," he coaxed, voice low and filthy.
You let out a broken moan, trying to push back against him. "So much," you sobbed, tears now freely streaming down your face. "I need it, please. Need you to fill me up, make me cum on your dick. I'll be so good for you, just please."
Toby's eyes darkened, he could barely believe what he was hearing, couldn’t believe this was real life. "Such a d-d-desperate little whore," he crooned, giving your ass one last hard smack. "Ah, alright, baby. You've e-earned it."
And then he was pushing into you, big cock splitting you open and stretching you wide. You nearly screamed at the sudden intrusion, back arching sharply as he once again filled you up. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, desperately trying to draw him in even deeper.
He set a brutal pace, fucking into you hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your ears. He gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise the soft skin. One hand reached for your hair, suddenly yanking your head back, forcing your spine into an even more pronounced arch. He groaned at the sight, bicep flexing as he pulled you back onto his cock again and again.
You were tearing up, his iron grip on your hair making your whole head burn, his thrusts merciless. Your whole body trembled, and you almost, almost, couldn’t take it anymore.
“Toby, please… slow down, just–a little, please” you pleaded, eyes shut tightly, voice barely a whisper as your throat strained from the angle he'd forced your head into.
He said nothing. Without missing a beat, Toby simply reached over to the side, his hand closing around the handle of his forgotten hatchet that had been resting, innocently, on the bed - his eyes never leaving your shaking body in the process.
You didn’t see him grab the weapon, but you certainly felt it when he laid it flat on your sweat slicked back, the cold metal making your blood freeze. Your whole body seized up, a choked scream lodging in your raw throat. Was this it? Was he gonna kill you, in the middle of pounding you silly? The mental image was so insane, so fucked up, you almost wanted to laugh.
But then, as he kept slamming into you, not slowing down, not letting go of your hair, you understood. He had warned you. It had been his way of saying try me again and I’ll end you, like I ended the bunny on your porch. So you were trapped between him and the sharp edge of his hatchet. Completely at his mercy, and utterly helpless to do anything but take what he gave. And somehow, that only made your cunt throb more, slick dripping pathetically down your thighs.
“Tuh-take it b-bitch, take m-m-my dick” he grunted, feeling you clench and drip on his length. The flat side of the blade of his hatchet was digging into your back, leaving a dull ache that pulsed with each move. You didn’t dare say another word - anything could provoke him, and the weight of the hatchet made it clear he wasn’t bluffing. One wrong word, one wrong twitch, and that flat side might become the sharp one.The thrill of it was dizzying, choking you like the scream you couldn’t unleash. You were his. Utterly. Irrevocably. Helplessly. And you’d never gotten off on anything so hard in your life.
You could feel every throb and twitch of his shaft as it stretched you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of climax with each brutal thrust. Toby's one hand never released your hair, yanking your head back time and time again, forcing you to arch painfully for him. "Toby, I’m– gonna cum" you squeaked, your eyes rolling back as the orgasm crashed over you in intense waves.
"Ffffffuck, your pussy… spasming on my d-dick so hhhhard," Toby snarled, picking up the pace until it felt like he was trying to fuck you through the mattress. "Keep t-tuh-taking it whore" With a few more erratic thrusts, he buried himself balls-deep inside you and came with a guttural groan. You could feel the hot spurts of his load filling your insides, marking you as his once again.
As the aftershocks dissipated, you felt him slowly lifting the hatchet away from you, the pressure easing like a storm reluctantly retreating. He dropped it on the floor with a dull thud that echoed louder than it should have in the stillness between you. The sound felt final. The warmth of your own fear still clung to your skin, sticky and electric. You didn’t turn around, couldn’t. Not yet. The second he let go of your hair, you fell forward on the mattress, face buried in the sheets. Your whole body ached.
Toby slumped on his side beside you, propping his head up on his hand, watching you with that half-lidded stare that made it impossible to tell what he was really thinking. His softening cock still twitched weakly as it dripped your combined fluids. "Mmm...fuck, you t-took that s-so well," he whispered into your ear, touching your shoulder as if to get your attention.
You weakly turned your head towards him, your cheek flat on the mattress, the whole front of your body still pressed into the bed, as if the weight of what just happened had physically pinned you there.
His brown eyes were searching as they scanned the look on your face. You were exhausted, satisfied, a little scared. Scared of what would come next. And he saw that fear - he drank it in. His gaze lingered a little too long. Just studying you, memorizing you. Like he was deciding what version of himself to be next.
Then he smiled. “You’re perfect.”
He reached out and pushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear like a lover would.
“I didn’t m-mean to suh-scare you, doll,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate. His stutter softened the words, pulled at something in you that should have stayed untouched. The way he said doll - like it was a secret just for you - sent a strange warmth into your chest.
“I j-just get too in my head sometimes,” he said, eyes flicking between yours. “You… you get–” he stopped, jaw tightening with a tic, then forced the words out, “–get me out of it.”
You blinked slowly, still too heavy to move, but you turned into his touch just slightly. Barely. But enough that he noticed.
His smile deepened.
Then, letting out a small sigh, he sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand, the other still lightly resting on your waist as if reluctant to let go completely.
You watched him quietly, your body aching but your gaze tracking his every move.
He stood and moved around the room like it belonged to him - and by extension, so did you. With practiced ease, he began to dress: boxers, then jeans. Belt threaded through the loops. Shirt pulled on, then his jacket. Gloves pulled on tight. Last, he picked up the hatchet from the floor, the handle catching the low light. He slid it into the strap at his side with quiet precision, like it mattered more than whatever he was leaving behind.
You shifted again, rolling carefully onto your back, breath catching for a second at the pull of bruised muscles. The ceiling blurred a little, then cleared. You turned your head, just enough to see him sliding on the mouth guard, then fitting the goggles high on his forehead. The transformation was jarring, like watching the man slip into the shell of something colder. Less human.
Still, he lingered. Standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed in the dim, flickering light.
“I’ll be back before you know it, little Bunny,” he said, muffled by the guard, but warm. Intimate. The nickname curled around your spine, soft and sharp at the same time - something that sounded sweet until you remembered why he called you that.
He waited a beat, watching you the way you imagined a wolf might watch something it didn’t want to kill, yet.
Then the door closed.
And you were alone.
Not free. Just alone.
The room was too quiet now, the scent of him still hanging in the air. Your body hurt. Your chest hurt worse. But beneath it all was a stillness that almost felt like disappointment.
Because part of you, against all reason, had wanted him to stay.
You wake up with a hand around your boob, squeezing it like it's a stress toy. You mumble half asleep, hitting the hand and waiting for them to stop. But they only release it enough to slip their hand under your soft shirt. Cold fingers find your nipple, pinching it and pulling until you are whimpering, not knowing if you want to get more or less of it. They don't give you a choice. Their fingers play with your nipple until you are begging, your panties so wet you can hear it when you rub your legs together. Another hand finds your soaked center, rubbing your clit in slow circles, dragging your pleasure until you are shivering with an orgasm.
And when you come down from the pleasure, you remember you live alone...
───────────────────────── the hand that feeds - nine inch nails
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: Creating life is no easy feat, but sustaining it is a whole different realm. You’re a widowed scientist calling on the power of the heaven’s themselves to bring your love back to you. But the townspeople only see you as a witch, a monster—and it only worsens when a very large shadow begins to follow you around, especially when he begins to eat the livestock.
✦ . Characters: Frankenstein!Eyeless Jack x Female Reader
✦ . Warning: Gore, blood, body mutilation, murder, lots of religious symbolism, medical horror, body horror, saliva, scratching, biting, animalistic tendencies, cannibalism, graphic depictions of violence, fluff and smut, morally bad reader, unreliable narrator, needles, knives, rough sex, monster fucker, monster x human, tongue fucking, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, belly bulge, squirting, creampies, multiple positions and orgasms, creation x creator
✦ . Words: 15.6k out of 34.1k
✦ . Note: HAD TO SPLIT INTO TWO PARTS DUE TO TUMBLR BLOCK LIMIT!!!!! Long note here, stick with me. If there are any inconsistencies throughout this fic, I apologize, but this is mainly due to the fact that I have been working on this fic for 4 solid months and may have lost the plot a couple of times. If you’re coming to this fic looking for lore-accurate Frankenstein’s Creature, this is not for you. Imagine moreso The Shape of Water’s fish man. This fic is very morally gray, and you (the reader) make a lot of dumb choices, so keep that in mind. And finally, yes, Jack is naked for half this fic because I feel like if I was a freshly made creation forced to wear pants, I’d be pissed, so I gave him freedom. Anyway, ENJOY!!!
Art by @z0l0fft.
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“It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The wind claws at the leaded windows of your manor like a living beast, howling through the cracks in the stonework, carrying the smell of wet earth and thick woodsmoke from the village below.
You stand in the gaping foyer, the once-grand space now a graveyard of your ambitions. Dust motes dance in the feeble light filtering through grimy panes, illuminating cobwebs on the chandelier above. The air is thick, heavy with the grime of chemicals and the stout, underlying rot that no amount of incense can mask.
Your home, perched on the jagged cliffs overlooking the sleepy village below, was built in the 18th century by some long-forgotten baron, its gothic spires and gargoyle-guarded eaves a testament to grandeur now faded into neglect.
Down in the village, they whisper about you. The reclusive scientist of this manor, the mad inventor who vanished from society years ago. You hear their tales on the rare occasions you venture out under the cover of night, cloaked in shadow, to collect supplies from the apothecary or the butcher.
“Witch,” they mutter behind gloved hands as you pass, their eyes averted from your face and the wild tangle of hair that escapes your hood. Children scatter like leaves in the wind, and the priest crosses himself at the sight of you passing back up the winding, fog-shrouded path. This village is a place of simple folk—farmers tilling stubborn soil, blacksmiths hammering iron into plows, women gossiping over tea in parlors warmed by crackling hearths. They fear what they do not understand, like the lightning rods jutting from your roof like accusing fingers, the strange glow that emanates from your windows at unholy hours, the screams that sometimes echo down the valley, mistaken for the wail of banshees.
But you are no witch.
You are a scientist, an inventor, a seeker of truths buried in the marrow of existence. Obsessed with life—the spark that animates flesh, the lust that drives the heart to beat faster, the binding twists of the human mind that birth genius and monstrosity in equal measure. Your manor is your laboratory, your sanctuary… your prison.
The drawing rooms have been gutted, transformed into chambers of your craft. In the east wing, shelves groan under the weight of leather-bound tomes: inventions on electricity, forbidden notes smuggled from foreign continents, texts illustrated with grotesque anatomies. Jars line the walls, filled with preservatives that cloud the glass, failed experiments staring back with milky eyes. A rabbit with too many limbs, a human torso stitched from animal parts, too many teeth and fingers too keep up with.
It’s a mess.
You pace the cold marble floors of your study, boots echoing in the vast emptiness. The fire in the hearth sputters, casting elongated shadows that writhe across the stone covered in parchment drawings. Your hands, stained with ink and blood, tremble as you pore over your latest journal. Page after page of frantic scrawls, filled with diagrams of circulatory systems intertwined with arcane symbols, equations balancing spirituality against the heavenly forces you swear must exist.
Creation of life is your greatest feat. To create it, to animate it, to become God itself. You’ve tried everything.
Animals first.
Cats electrified until their charred fur, dogs infused with elixirs distilled from rare herbs and your own blood, rats and rabbits sewn together until it was hard to tell which parts came from what.
Then humans, God forgive you.
Vagrants lured with promises of coin if they would kill another for your studies, corpses dug up from the village graveyard, even your last lover when he left you. All of them stitched, shocked, injected with serums that promise rebirth. But they all fail. They rot. They crumble. The spark eludes you, slipping through your fingers again and again.
Madness stirs at the edges of your vision, a constant companion these days. You haven’t slept in… how long? Days blur into nights, marked only by the tolling of the village bell far below. Your reflection in the cracked mirror above the mantel shows someone unhinged with eyes sunken and fever-bright, lips chapped from muttering incantations to yourself, cheeks hollowed by meals forgotten amid the frenzy. Lust coils in your belly—not for flesh, but for the ultimate union—creator and creation, mind and body fused in perfect, pulsating life.
You crave it like a drug, this power over death. The human mind, so fragile, so ripe for dissection. Whispers in the dark corners of the manor tell you you’re close. So close. One more attempt. One more body, fresh and vital, to mold into something eternal.
You yearn for the day you get to look your creation in the eye and feel its heartbeat against yours.
Tonight, the storm gathers. Thunder rumbles like the laughter of gods, and lightning illuminates the chaos of your workspace with tables strewn with scalpels, coils of wire, batteries humming. The village sleeps, oblivious, unaware of what truly happens behind these walls. You light another candle, its flame guttering in the draft, and turn back to your notes.
The quill scratches across parchment, ink bleeding into frantic loops and slashes. The words blur, your eyes burn, but you force them open. One more line, one more variable. The storm outside answers with a crack of thunder that rattles the very bones of your manor, rattling the chains and metal behind you.
You turn, and there he is.
Strapped to the iron-framed table at the room’s center, Jack—your masterpiece, your abomination—lies in wait. Leather restraints bite into mismatched wrists and ankles, creaking with every shallow rumble of the storm or settling of the manor. The table is tilted upright now, a grotesque easel, so you can look him in the face when the moment comes.
And what a face. Skin the color of gray oceans stretches over a skull too broad for any single man, sutured along the hairline in a jagged crown of black stitching. His jaw juts wrong, borrowed from a mastiff you drowned in the river last spring. Teeth gleam behind parted lips, human incisors beside yellowed coyote fangs held frozen in a snarl. His ears twitch even in stillness, leathery bat wings pinned flat by more stitches, veined and translucent, quivering with the memory of flight.
But your favorite bit has to be his choppy hair, a mess of different shades of brown strands you kept in a nap sack. They’ve all come from different heads, but you decorated his scalp nicely so you could run your fingers through the course strands.
He doesn’t have eyes. Optic nerves are too finicky, and your hands have lost their steadiness long ago, but you’ve made sure to give him the satisfaction of eyelids. He won’t be able to see you (though, with the state you’ve been in, maybe it’s for the better), but he will be able to smell you, and taste you, and hear your hearts beat in time.
His body is a butcher’s fever dream, though. A farmer’s thick arms end in broad hands with taloned crow’s claws, blackened and curved, clicking against the metal as residual nerves fire. Below the waist, the legs are mismatched, one from a thief who tried to ransack your garbage, another from some body you dug up (you made sure to try and make them as similar as possible, muscles and all). He staggers, every inch of him a bit bigger than the last, muscles building upon muscles until you’ve been left with a mountain of a man.
But that was only half the story.
Lower, beneath the crude belt of scar tissue where human hips met mismatched haunches, you had not spared your craft.
And who could blame you? Years of silence, of nights spent with only the creak of floorboards and the wet thud of your own pulse for company, how could you deny yourself this one indulgence? You stitched him a manhood worthy of the name, pieced from the best of what the graveyards and the gallows offered. It was difficult to seam it together, threading silver wire beneath the skin so every vein would stand proud when blood finally rushed south.
You told yourself it was science—proportion, symmetry, the full anatomy of life. But your fingers had lingered, tracing the ridge you’d sculpted, the soft give you’d coaxed into being. It’s crude, and perverted. But you’ve lost your sense of shame ages ago.
The torso is the worst. You pieced it from six—no, seven—cadavers, skin tones clashing like a quilt sewn by someone blind and drunk all at once. Scars rope across him in raised, angry welts, some still weeping clear fluid. There’s stitching everywhere, crude and thick, holding him together the way prayer holds a sinner to grace. A flap of skin over his sternum hangs open, revealing the hollow cavity where his heart should beat.
But it will. Soon.
Your gaze drifts to the jar on the desk. Inside, suspended in amber fluid, floats the heart of the man who once shared your bed. Jack. The real one. The one who laughed at your theories, kissed the ink from your fingers, promised to stay even as parasites ate him hollow. You kept him alive longer than medicine allowed with tubes and tinctures and desperate, whispered prayers until the night he begged you to let him go. You did. Then you took what he left behind.
The heart is smaller than you remember, shriveled slightly, but perfect. You lift the jar, cradling it against your chest. The glass is cold, and the organ inside pulses faintly… or is that your own heartbeat echoing through your ribs? You can’t tell anymore.
“Almost, my love,” you murmur to the thing on the table.
You set the jar beside the open chest. The cavity yawns, ribs pried apart and pinned with iron clamps. Inside, lungs harvested from a drowned sailor inflate and deflate with the bellows you’ve rigged to a waterwheel in the cellar. Tubes snake from his throat to a bubbling flask of oxygenated serum. Everything is ready. Everything must work.
Because this time, you’ve woven love into the stitches. This time, the heart remembers your name.
You smile, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on your cheeks as you tie on your dirtied apron, stained with years of work.
“Wake up, Jack,” you whisper, unscrewing the lid of the jar. “It’s time to come home.”
Rain lashes the windows in sheets, each drop a hammer blow against glass. Thunder rolls in waves, shaking the floorboards beneath your feet. The candles gutter, then flare, then gutter again, as if the air itself is taking deep breathes. You stand over the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms slick to the wrist with amber fluid and old blood as you fish the heart out.
You reach into the cavity with both hands.
The heart is heavier than you remember when you stole it from your lover’s dead body, warm from the preservative bath, slick as a fish. It slides between your fingers like it wants to be placed, so you guide it home, nestling it among the mismatched lungs, a liver you stole, the spleen of a deer, bull arteries thick as garden hoses. You work as steady as your frantic brain will allow, guiding the needle and thread. In, loop, pull. The heart’s aorta slots to the bull’s artery, and you sew them together in tiny, perfect stitches, humming under your breath.
The veins are next. You splice, tie, and knot them tightly together. Pig’s blood, thick and dark, is warmed in a copper basin over the fire, waiting in a glass reservoir rigged to a hand-crank pump. Tubing snakes from the reservoir to the table, rubber fittings you scavenged from old fishing gear. You thread the largest tube into the heart’s pulmonary artery, seal it with wax and a prayer while smaller lines burrow into the vena cava and the jugular you borrowed from a poacher’s corpse. It’s difficult, but you’ve had so many trial and errors that it feels like child’s play now.
When the last stitch is tied, you pause. The heart sits centered now, a dark ruby in a cage of bone and tissue. You lean in, letting your lips brush the slick muscle, a final promise pressed through a kiss.
Then you fold the pinned back flaps of skin back over the cavity like closing a book, finding your needle again. You sew in long, looping pulls, the thread biting deep. The skin puckers, pulling taught, irritation blooming fresh and pink. When you knot the final stitch, the chest is whole.
Almost. It still needs to rise and fall.
The screws jut from either side of his neck like iron welts, threaded deep into the vertebrae, wired to copper plates beneath the skin. You drag the cables across the floor, trying your best not to snag them on anything. One end clips to the left screw with a spark that singes your knuckle. The other to the right.
The pig’s blood reservoir sits ready. You prime the pump—thump, thump—and crimson floods the tubes. It gurgles into his veins, dark and viscous, chasing out the last of the preservative. His skin flushes, mottled purple to sickly rose and deep blue.
The heart—your heart—gives a single, wet lurch inside its new cage.
You step back. The storm is directly overhead now as lightning strobes white across the windows. In that flash, you see him: the monster, the lover, the bridge between death and your will. The cables hum, thick with current stolen from the sky. You grip the switch—a brass lever salvaged from a church organ, connected from copper wiring up to the lighting poles on your roof.
You take a deep breath.
You throw the lever.
The sky splits open and lightning answers.
A single, white-hot lance of lightning spears the tallest rod on your roof. The impact is a thunderclap inside your skull as metal screams, glass shatters in the upper windows, and the air turns staticy. The bolt rides the braided copper downspouts you braided yourself, down the gutters, down the walls, a river of blue-white fire racing for the laboratory.
It finds the cables.
They swell, and glow, and sing. The sheath blisters and peels away in smoking ribbons. Inside the room, every hair on your body lifts, and the candles extinguish in a puff of smoke. The cables buck like living serpents, then go rigid. A heartbeat of silence, then the current slams the iron screws in Jack’s neck.
The first spark is like a sun.
It erupts from the left bolt in a flash of violet fire, arcs across the gap to the right, and showers your face in sparks. You feel each one, a thousand stinging kisses, but your eyes stay open. Unblinking. You watch.
The electricity pours into him.
Jack’s body leaps. The leather straps groan, then snap like kindling. His spine bows so violently the table legs screech across the stone floor. Every muscle locks, then spasms, then locks again. The bat ears flatten against his skull, the crow claws rake furrow in the iron. His jaw unhinges in a silent howl, fangs catching the strobing light like ivory lightning rods of their own. Veins beneath the stitched skin bulge black as the current hunts for ground.
Another bolt. Another. The storm is a machine now, feeding him.
The pig’s blood boils in the tubes, frothing crimson foam that spatters the floor. The heart, your lover’s heart, slams against its new ribs once, twice, a frantic drum trying to match the thunder. His scars split open in places, fresh blood, dark red, spraying in rhythmic arcs that paint your apron, your cheeks, the walls.
You do not move.
You stand in the eye of the chaos, hair whipping loose, eyes wide and dry despite the sparks that sear your lashes. The room is a forge with the copper smell of ozone, the horrid reek of burning blood, the sweet rot of old flesh cooking from the inside. Jack’s body is a puppet with its strings on fire. His one leg kicks, jarring the table further. His arm flails, fingers splayed, and his clawed fingers grip and tense around nothing.
A third bolt, thicker than the last, slams home.
The lights in the manor explode in a chain of pops. Darkness swallows everything but the afterimage burned into your retinas: Jack suspended mid-convulsion, every stitch glowing white-hot, the heart visible as a pulsing beacon behind his ribs. Then the current peaks, a roar that drowns the storm itself, and the cables melt. Copper drips in glowing rivulets, hissing where it meets the blood on the floor.
Silence.
The storm exhales and moves on, grumbling like a beast overhead. A few, lingering candles stay lit from residual heat, and in the flickering gold, Jack hangs half-off the table, straps in tatters, body jerking and writhing with electricity.
You finally blink.
A single tear cuts through the soot on your cheek, but you are smiling.
You wait.
Three feet back, boots rooted in the cooling blood, you wait with the patience of a bride at an altar that never opens. Your smile is small, but your heart thumps wildly in your chest.
Come on, love. Come back to me.
Nothing.
“Jack,” you whisper. The name tastes like rust and honey and every dream you’ve ever conjured.
Nothing.
The smile falters. One corner of your mouth twitches downward, then the other. You take a step, the floor squelching beneath you.
“Jack.”
Closer now, you reach out. Your palm hovers over the stitched chest, trembling. The heat radiates like a smith’s forge, but you press anyway.
The flesh is searing. Skin blisters your fingertips on contact. You yelp and jerk back, cradling the burned hand to your chest. Tears spring unbidden, hot and furious, carving clean lines down your cheeks.
“No,” you breathe. “No, no, no.”
You slam both palms against his chest this time, ignoring the pain. The heart sits in his ribs, the blood in his veins, but the limbs hang slack. You smear blood across the scars, painting yourself in failure. Your voice cracks open.
“JACK!”
The scream ricochets off stone and glass, and you kick the table. Iron rings, the whole frame shudders, but he does not wake. You kick again, harder, boot toe denting the metal. Pain blooms up your leg; you welcome it.
You stumble backward, apron soaked crimson, hands slick and shaking. The tears come in earnest now—ugly, wrenching sobs that fold you in half. You sink to your knees in the puddle of blood and melted wax, arms wrapped around your head as if you could hold the madness in.
“This one was perfect,” you sob into the crook of your elbow. “You were supposed to be perfect.”
You curl tighter, forehead pressed to the cold floor, and cry until the storm outside sounds gentle by comparison.
“God,” you spit, the word foreign and bitter on your tongue. “If you’re there, if you ever were, end this. Take the madness. Take me. Strike me down right here, you coward, or give me back my—”
Your voice cracks. The prayer dissolves into a hiccupping whisper. You haven’t prayed since childhood, finding that people who pray to a cruel God are nothing but sheep. Now the words tumble out anyway, stout with venom.
“Let it be finished. Let me be finished.”
The storm has passed. The manor is wrong in its silence—no wind, no thunder, only the soft drip of blood from the table’s lip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You bow lower, pressing your forehead to the stone, arms wrapping around your skull as if you could crush the thoughts inside. The silence swells, thick and so obscene you can hear your own pulse in your ears.
Then, as if nothing more than air on your skin—
The scrape of a talon on your scalp.
It begins at the crown of your head, parting your tangled hair. One claw, then two, then the whole splayed hand threading through the strands like a lover waking you from a nightmare. The touch is slow, exploratory, dragging downward to the nape of your neck. A low, wet rumble vibrates above you—not thunder, not the pump, but a sound from a throat that has never spoken.
You freeze.
The claws pause, curling gently, possessively, against your skin.
Your heart slams against your ribs, but you don’t dare breathe. The claw in your hair moves again, combing through the knots, talons grazing your scalp with a tenderness that makes your skin prickle.
Your hand rises, trembling, and closes around it.
The claw is warm. Not the searing heat of lightning, but the steady, pulsing warmth of life. Blood thrums beneath the scarred skin, pumping through veins. The hand is monstrous, a slight mistake on your part, but your two hands barely encircle it. You grip tighter, afraid it will vanish if you let go.
You kneel upward slowly, as if moving too quickly will wake you up from this dream. Your gaze follows the arm through corded muscle under mottled skin, scars glowing in the candlelight, up to the shoulder where human flesh meets thick stitching. Then higher to the face.
The eyeless sockets stare back.
Where eyes should be, only smooth, stitched skin, until you look closer. Thick, viscous black liquid wells from the seams, pooling, spilling over in slow, tar-like tears. It drips from his chin, pattering onto his chest. The bat ears twitch. The canine jaw works, fangs clicking softly, as if tasting the air.
You swallow. Your voice is a thread, so soft even you barely hear it.
“Jack?”
The creature sniffs, the nostrils you carved flaring as he takes deep inhales. The grip on your hand tightens, a low rumble vibrating through the talons into your bones. The head tilts, black tears streaking the stitched cheeks, and the grip shifts, tugging you closer, jerking your arm.
You stumble forward on numb knees, boots slipping in the congealing blood. He doesn’t know his own strength, the table lurching with a metallic screech, one remaining strap creaking in protest. You’re half-dragged to your feet, palms slapping against the warm, scarred chest to steady yourself.
The heart—his heart, your Jack’s heart—slams beneath your fingers. Not the mechanical thud of the pump, but a living, frantic rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Faster than it should be, as if it’s trying to outrun the body it now powers. You press both hands flat, feeling the heat seep into your burned skin, the tremor of muscle beneath stitches.
Tears come again, hot and thick as they spill over your lashes and drip onto the fresh-sewn chest, mixing with the black ooze still weeping from his sockets. You lean in, cheek to the ridged sternum, ear pressed to the cavity you closed with your own trembling hands. The heartbeat fills your skull, loud and real and impossible.
“Jack,” you sob, laughing through it. “You’re here.”
A low, confused rumble answers from his throat, an animalistic growl that tickles your skin. The free claw rises, hesitant, then settles on the back of your head. Talons comb through your hair again, careful, as if he’s learning the shape of you by touch alone. The other arm strains against the last leather strap, iron buckle groaning, but he doesn’t fight it. Not yet. He’s too busy sniffing, taking deep, wet inhalations that flutter the hair at your temple. The bat ears swivel, tracking the sound of your breath, your tears, the frantic thumping of your own heart.
You cling to him, arms sliding around the mismatched waist, fingers digging into the warm skin. He smells like copper and mildew and the unmistakable scent of a man. His chest rises and falls against your cheek, shallow but steady. The restrained arm jerks once, twice, then stills, the claw flexing open and closed like a child reaching for a toy just out of grasp.
He doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t even know his. Doesn’t know the storm, the manor, the graveyards you robbed. He only knows the warmth pressed against him, the salt of your tears, the heartbeat that matches his own.
And that’s enough.
…
Until it isn’t.
A tremor runs through the massive frame, first a shiver, then a shudder. His ears pin flat. The sniffing stops. The claw on your head tightens, talons pricking your scalp, and the rumble in his chest pitches higher, a frustrated sound.
He jerks.
The table rocks, and the last leg strap groans. You feel the shift in his body, the sudden, animal surge of panic. You step back, palms raised.
“Jack, easy—”
Too late.
He thrashes. The remaining strap on his left ankle snaps like thread, leather shredding. The table tilts, crashes onto its side with a clang that rattles your teeth. You stumble, boots skidding backwards, arms windmilling for balance. He howls, a sound torn between man and beast, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The black ooze pours faster from his sockets, streaking the floor in glossy ribbons.
“Jack, stop—look at me—”
He can’t. He can’t see. The world is scent and sound and terror. He lunges upright, mismatched legs scrambling for purchase. The right leg strap holds, the cuff biting deep into flesh. He snarls, fangs flashing, and rips. The second strap explodes, and he staggers to his feet, swaying, a titan drunk on new life.
The final restraint: the thick leather around his left wrist, bolted to the overturned table’s frame. He yanks hard, the buckle screeching.
“Jack! No—”
You see it happen in slow, sickening detail. The stitches along his shoulder stretch, dark thread going taut, then pink as skin parts. Blood rivulets begin to pool from the tears being made, streaming down his thick arm. He doesn’t feel it because you didn’t include half the pain receptors you should have. The joint pops, a wet, grinding dislocation. Flesh tears in a ragged sheet from collarbone to bicep, revealing raw muscle and glinting bone. The cuff still holds. He plants his feet, and throws his weight back. The leather snaps with a crack like a musket shot.
He falls.
His palms slap the stone hard enough to make you wince, the dislocated arm dangling at his side. His chest heaves, taking gulping breaths that have him shaking. His head sways from side to side on his shoulders, still disoriented but grunting and whining like a lost dog.
You stand frozen, hands pressed to your mouth, trying to hold the screams inside. The creature you made, your lover reborn, crouches in the ruin of your laboratory, alive.
You smile so wide your cheeks hurt.
You sink to your knees, careful not to startle him. You’re a few feet away, just enough space to not let Jack feel overwhelmed even more.
He sways, head low, ears swiveling like radar dishes. The dislocated arm drags, useless, leaving a wet smear across the stone. Every breath he takes whistles through his nostrils, every exhale steams in the cooling air. He sniffs, cataloging the world in scents you can only guess at: rust, blood, melted wax, your own salt-sweat skin.
You watch, rapt.
This is genesis all over again. The first clumsy steps of a soul stitched from scraps. This must be what God felt, you think, watching Adam and Eve, both of them naked and terrified and perfect.
You lift your fist and strike the floor. Thump.
His head snaps toward the sound, ears pricked high. The black tears have slowed to a trickle, the sockets gaping like wells. He shifts his weight, one leg bending, knee scraping the ground. He shifts towards the sound, leaning towards it as he sniffs.
You strike again. Thump.
He shifts again, closer. The talons of his good hand click against stone. He lifts his head, sniffing the air between you, and you see the moment recognition flickers, not memory, but something. Like he’s understanding the same person who was pressed against him moments ago is the same person who sits here now.
You crawl.
Knees in blood, apron dragging, you move toward him on all fours. The distance shrinks until you’re barely a foot from him. You extend both hands, palms up, fingers trembling. The burns on your skin throb, but you ignore them.
He leans in.
His face hovers inches from your fingertips as hot breath washes over your wrists. He sniffs once, twice, deep and shuddering. Then the claw rises, settling over your offered hands, talons curling gently around your wrists.
You hold your breath.
He holds his.
You guide his hand to your cheek. The rough pads of his fingers, stitched from calloused laborers and farmers, brush your skin like weathered parchment. He pauses, then explores, tracing the ridge of your cheekbone, the damp trail of tears, the wild tangle of your hair. You tilt your head into the touch, letting him map you. His claws comb gently, parting strands, learning the texture of you.
You move him lower. You draw his palm to the hollow of your throat. His nostrils flare as he feels the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath thin skin. A low, wondering rumble vibrates in his chest. You press harder, making him feel the life you gave him mirrored in your own veins.
Then lower still. You guide him to your sternum, flattening his hand over your heart. It races beneath your ribs, thumping against your chest. You cover his hand with both of yours, pinning it there. Feel me. Know me. The moment stretches, candlelight flickering across your joined shadows on the grime-slick floor.
He moves first.
His claw curls, slides to the nape of your neck, and pulls. It’s not rough, more like impatience. You rise onto your knees as he drags you forward, until your chest collides with his. The impact jars a sob from your throat, joy quickly replacing the anger you felt only minutes ago. His good arm locks around your waist, talons splayed across your back, careful even in instinct. He buries his face in your hair.
He smells you.
Deep, dragging inhalations taking in the salt of your scalp, the copper of blood on your hair, the soap you haven’t used in days. His muzzle drags down, nosing along your neck, breath hot against your pulse. You cry openly now, tears soaking into the skin at his shoulder. He follows them.
His tongue unfurls.
The lightning did more than spark life, it split him. The muscle divides into three thick, serpentine strands—each moving independently. They sweep across your cheek in wet, curious stripes, lapping at the salt of your tears, the sweat beading at your temple. One coils gently under your jaw, tasting the hollow there, then another traces the seam of your lips, while the third licks a slow path from collarbone to ear, savoring the tremor in your skin.
You laugh through the sobs, a broken, wondrous sound, and bury your face against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your ear.
“Welcome home, Jack…”
── .✦
Monsters are hard to keep up with, you’ve learned.
You haven’t slept (not truly) since the night the sky gave him back to you. Snatches of rest come only when exhaustion folds you over your desk, face pressed into the hard wood. The manor is quiet now, save for the creak of floorboards under his uncertain steps and the low, constant rumble in his chest when he’s near you.
On his first full day of life, you reset his shoulder. He whimpered as you eased the dislocated joint back into place with a wet pop. Black ooze wept from the torn stitches, although you’re unsure of its origin. It still leaks from his eyes, but you can’t seem to find the source. You cleaned, re-stitched, and wrapped the limb in linen. He fought at first, clawing at you, but your voice pinned him still. When you tied the final knot, he nosed your hair in gratitude, split tongue flicking across your temple.
But when you turned back to your desk to scribble notes, he found the window.
You’d cracked it open to let the charnel stink of pig’s blood and copper drift out. Jack padded over, drawn by the brush of cold air. He planted his claws on the sill, leaned out until his messy hair caught the wind, and sniffed. His split tongue flicked out, tasting the smell of rain-wet stone and pine from the cliffs.
You watched from your chair, lazily scratching notes into your observation book. He stayed there for hours, head tilted, blind sockets aimed at the valley. When the baker’s chimney in the village below puffed plumes of yeast and golden crust baking, he huffed, a pleased, rumbling sound, and licked the air again, chasing the warm, bready scent on the wind.
You couldn’t help it. You smiled, setting your quill down. “Smell that, Jack? Fresh bread. I’ll bring you a loaf next time I’m down.”
He turned toward your voice and chuffed, almost like he was agreeing. Then he settled back on his haunches, content to let the village bake its gifts and send them up on the breeze, while he guarded the window and waited for you.
You wondered if the townspeople were staring up at your manor and wondering who this new shadow must be.
Let them wonder, you think.
On the second day, he learns you are the axis of his world. You sit at your desk, scribbling notes on motor function and how to improve his stumbling, and suddenly the chair is gone as you’re lifted from it. He cradles you to his chest like a child with a doll, rumbling confusion when you squirm.
“Down, Jack. Down.” You tap his arm firmly, trying your best not to upset him. He obeys, setting you on the floor with the reverence of someone handling glass. Ten minutes later, he does it again.
That has to be the most jarring thing—his strength.
The first night you tried to dress him, you brought out one of your late father’s old nightshirts, one of his baggier ones. Jack sniffed it, ears twitching, then shredded it in one distracted swipe while you tried to pull it over his ears.
You tried again the next night with an old tunic from one of the bodies you’d dug up months ago. He wriggled, whining as his claws weaved until the whole thing hung in tatters around his hips. The sound he made was pure misery, a low, keening growl that only stopped when you peeled the remnants away and let him curl naked against the hearth.
You gave up on modesty after that.
Well…
The horse-cloak was an accident. You’d bought it from the village tanner to use as a tarp for hauling meat, the fabric a heavy oiled wool, brass clasps the size of your fists. You draped it over his shoulders as a last stitch effort, and he let it stay. The hem pooled around his ankles, the hood swallowed his sharp ears and eyeless sockets, and the clasps met neatly across his broad chest, but it was the only item of clothing he would tolerate. The rest of the time it lay discarded in a heap, and he padded through the manor bare as the day you resurrected him, scars and stitches and mismatched limbs on full display.
You never minded. The sight of him, all raw power and clumsy grace, was a testament to living unrestricted. Let the village clutch their pearls. You could stare at your masterpiece all day.
And you think he’d do the same to you, if you had given him the pleasure of eyes. But even without seeing, he’s learned so much in so little time.
He communicates in fragments, a low groan for hunger, a sharp huff for discomfort, a soft grumble when you stroke his ears. You teach him how to be gentle. You press his talons to your cheek, guide them in slow circles, and he mirrors it. When you flinch at a too-tight grip, he whines and loosens immediately. It’s hard, but it’s progress.
Nights are the worst. He paces the laboratory, restless, sniffing corners, pawing at the overturned table, exploring with his hands. You have to coax him to the nest of blankets you’ve made near the hearth, too afraid to bring him to your bedroom yet, or out of the laboratory for that matter. He curls around you, massive, protective, split tongue tasting the air above your head. You fall asleep to the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him, his claws combing through your hair in endless, soothing loops.
He learns in the way a storm learns the shape of a valley—slowly, violently, then all at once, until the entire thing has been desecrated.
The cuff.
The first time you loop the iron manacle around his thick wrist and snap it to the rusted drain pipe, he panics. The chain rattles like a death knell. He yanks, his claws gouging the stone, shoulder stitches popping with wet little sighs. You’re already at the door, cloak half-on, when you hear the crack of bone and tendon. You turn to find his hand gone, severed clean at the wrist by his own strength, dark blood spraying in rhythmic arcs. He feels at the stump, head tilted, then turns at you, a low, betrayed whine rising in his throat.
You don’t scold, even as you groan and shuffle your cloak back off. You kneel, pressing the severed hand to the bleeding wrist, connecting muscle and stitching while he trembles.
The whole time you murmur, “I’ll only be gone a minute, love. It’s just to get food. You’ll see.”
The next time you cuff him, he whines, pacing the length of the chain, but doesn’t fight. When you return with a paper-wrapped bundle of red meat, he’s sitting, ears pricked, leaning against the wall. You unhook him, and he bolts to you, muzzle buried in the package before you can unwrap it.
The word.
“No.”
You say it softly the first time he tries to follow you up the stairs, hands reaching for you eagerly. He freezes, head cocking to the side. You say it again, firmer this time. He backs down one step, then two, a frustrated huff fogging the air. By the fourth time hearing it, the word alone stops him mid-motion no matter what he’s doing, even when he’s mid-lift, your nightgown bunched in his fist, ready to carry you to bed like a bride. He sets you down with a sheepish grunt, claws flexing, waiting for praise. You give it, scratching behind his ear, murmuring good job, and his chest rumbles in response.
But you learn him, too.
He likes your laugh. The first time you snort at his clumsy attempt to hold a jar, his ears swivel toward the sound. He butts his head against your ribs until you laugh again, then licks the joy from your cheek with all three tongues.
He is obsessed with your hair. When you sit at your desk, he drapes himself behind you, muzzle buried in the strands, inhaling until his lungs must ache. When you finally take a bath days after the first night of his arrival, he nearly breaks your neck with how quickly he grabs your head, nose taking in the sweet soapy scent.
And meat. God, the meat. Your cold cellar is a carnage of lamb shanks, loins, rib bones cracked open for marrow and sucked clean. You haul back haunches from the village butcher until your arms ache, and still he devours it in minutes, blood smeared across his muzzle like war paint. You start buying whole lambs, dragging them up the cliff path yourself. He sits eagerly chained to the drain pipe, and you reward him handsomely for his good behavior.
Some nights, like tonight, you sit together on the laboratory floor, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing the seams of his face. He chews contentedly on a raw lambchop, bones crunching like kindling. You talk to him about the weather, about the village gossip, about how the butcher’s boy now pales when he sees you coming. Jack listens, ears flicking, occasionally licking a stray drop of blood from your wrist, but he doesn’t understand what you’re telling him, he just likes the sound of your voice.
The hearth crackles low, embers glowing against the dark stone of the laboratory. You sit cross-legged on the wool rug, back against the warm stone, Jack’s massive head heavy on your thighs. His ears twitch with every pop of the fire. Your fingers trace the thick black thread along his brow, following the seam where different tones of skin converge. The stitches are neat now, healed to raised purple ridges.
You speak softly to him, mumbling on about some story from days ago.
“…And the bay mare, you should’ve seen her. She kicked the stall gate clean off its hinges of the corral. Galloped straight through the fishmonger’s crates and knocked rotted fish everywhere. The blacksmith’s boy tried to catch her with a rope…”
Jack’s jaws work slow on the last of the lambchop. When the marrow is gone, he flicks the bone aside with a lazy claw. It clatters into the shadows, and his hand rises. One talon brushes your lower lip, feather-light, silencing you mid-sentence.
The room stills.
“Jack,” you whisper.
A low grunt rumbles in his chest, curious, listening.
You take his hand in both of yours, guide the broad pad of his finger to your lips again.
“Jack.” Slower this time, letting the shape of it settle on your tongue. You press his palm flat to your mouth so he can feel the vibration. “Jaaaack.”
He sits up. The movement is fluid despite his size, the firelight sliding over his mismatched shoulders. His blind sockets tilt toward you, black tears long dried. Another grunt escapes his throat.
You slide your hand to his chest, over the steady thump-thump of the heart you placed there.
“This is you.” You tap once. “Jack.” You tap again, firmer. “Say it with me. J—”
His lips part. The split tongue flicks over his meat-soaked lips, before retracting back into his mouth. Air hisses through his fangs.
“Juh…”
It’s barely a sound, but it’s there. His ears flatten in frustration, but he tries again, throat working, the muscles you stitched from three different creatures learning a shape they’ve never made. It must hurt, you think.
“Juh… J—”
You cup his face, thumbs stroking the seams at his cheeks. “Jack,” you breathe, encouraging. “You’re Jack.”
He leans into your palms, eyesockets creased with effort. “Jaa…khh.”
The k clicks wrong, catching on his canine tooth, but it’s close. So close your own heart stumbles. You laugh and press your forehead to his, cupping his jaw that still tries to work around the word.
“Yes, love. Jack. That’s you.”
His claw clamps around your jaw, feeling the way your jaw moves when you speak. The growl starts low in his chest, vibrating up through his throat, and forces its way out between fangs.
“Jaaaack.” It’s rough, a half-snarl cut through shredded vocal chords. The k snaps like a breaking bone, but your eyes flood instantly.
“Yes—yes, that’s it—”
He doesn’t stop. The sound hooks in his throat, drags him forward. He tries the next word he’s heard you breathe a hundred times to him.
“Lll… luh…” It’s almost funny how his mouth moves around the syllables, like he’s trying to throw the word up rather than say it. “Luh… vh…”
“Love,” you supply, voice trembling. “L-ove. Slow. Llllove.”
He growls in frustration, ears flattening, but you pull him closer, forehead to forehead, and try again.
“Luh—” you start.
“Luh—” he echoes, clumsy.
“—ove.”
“—vh.”
You both laugh, yours a sob, his a huffing bark. It’s messy, spit and tears and frustration flowing between every word. You press your cheek to his, arms around his thick neck, and keep going.
Minutes stretch. The fire pops. You sound it out like a lullaby: love, love, love. He growls, whines, tries to shape his mouth around it.
Then, finally—
“Jack.”
It’s hoarse and shaky. But it’s perfect.
You shriek, throwing your arms around him. “YES! Jack, you said it—”
He startles hard, stumbling back on his haunches, ears pinned. The outburst frightens him as his claws scrabble for balance, but you’re already giggling, crawling after him, hands gentle on his chest.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s good—” You stroke his cheek, kissing the seam of his brow. “You said your name. You clever thing—”
His lips twitch. The corners pull upward in a crooked, lopsided smile, fangs peeking through his wobbly lips, and the expression is so painfully new it steals your breath. The first smile he’s ever worn.
You trace it with a trembling finger. “There you are,” you whisper. “There’s my Jack.”
── .✦
The laboratory has become a cage with velvet bars.
Jack knows every inch now. The exact number of steps from the hearth to the metal table, the creak of the floorboards by the window, the way the draft whistles through the cracked pane when the wind shifts. He moves like a shadow stitched to your heels, following you absolutely everywhere he can get to. But the moment the iron cuff snaps around his wrist and the chain rattles home, the calm fractures.
Today is the worst.
You leave him only long enough to fetch water from the scullery. The chain is long (you lengthened it after the hand incident), but not long enough. You hear the frustration before you see it, his low, rising whine, the scrape of talons on the stone, the thud of his shoulder against the wall as he strains. When you press through the heavy door to your laboratory, he’s pacing tight circles, ears flat against his head, black tears flecking the floor. The pipe groans in its bolts. His blind gaze finds you the instant you cross the threshold, and the whine pitches into a desperate, “Luh—ve.”
You set the bucket down, wiping your hands on your apron. “Jack.”
He freezes. The name still startles him, only recently learning that this specific word means you’re talking directly to him.
You cross the room, unhooking the cuff from his wrist and watching as it clatters to the floor. Jack stands rigid, waiting.
“I think you’re just as tired of this room as I am,” you say. “Come on.”
You take his hand and lead him to the laboratory door. He hesitates on the threshold, nostrils flaring at the scent of the hallway beyond, dust and old wood flaring his senses. You tug gently and he follows.
You guide him left, past the staircase whose banister he brushes with his free claw, feeling the worn mahogany warmed by generations. The wood is smooth, almost silken, and he pauses to drag a talon along a carved detailing in the wood. A low, wondering grunt rumbles in his chest.
“This is the sitting room,” you murmur, pushing open the tall double doors.
The room unfolds like a sigh. High ceilings arch overhead, ribbed with dark oak beams that disappear into grand banisters. Hazy sunlight spills through tall windows, painting silver rectangles across your threadbare rug, its once-vivid roses now faded to dull circles. A cavernous fireplace sits black and cold, its marble mantel carved with intricate patterns. Above it hangs a gilt-framed portrait of a family member you never really knew, but Jack’s head tilts toward the hearth itself, nostrils flaring at the faint char of cold ash.
You release his hand, but he doesn’t stray far.
He pads forward, cloak whispering over the rug, and stops at the first piece of furniture, a velvet settee. His claws sink into the cushion and he rubs at the soft bedding, before pressing his nose to the cushion and inhaling.
It definitely smells like dust. You can’t remember the last time you cleaned this room, let alone step foot in it.
“Settee,” you say, stepping close. “It’s for sitting. Soft, isn’t it?” You take his hand again, guide it along the rolled arm, the carved walnut frame cool and satiny. He traces the shape, learning curves and edges.
You move to the window seat, its cushions plump with down. “Here.” You pat the brocade and he rises, following the sound, and you press his palm to the fabric. His talons catch on a thread, but he stills until you laugh and smooth the snag.
“It’s all right. Keep going.” You let him explore the windowpane next, the glass icy under his touch.
He finds the piano by scent first, the thick ivory keys drawing him closer. His claws skitter over the keys, and an abrupt chord clangs out, startling him. He snorts, ears flattening, but you’re already there, covering his hand with yours.
“It’s music,” you whisper, pressing the middle C. The single note rings pure, and he tries it for himself. He keeps tapping it until you clutch his hand, halting the jarring ringing.
You lead him last to the tapestry hanging opposite the mantel. It’s a hunting scene, stags and hounds, the colors long muted with dust, but you still want him to feel it.
“This is a painting.” You guide his hand along the textures and roughness of the painting. He sniffs, then tastes it, his split tongue flicking out to sample the dust and oils. You cringe, but you don’t stop him, letting him figure out that it doesn’t taste as good as he thinks it will.
Throughout, he never lets you drift more than an arm’s length away. When you pause to light a branch of candles on the mantel, his claw finds the hem of your sleeve and tugs on it. The flames leap, gilding the room in amber, and it looks more alive than you can ever remember it being.
Jack turns his blind face toward the warmth, ears relaxing, and exhales a long, contented rumble. You smile, but you don’t let him settle, pulling him back into the corridor.
You reach the grand staircase, its sweep a graceful arc of polished oak that desperately needs a polishing. The banister is carved with vines and roses, worn smooth by centuries of hands, and you press his palm to it as you ascend. “These are the stairs,” you smile. “Be careful, take small steps.”
He tests each step like a toddler, the wood creaking under his weight. His free claw grazes the banister, tracing the floral shapes all the way up.
At the landing, you lead him left, down a narrower hall where portraits of forgotten ancestors glare from wooden frames, their eyes long faded to milky smears. The air grows warmer, heavier with the scent of a space being lived in. You push open the heavy door to your bedroom, and you sigh at the grand bed you haven’t had the luxury of sleeping in the last week.
The four-poster bed dominates the center, its mahogany frame carved with twining ivy and curtains of deep maroon tied back with gold cords. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted from the last night you slept here—before the laboratory floor became your new bed.
A Persian rug, crimson and indigo, muffles your steps as you enter the room further, its intricate patterns worn thin at the edges. Your vanity stands against one wall, cluttered with perfumes, hairpins, and a dirty mirror reflecting your tired face back at you.
Books teeter in stacks on your chaise longue, their leather spines cracked from reading them enough times to go crazy, and there’s enough candle holders with wax dried around them to be just as annoying.
Jack freezes in the doorway, his nostrils flaring as he drinks in the air. Then, abruptly, he lets go of your hand.
“Jack?” you call, startled. He’s never released you during this little tour, but now he moves with purpose, crossing the rug in three long strides. The cloak slips from his shoulders, pooling forgotten on the floor as he reaches the bed and pauses, sniffing the air above the comforter. The satin sheets are a nice cream color, and his greyed skin looks sharp in comparison as he buries his face into the ruffled fabric.
You stand rooted, watching as he climbs onto the bed with a grace that belies his size. The mattress dips under his weight, the springs groaning as he nuzzles the pillows, the sheets, the thick down comforter, his ears fluttering in bliss. His claws knead the fabric, pulling it toward him in great, greedy fistfuls. He ruts, hips rolling instinctively, dragging the satin across his scarred chest, his thighs, as if trying to coat himself in your scent. The sheets twist around his mismatched limbs, the comforter bunching under his chin too. A low, rumbling moan vibrates in his throat as he buries his muzzle deeper, inhaling until his lungs must ache.
“Jack,” you say again, softer, stepping closer. He ignores you, lost in the bed’s embrace.
You haven’t slept here in days, but your scent lingers in every thread, every crease. He rolls onto his back, claws raking the air, then flips again, nuzzling into your favorite pillow. His hips grind again, rutting into your smell.
Your face must be several shades of red from how hot you feel watching him.
You climb onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress. “Jack, love, it’s just a bed.” Your voice is fond as you reach out, fingers brushing his broad back exposed by the tangled sheets. He stills at your touch, ears twitching, then rolls toward you, dragging the comforter with him. His blind sockets find you, and he chuffs, a sound of pure contentment, before nosing at your wrist, then your shoulder, urging you to join him.
You laugh, kicking your shoes off, and let him pull you down. The bed is vast, but he makes it feel small as he curls around you, clawing gently at you. His nose rests against your throat, matching the scent of your skin to the scent in the mattress below.
Your arms slide around his broad neck, fingers threading into the coarse hair at his nape. You pull him close, chest to chest, until the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him beats against your ribs in perfect counterpoint to your own.
For a long moment you only look. Soft sunlight spills across his stitched face through the thick curtains on the windows, silvering the raised scars, catching on the black seams that ladder his brow, and his ears twitch with every breath you take.
You have imagined this in dreams between experiments—a lover’s weight in your bed again, the safety of arms that know your shape. You never dared believe the dream would wear claws and smell of lamb, but now, you don’t want it any other way.
“I waited for so long, you know,” you whisper, brushing his neck. “I thought I’d die alone in that laboratory, probably start talking to the walls. But you—” Your fingers tighten in his hair. “You came back to me.”
Jack rumbles, his muzzle nudging your throat. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin. He tries to answer, the sounds clumsy in his throat, “Lll… luhhh…” A frustrated huff is all he manages, though.
You smooth the hair at his temples, thumbs circling the thick ridges of a scar on his forehead.
“Shh. Slow.” You press your lips to the seam between his brows. “Love. Say love.”
He grunts at the sound of you saying it, gritting his teeth. “L-Love.” It’s barely a breath, but he says it again, surer, nuzzling into your palm. “Love.”
You kiss his forehead, smiling against his skin. “Yes. Love.”
The pillows cradle you both as you sink back. Jack’s claw curves over your waist, talons gripping onto your clothes. You tuck your head beneath his chin, ear to the steady drum of his heart, and the exhaustion you’ve staved off for days finally claims you. Your eyes flutter shut mid-breath, fingers still tangled in his hair.
── .✦
The mattress is too soft, too comfortable, and that’s what jolts you awake.
Your body remembers this bed, and it betrays you by sinking you into it like a stone in water. You surface with a gasp, heart already racing before your eyes open.
Moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains, silvering the rumpled sheets. The space beside you is warm, but empty. Jack’s weight, his heat, the low rumble of his breathing—gone.
“Jack?” Your voice cracks, thin and sharp in the dark.
There's no answer, just the hush of the manor and the distant, mournful moan of wind around the eaves.
You scramble upright, sheets tangling around your legs. The candelabra on the nightstand clatters as your fingers fumble in the drawer for the matchbox. You grab a match, striking it twice before it catches, and you light the tapers one by one, the sudden bloom of flame making the room lurch. Shadows leap across the walls, across the bed where the comforter is dragged half to the floor, across the discarded horse-cloak in a heap by the footboard.
He’s not here.
Your mind immediately runs to the worst, imagining he’s lost in the village down the mountain, pawing at someone’s wooden door, moments away from being met with a pitchfork or a drunkard ready to hurt what they don’t understand.
“Jack!” Louder now, panic threading his name. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting the cold rug, and sweep the candelabra in a wide arc. The vanity, the chaise, the wardrobe—nothing. Only the lingering warmth of his body on the sheets and the crushed indentation where his head had lain.
You’re moving before you can think twice, candle flames guttering as you move. The door creaks as you wrench it open and step into the hall.
The corridor is a tunnel of black, the moonlight from the stairwell window a pale, distant light. Your shadow stretches long and wavering ahead of you, the candelabra trembling as you sweep it back and forth along the walls.
“Jack, where are you?” Your voice echoes, swallowed by the high ceiling. Somewhere below, a floorboard groans and your breath catches.
You follow the sound, bare feet silent on the runner as you patter towards the stairs. The portraits watch you pass, their painted eyes staring like they know something you don’t.
At the top of the grand staircase, you pause. The darkness below is absolute, your eyes straining to see past the fifth step. You usually light all the candles in your manor before the sun falls, but the day slipped from you fast, leaving the manner a yawning black hole. You lift the candelabra higher, the flames trembling with your pulse.
“Jack?” you call again, softer, pleading.
The clatter ricochets again from somewhere below, and you fly down the grand staircase. The sound pulls you left, then right, through corridors you haven’t walked in weeks, past locked doors and moth-eaten tapestries, until the air turns damp and cool and the flagstones slope underfoot.
The cellar door gapes wide, exhaling dust and rot into the air upstairs. Moonlight doesn’t reach here, only your candles push trembling lights into the gloom. You hesitate on the threshold, the steps descending into nothing, each one dilapidated and near-rotted.
“Jack?” Your voice is small, swallowed by the dark.
No answer.
You descend. The wood groans, cobwebs brushing your face like little fingers. The cellar’s air is stale around you, thick with the smell of dust and flea-bitten fabrics. Crates tower in leaning stacks, their lids pried open, straw spilling like entrails. A shattered mirror leans against a chair missing its seat, your reflection fractured into a dozen frightened eyes. You move deeper, candelabra raised, calling his name in a whisper that feels too loud.
Then a crack, almost like twigs breaking, sounds from behind you.
You turn.
He’s there, in the far corner where the shadows pool deepest, back to you, massive shoulders hunched. His claws flex against the stone, scraping it, and the sound that follows is his rough chewing, like he’s gnawing on something. The candles tremble in your grip, throwing his silhouette huge and terrifying across the vaulted ceiling.
“Jack,” you breathe, but he doesn’t turn.
The crunch comes again, like knuckles popping. You flinch, the candelabra clinking as you set it atop a crate beside you. Your bare feet pad forward over gritty stone, drawn to the hulking shape in the corner.
His back is a map of your making, decorated with thick black stitches marching down the spine like railroad tracks, each knot a memory of your trembling fingers and midnight oil. You remember the hours, the fragile cord of nerves you had to coax into place, the way you cursed so loud your throat hurt when the thread slipped and you had to begin again.
You reach out, your palm settling between his shoulder blades as you feel him take one deep breath after another.
“Jack.”
He stiffens, every muscle locking. A low growl vibrates under your hand, more warning than recognition. You slide your touch to his arm, gripping his thick forearm, and gently turn him.
There isn’t much left of the poor thing.
The rat is already dead, it’s head gone, body limp in his claws. Blood runs in glossy rivulets down his wrist, pooling between the talons, dripping to the floor in revolting, rhythmic pats. His chin is slick with it too, dribbling down his maw and onto his throat. The last crunch you hear is the skull giving way between his molars before he swallows.
Your breath catches. His blind sockets tilt toward you, ears half-cocked, blood-flecked tongue sweeping across his lips to catch the stray drops as you stare at what lays before you.
Your hand jerks back as if it burned you, clutching your chest in horror. The air feels thick, suddenly too small for the cellar, for you, for what you’re seeing. Your stomach flips, the taste of sour bile rising in your throat.
Jack sniffs, ears flicking toward the motion of your retreat, then lowers his muzzle again toward the mangled rat, his jaws parting.
“No.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you meant.
He freezes, the rat dangling from his claws as it drips into his knuckles. He remembers the word no, and his arm stills in response, but he doesn’t let go. He simply waits.
You press your fist to your mouth, pacing two steps back. “What the fuck,” you whisper, voice trembling. “What the fuck is happening?”
You’ve watched him tear into raw lamb, yes, watched him crack bones between his teeth like biscuits and lick the marrow clean. You knew he preferred raw meat when you tried to cook some for him, only for his face to grimace at the taste. You told yourself it was natural, that he was built for it, that he was obviously man and animal alike. But this, this small, warm thing that had been scurrying a moment ago, now headless and half devoured with its skin and all… You swallow hard, fighting the heave in your gut.
Jack killed it with his own claws and teeth. Killed it.
He shifts his weight, uncertain, the rat still pinched between his sharp claws. A soft, questioning whine vibrates in his throat.
You force your eyes to his face, to the blood smeared across his fangs, the threads of saliva stretching as he breathes.
“Drop it,” you say, quieter now, but stern. “Please, Jack. Drop it.”
He hesitates one heartbeat longer, then opens his claws. The corpse hits the stone with a wet slap, and you nearly throw up what little food you’ve had in recent days.
You seize his arm above the blood, fingers careful not to slip on the slick warmth lower down. He lets you, more docile now, the fight gone out of him the moment you touched him again. You grab the candelabra in your other hand as you pull him away from the corner, away from the rat on the floor. You don’t look back at it—you can’t.
Jack pads behind you, his head held low, soft whines threading the silence, but you don’t know if it’s out of embarrassment that he’d been caught, or his lingering hunger. The stairs creak under his weight, the corridors swallow the candlelight, and still he follows, breath hitching every time you tighten your grip. You don’t speak, mind still running a thousand miles a second.
Back in your bedroom you don’t pause. You tow him straight through to the adjoining bathroom, the one extravagance you kept when the rest of the house fell to ruin. Moonlight spills through the high, frosted window and glints off the claw-footed tub, porcelain gleaming like ivory. You set the candelabra on the marble counter, leave Jack in the doorway, and twist the brass taps. Water thunders into the tub, steam curling up towards the tiled ceiling.
Jack’s ears snap forward at the roar of water. He kneels to all fours and crawls after the sound, talons scraping over the tiles until he reaches you. You kneel beside the rising water, and he settles at your side, blood still tacky on his chin and chest. His claw darts toward the rising water, talons spread like a child reaching for candy.
“No.”
A pitiful whine rolls out of him, ears pinning back. He leans in instead, muzzle seeking the familiar comfort of your neck, tongue already flicking out for a taste. The iron reek of rat blood hits you full force, and you press your palm to his forehead and push him back, nose wrinkling.
“Jack, stop. I’m sorry, love, but you’re disgusting right now. Sit still.”
He huffs, wounded, but folds his arms across his lap and stays put, ears drooping. “No…” he huffs out.
You rise, taking one wick from the candelabra to light the oil lamps that ring the room. Flame by flame, the bathroom awakens, creamy marble veined with gold, the tall mirror blooming with warm light, steam curling around the spouted faucets. The water thunders on, almost half-full.
Then there’s a sudden splash behind you.
You whip around. Jack has plunged his entire right arm in up to the elbow, stirring the bathwater lazily. The water is already clouding, threads of pink swirling outward from his skin.
You groan, long and defeated, and stride back. “Dear God, help me…”
He looks up at the sound of your voice, water dripping from his forearm in rosy rivulets. You reach past him and twist the taps shut. The sudden silence is thick, broken only by the soft plink plink of droplets falling onto the surface.
You roll your sleeves past the elbow, and Jack’s ears track the rustle of linen. You set a hand on his forearm, tugging gently for him to stand.
“Up, love. On your feet.”
He rises awkwardly, joints popping, the bathroom suddenly so much smaller with him standing over you.
He’s never done this. The only water he’s ever really met was cold raindrops on the opened window sill or the glass pitcher he accidentally knocked over days ago, both of you startled by the shatter and sudden flood across the laboratory floor.
But he’ll be alright if you show him it’s alright. One hand cups his elbow, the other guides his knee. “Lift,” (you’ve turned to speaking plainly these days, finding that Jack responds better to easy commands than sentences.) His leg rises, foot scraping porcelain as he swings it over the tub’s rim. The instant his toes touch the water he hisses, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth edge..
“Shh, easy.” Your voice is steady, the same tone you used when you reset his shoulder. “It’s warm. It won’t hurt you. I’m right here.”
You slide your arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. “Other leg, slow.” He obeys, other foot following, and the water closes over his calves with a soft, rosy sigh. He stands rigid, ears pinned flat, breath coming in quick huffs through his nostrils. The heat is foreign, invasive, but your hand stays firm on his weight, tracing small circles between the stitches.
“Good,” you whisper. “That’s perfect, Jack. Just a little more.” You settle your palms on his shoulders, pressing gently downward. “Sit. Slowy.”
He bends, knees folding, the tub creaking as his weight shifts. He braces his claws on the sides of the tub, then his hips sink. Water surges, lapping at the porcelain rim, sloshing over the edge in warm splashes that patter onto the tiles. When he finally settles, the surface reaches the center of his chest, rat’s blood soaking off of his skin and into the water.
You kneel beside the tub, tucking your legs under you, and watch the stains lift away like old sins. There's a wash rag hanging on the edge of the tub, and you grab it.
You dip the rag, let it soak until it’s heavy, then wring it out with a twist. Water streams back into the bath, and Jack’s head immediately cocks to the noise. He’s always so curious, so you satisfy his curiosity by holding it out to him, letting him smell the fabric before bringing it to his skin.
You start at his shoulders. The rag glides over scarred skin, tracing the thick black thread that ladders across his width. Jack sighs, a long, rolling sound that ends in a pleased rumble. His head tips back, muscles relaxing, and he leans into your touch like a dog getting its neck scratched.
“Does it feel good?” you ask softly, dragging the rag in slow circles over his chest. The water beads and rolls down the ridges of scar tissue, carrying away weeks of dust and grime. Jack rumbles, a deep, rolling mmrrph that vibrates through the tub and into your knees. His ears flick forward, then relax again.
You dip the rag and wring it out, but the water that spills back is the color of weak tea. You groan under your breath. “Look at this. You’re filthy, Jack. Absolutely filthy.”
He huffs, almost amused, you think.
You laugh despite yourself, scrubbing at the seam where neck meets shoulder. “I know, I know. I kept you in that nasty laboratory like a dirty secret. No wonder you went hunting rats.”
Another low grunt, softer this time. He leans into the rag, eyesockets half-lidded, the tension bleeding out of him with every pass of warm cloth.
You pause, looking at the murky water, then at your own hands, cringing at the ink under your nails, calluses from needles and scalpels, your skin dry and cracked. Come to think of it, you can’t remember the last time you sank into this tub yourself. Days blurred into nights, nights into focusing and coaxing life from death. Your night clothes have been slept in more than washed, and your hair hasn’t seen a proper brush in a week.
You probably look just as deheaveled as the creature before you.
“God, we’re both a mess,” you mutter. “When you’re clean, I’m getting in after you. I smell like a morgue.”
Jack chuffs, a short, decisive sound. He lifts one massive claw, letting it hover over the tub’s edge, then pointedly pats the surface beside him. Water slops over the edge, his claw gripping onto your arm and tugging you toward him.
You roll your eyes fondly. “You’re too big, you ridiculous creature. You’d drown me.”
He grumbles stubbornly, and scoots back an inch, making a hollow in the water that immediately refills. The invitation is clear, and he tugs your arm again.
You shake your head, smiling despite the grime and horrors of tonight. “Later,” you promise, wringing the rag again. “First we finish getting the filth off you.”
Jack sighs through his nose, a long, dramatic exhale.
“I said later—”
The protest dies as Jack’s massive claws close around your forearms. Before you can do more than gasp, he pulls you toward him, the tub’s porcelain lip scrapes your stomach, and then you’re tumbling over it with a startled yelp.
Water closes over you, warm and murky, soaking your clothes in an instant. You come up sputtering, hair plastered to your face, legs still hooked over the edge. “Jack!”
He rumbles unrepentantly, and drags you the rest of the way in. One arm loops your waist, settling you squarely in his lap. The water rises dangerously close to the rim, filthy swirls blooming around your thighs. You cringe, wrinkling your nose at the cloudy bath, but Jack’s chest is a solid wall at your back, his breath warm against your wet temple.
“Disgusting,” you grumble, trying to be stern and failing when his claws pluck the soaked rag from your limp fingers.
He makes a soft huff and dips the rag again, just the way you had been. Then, he begins washing you.
Slow, methodical strokes down your arms, scrubbing at the stains on your skin, the chemical burns on your knuckles, the places you’ve forgotten to care for. His touch is impossibly gentle for claws that could shred oak in a moment, easily dragging the rag along the curve of your neck, albeit soaking your clothes further in the process.
Something warm and fierce swells in your chest. “You’re too clever for your own good,” you whisper.
Jack chuffs, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, letting him cocoon around you.
He lets the rag slip from his claws and sink to the bottom of the tub. Jack’s arms fold around you instead, pulling you deeper into the cradle of his body until your back is flush against his chest. His claws begin to wander, slowly exploring paths across your sternum, the hollow of your throat, the line of your jaw. You let your eyes flutter shut at the gentleness of it.
Then the memory flashes, sharp and sour—the rat, the crunch, the blood on his chin.
Your breath catches. The thought slides in cold and unbidden. Would he ever… If his hunger sharpened enough, if instinct overrode the careful lessons on being gentle you’ve drilled into him, would he ever turn those teeth on something bigger? On you?
Jack’s muzzle dips, split tongue sweeping across your cheek in a warm, affectionate lick. The smell hits you, the iron and raw meat still clinging to his breath. You cringe, turning your face away.
“Shoo, Jack, your mouth—”
He huffs, a soft, wounded sound, but doesn’t pull back. Instead he nips, just a nip of his sharp teeth on the apple of your cheek, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you shiver.
The dread blooms low in your belly, small but undeniable. The bathroom is suddenly too warm, the water too still. His arms are a cage you asked for, and his teeth are right there, inches from your throat.
He would never hurt a human. He would never hurt you.
Right?
── .✦
“Just hold still.”
Jack perches on a wooden stool in front of you, one massive arm resting across your lap, veins thick and dark beneath the patchwork skin. Rain taps the cracked laboratory window, a gentle percussion that fills the room with the scent of wet cobblestone and distant chimney smoke.
You tie the rubber tourniquet just above his elbow, securing it tight enough to make his veins bulge more than they already do. The stitches there are healing clean, raised purple ladders that flex when he curls his claws. “There we go,” you nod.
He hates this room now. You can see it in the way his ears flick back, the way his nostrils flare at the ghosts of formaldehyde and old blood. Especially since he now has the luxury of wandering around the rest of the manor, having more comfortable spaces to lounge. But he stays, only because you asked.
You swab the crook of his arm with alcohol, the sharp smell making him grunt as you reach for the syringe on your desk.
“Easy,” you murmur, thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. “Just a prick. Then we’re done.”
He tenses as you grip his arm tighter, holding it steady, before sliding the needle home.
The vein gives with a pop, dark blood wells into the syringe, thicker than human, almost syrupy. The first vial fills quickly, then you’re replacing it with a second one, then a third. When the last vial is full, you ease the needle out, press a square of gauze to the puncture, and tape it down.
“There.” You pat his arm. “All done. Good boy.”
He huffs, ears perking at the praise, and the tension leaks from his shoulders like it was never even there. You gather the vials and carry them to your desk beside the window. The rain is louder here, a steady drum against the glass. You uncork the first tube, tip a drop onto a glass slide, and slide it under the brass microscope. Behind you, Jack’s feet tap softly as he stands.
The laboratory feels smaller to him now, after the vastness of the manor’s halls and the endless sky beyond the windows, so he walks in circles, trying his best to occupy himself.
You adjust the microscope’s focus, the blood cells swimming into view. Rain drums harder, a sudden gust pushing the window open another inch. Cool, wet air rushes in, carrying the green smell of the cliffs. Jack’s head snaps toward it, and he lumbers to the sill, resting his forearms on the stone ledge. His ears swivel, drinking in the sounds outside. Water beads on his lashes and drips from his chin, and he inhales until his ribs creak before exhaling a long, contented sigh that fogs the glass.
You lean over the microscope, and narrow on the blood cells drifting like dark planets in a murky cosmos. You adjust the focus, and the color deepens to a viscous, near-black plum, thick as melted tar.
That can’t be right.
You set the first vial aside, then uncap the second, tip another drop, and the same obsidian stain spreads across the slide. You knew the pig’s blood you used would linger—it had to, to prime the veins before his heart took over—but this is more than residue. This is change. On the night you brought him to life, the blood that spilled from his body was red, but this has… mutated? The cells carry pigment like ink, like the black tears that weeped from his sockets. You reach for your journal, scratching notes quickly.
Pig hemoglobin dominant, yet oxidized beyond expected parameters. Possible metabolic sequestration of iron?
You pause, glancing at Jack. He’s still at the window, nose lifted to the rain, water beading on his forehead as he’s begun to lean out into the air.
…instinctive adaptation to predation?
The thought sours your stomach. You flip back a page to your notes on mastication pressure, and to the page before on auditory range. You’ve been watching for slippage, for the moment the animal parts outweigh the man. The rat was the first crack in the veneer, but now the blood itself seems to confirm it.
You shiver at the thought of the rat again, remembering how you had to feed him a whole sack of mint leaves from the garden to rid of the smell after his bath.
You uncap the third vial, draw a thicker sample into a pipette, and let it fall into a porcelain dish. It pools, slow and syrupy, spilling like oil. You swirl it gently, and watch as it clings to the sides, reluctant to move. A metallic scent rises from it, richer than iron, almost gamey. You write again, hand steadier than your pulse.
Color is near-ebony. Suspect high concentration of myoglobin and unidentified proteins. Will need a centrifuge. Will need…
You stop. The rain drums harder, a sudden gust rattling the windowpane. Jack turns his head toward the sound of your pen, and he takes a step back into the room, drawn by the scratch of pencil on paper. You don’t look up, you’re afraid to see the question in the tilt of his blind face. But there’s no doubt he can smell how stressed you are.
…will need to determine if hunger is driving cellular mutation, or if mutation is driving hunger.
You set the pen down. The blood in the dish stares back, dark as the cellar corner where he crouched last night. You cap the vials, line them up like soldiers, and try not to think too much on it.
You swivel in the chair, expecting to find him still at the window, but the space is empty, only rain-streaked glass and the dry imprint of his claws on the sill. Before the absence can settle into worry, warmth presses against your thighs. You look down.
Jack is folded at your feet, knees splayed wide on the cold stone, broad shoulders hunched so his head can rest heavy in your lap. One hand curls loosely around your ankle, and the other wraps around your calf.
You let your fingers sink into the coarse hair at the crown of his head. He leans into it, a low, rolling sound vibrating against your legs.
You look at him for a long time, eyeing the slope of his shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his back, the way he leans into your touch like it’s the only true thing he’s ever known.
This is your creation.
Even when Cain killed his brother Abel, God still called his name, God still loved him.
Even when the rat’s skull cracked between these jaws, you still called his name, you still love him.
“Jack…” you whisper.
His ears twitch. The purring sound he’s making shifts, becoming the familiar, hollow grunt that means he’s hungry. He lifts his head just enough to nudge your stomach with his forehead.
“Hungry again?”
He grunts again.
You smile despite the ache behind your ribs. “All right, love. Come on.”
You stand. He rises with you, fluid and immediate as he falls into step at your side. You leave the vials cooling on the desk, deciding that you’re rather hungry yourself. The rain follows you down the corridor, a steady heartbeat against the manor’s old bones, as you lead your creation toward the kitchen.
The pantry door swings open.
Empty shelves stare back at you, and not a scrap of meat is even left. No haunches, no ribs, not even the bones he likes to crack open like nutshells. Just dusty jars of jam, a tin of stale crackers, and a forgotten sack of flour turning soft in the corner.
Jack’s nostrils flare. He smells the emptiness, and a low whine builds in his throat, vibrating against your arm.
You drag a hand through your hair. “I went to the market yesterday. No… the day before…” The words trail off as the truth hits. That was a week ago. Seven days gone in a haze of teaching and blood and his endless hunger and your just as endless madness. You groan. “Has it really been a week?”
Jack noses closer, his ears pinning back. He sniffs the empty air again, hopeful, then whines louder.
You scan the shelves one more time. Jam won’t do. Crackers won’t fill that pit in him. Hell, he’d be better off if you just sent him back down to the cellar again.
You sigh, turning back to him. “Alright. I have to go down to the village.”
His ears perk at the word village. He leans into you, one massive claw curling around your wrist. You feel the shift, the eager tilt of his body.
“No, Jack. You stay.” You press your hands against his chest, pushing him as firmly as you can manage. “Stay here. I’ll be back with food.”
He cocks his head, and the blind sockets tilt toward your voice. Then he simply steps forward when you turn for the door.
You try again, palm flat on his chest. “Jack, no. Stay. It’s not safe out there.”
He pushes past you with a stubborn huff.
You yank your cloak off the hook by the door, the heavy wool promising to keep the wet off of you. Rain drums harder outside, a low growl of thunder chasing it. You pull the hood up, fingers fumbling with the clasp.
Jack’s claw closes around your wrist before you can even twist the knob.
“No—” you start, tugging halfheartedly. He doesn’t budge. Just stands there, naked as the day you stitched him, ears pinned back like a kid who knows he’s about to be left behind. You sometimes forget that he doesn’t wear clothes the majority of the time, your eyes more focused on his muscles or his interests.
You slip free, dart out onto the slick gravel. The door thuds shut behind you, and you turn away, beginning to walk.
Click.
The lock turns.
You whip around. The handle rattles, then the door swings wide again. Jack shoulders through, bare feet slapping wet stone, completely unbothered by the rain on his skin.
You groan so loud it echoes off the cliff face. “You can open locks now. Wonderful. Fucking great.”
Chaining him isn’t even an option anymore, not if you want him to trust you moreso than he does now. You either drag him with you, or you leave him loose in the manor and pray he doesn’t decide to follow… but he will. You know he will.
You storm back inside, water dripping off your cloak, and yank his massive horse-cloak off its peg. Jack’s already trying to push past you again, rain streaming down his chest.
“Hold still, please—”
He lets you wrestle the cloak over his shoulders, the brass clasps barely meeting across that barrel of a chest. The hem drags on the floor, swallowing his abnormally large feet, and it’s good enough for the torso.
Pants are a whole different war.
You dig through the wardrobe upstairs, tossing out every oversized thing you own. An ancient pair of your late husband’s work trousers are too short, but the waist ties, so they’re good enough. He grumbles the entire time, ears flicking, claws catching in the fabric. When you finally shove a wide leather belt through the loops and cinch it, the trousers hang comically low on his hips, the cuffs barely past his knees.
You step back, flustered, panting, hands on your hips.
He looks ridiculous.
He looks… less like something that crawled out of a grave.
Close enough.
You grab his claw. “Come on. Stay close. And for the love of God, keep the hood up.”
Jack rumbles and follows you out into the rain, his cloak dragging in the wet. The village is waiting, and so is the butcher, and you have no idea how you’re going to explain the seven-foot shadow trailing behind you in clothes that clearly don’t fit.
But he’s coming. And somehow that feels right?
The path down the cliff is a mess of slick stone and stubborn foliage. Rain needles sideways, soaking through your cloak in seconds, but still not heavy enough to deter you. Jack keeps stopping every three steps, it feels like. Bless him, he’s so curious, touching every tree and kicking at every rock, trying to discover more. You tug his sleeve, and he follows two more steps before something else catches him, and you’re repeating the process over again.
By the time the village roofs appear, your boots are caked and your nerves are frayed thin.
The market square is alive with noise, merchants shouting about vegetables and oils, dogs yapping under carts, kids darting between legs and chasing one-another. The smell of fresh bread and wet wool and horse shit abuses your senses, so there’s no doubt it’s triple-fold for Jack. He freezes at the edge of it all, his shoulders hunched high, his claw tightening around your hand.
You yank the hood farther down until only the tip of his nose shows. “Head down,” you mutter, heart already jackhammering against your ribs. “Don’t look at anyone. Please don’t sniff anyone.”
He rumbles but lets you pull him forward.
People notice. Of course they notice.
Women stop and whisper to each other, children point and get yanked away, drunkards gawk and take another gulp of their ale. Their stares are like knives, but you've felt worse.
You keep moving, boots splashing through puddles, eyes locked on the butcher’s stall at the far end of the market lineup. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, and Jack’s grip is crushing now, every shout from a vendor making him uneasy. He presses closer, a wall of heat at your side, and you feel the tremor running through him.
Ten more steps. Five.
You can already hear the butcher’s cleaver thunking into wood, smell blood and sawdust and raw meat. Just get there. Pay. Leave.
You tug Jack one last time, ducking under the awning, and pray no one looks too close at the thing hiding in your shadow.
The butcher’s stall smells like heaven and hell at once—thick, coppery blood and cold fat. Sides of lamb and pork hang from iron hooks, swaying in the damp breeze, and the butcher looks up from his block and grins when he sees you.
“Well, if it ain’t the witch come down from yer tower.”
The witch jokes never get old in this village, apparently.
You don't laugh. “Lamb, please. Whatever’s freshest.”
He wipes his hands on a rag that gave up being clean years ago. “Aye.”
Jack’s practically vibrating behind you. The cloak hood is low, but his nose keeps pushing forward, nostrils flaring at the raw meat smell. One claw sneaks past your hip, reaching for a string of sausages hanging on the side post.
You slap it down, whispering, “No.”
The butcher’s eyes flick up, polite-curiosity doing a bad job of hiding itself. He keeps chopping, but you feel the stare crawling over Jack’s too-big frame, the way the cloak stretches across shoulders that no human owns.
Then the curtain behind the counter flaps open and his boy barrels in with a bucket of scraps. He skids to a halt the second he sees Jack, and you mentally kick yourself. The kid’s mouth drops, and he backs up until his shoulder bumps his father’s leg and just… stares.
The butcher clears his throat. “Go on inside, lad. Help your mother.”
The boy doesn’t move, just keeps staring like he’s seen the devil.
You step half in front of Jack, heart hammering so loud you’re sure the whole square can hear it. “If you could wrap the meat, too, please.”
He nods and wraps the cleaved meat in brown paper and twine, lumping two hunks on top of each other. “That’ll be—”
You’re already dropping too many coins in front of him and grabbing the packages before he can finish. You tug your hood lower, turn on your heel, and haul Jack with everything you have. “Come on.”
You can hear them whispering before you’re even out of the stall.
You step back out from under the awning and into the market street. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but the air’s still thick and cold, and you’re in even more of an anxious hurry to get back to your home now. You shift the meat in your arms, trying to free one hand for Jack’s sleeve.
He’s already gone.
“Jack, stay—”
An older man with a crate full of onions jostles your arm hard, and when you spin back, the space beside you is empty, leaving only the market and its many staring faces.
Your stomach drops.
“Jack!” You hiss.
You spot him ten feet away, drifting toward the alley behind the baker’s stall like he’s being pulled by a string you can’t see. His hood’s slipped back just enough for someone to notice his eyes if they looked too close.
“Shit—”
You clutch the meat tighter and shove through the crowd. People murmur and give you odd stares, but you don’t care. You round the corner into the narrow lane behind the shops, boots skidding on wet stone.
Jack’s standing in front of the little open stable there, one massive claw stretched out toward a bay gelding tied to a post. The old horse sniffs his fingers, its body nearly the same height as Jack’s, but just barely. Jack’s whole body is still except for his nose, sniffing in the new smells of the animal and the leather of its halter.
You freeze, breath stuck in your throat.
Don’t bite. Don’t grab it. Don’t spook it. Please.
The very tips of his claws brush the velvet muzzle, and the horse huffs, unbothered as his large hand begins to rub across its face. To the horse, Jack is just another animal.
Relief hits so hard your knees almost buckle.
You shift the parcels higher against your hip and step closer, voice low. “Hey. We gotta go home, love.”
He doesn’t turn, just keeps petting the horse until the rain begins to bead on his cloak.
You swallow the lump in your throat and reach for his free hand.
“Come on. Meat’s getting cold.”
And drag him all the way back to the safety of your home.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
✦ . Note: This one is messssssyyyyy. I am not a piercing expert, so please do not take what is written in the beginning as accurate, because in reality this would probably end with an infection! But it’s kinktober, so we ignore logistics here! For my readers with tongue piercings, this is for you!!!!!
Tag: #rainykinktober2025
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“Do you really think another one is necessary?”
Eyeless Jack’s voice was flat, the words edged in the dry patience of someone who had been asked to do something they already considered absurd. He stood across from you in his basement workspace, arms folded over his broad chest.
The examination table you sat on was cold beneath your thighs, the leather cracked from age, smelling strongly of iron and antiseptic. The room was dim, lit by a single hanging lamp overhead, its glow casting long, jagged shadows against the walls lined with old medical cabinets. Some of the glass panes were clouded from years of dust and fingerprints, the jars inside holding yellowing bandages, gleaming steel instruments, and vials of half-used solutions. The air was heavy with the sterile bite of alcohol and the coppery tang of blood that seemed embedded into the very stone of the basement.
He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. The lamplight caught the sharp lines of his face—the hollow, sightless sockets that made his name, the scars that laddered across his grayed skin. Without his mask, he was raw, unhidden: lean jawline, brunet hair falling in neat messiness, and the permanent air of someone teetering between predator and human.
You just smiled, tilting your head, the glitter of your piercings catching the light. Jeweled rings along your ear cartilage, studs through your nostrils, tiny hoops hugging your helix, the faint shine of metal at your brow—your skin was a constellation of decoration. To Jack, it was clutter. To you, it was expression.
“Of course it’s necessary,” you said sweetly, holding up a small plastic case. The tongue bar you had bought gleamed inside, brand new. “I already bought the jewelry, see? All you have to do is… well, what you always do.”
Jack’s head tilted slightly. He didn’t move closer. “You have enough holes in your body to whistle when the wind blows. Do you really think poking another one into your tongue will make a difference?”
You grinned, leaning forward with your hands on your knees. “Yes. And it’ll look hot.”
Jack let out a sharp exhale—half laugh, half snarl. “Pointless.”
“Not pointless,” you corrected quickly. “Decorative. Expressive. And…” You licked your lips deliberately, letting the words linger. “…functional.”
That made him pause. His empty sockets locked on you, unreadable but heavy in their focus. His arms dropped, and he moved slowly toward the table. The air shifted when he drew close, his tall frame blotting out the glow of the lamp for a moment, the scent of him—earthy, deep, cold—settling over you.
“You’re going to waste my time on this,” he said flatly.
You gave him your most innocent smile. “Oh, come on. You’ve done worse for less.”
His lip curled faintly, showing the edge of a sharp tooth. “What’s in it for me?”
Your legs stilled their swing. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your chin up to meet his height, trying your best not to be intimidated. “I’ll owe you one.”
Jack’s expression stayed hard, but his shoulders shifted with the faintest tension. “A debt?” His voice wrapped around the word like a vice.
“Mhm,” you hummed. “I’ll do something for you, whatever you want. One favor. Anything.”
He leaned closer, his stern face inches from yours now, his sockets boring into you. His lips were pale, his jaw lined with faint stubble. Up close, you could see the fading scar tissue from old wounds, a road map of violence and endurance etched into his skin. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “You’re willing to trade freedom for something this trivial?”
You shrugged. “It’s not trivial to me. And you wouldn’t waste a favor. I trust you.”
That gave him pause. His gaze lingered on your face, your piercings, your mouth. Slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing the small plastic case from your hand, examining the barbell inside. He scoffed at it. He clicked the lid shut again and glanced back at you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” you teased, letting your tongue peek past your lips in demonstration. “But I’ll look even cooler when you’re done. I’ve already brushed my teeth and used mouthwash and everything. Admit it—you like the thought.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He set the case on a tray beside his tools, and you caught the faintest trace of hunger in the way his head tilted, sockets locked on your mouth like he could already imagine the glint between your teeth.
Jack dropped onto the battered stool with the weight of someone already tired of you, his knees spreading as he dragged the rolling tray at his side closer. Metal clinked faintly as he laid out his tools—forceps, clamps, a sterile needle, a small glass vial of antiseptic. His long, scarred fingers moved with steady precision, each item cleaned and arranged in its proper place. He pulled two latex gloves from a container, sliding them on and popping the band against his wrists. The basement air carried the sharp bite of disinfectant, faintly undercut by the copper tang that seemed to cling to everything Jack owned.
You watched with your chin propped in your hand, swinging your legs idly off the edge of the examination table. “You know, you’re a lot more careful with piercings than you are with organs,” you teased.
Jack didn’t look up. “Organs don’t scream when you botch it.”
You laughed, and his gloved fingers stilled for just a beat before moving again. He picked up the plastic case you’d brought, flipping it open to glance at the tiny barbell inside, then set it aside like it barely mattered.
Finally, he pushed the tray forward and looked at you. “Tongue,” he said simply.
You blinked, leaning back a little. “Right now?”
His sockets narrowed—if they could. “What did you think this was? Story time?” He stood, the stool creaking behind him, and crossed to you in two long strides. His hand came up suddenly, rough but controlled, clawed fingers catching your jaw. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”
Your lips parted on instinct under the pressure of his grip, breath caught in your throat. He tilted your head back slightly, coaxing your mouth open with a faint press of his thumb against your chin.
“Tongue,” he repeated, lower now, with a rasp that left no room for argument.
You obeyed, sticking your tongue out slowly, hesitantly. Jack leaned down, face close, his sharp features illuminated by the lamp’s harsh glow. He held you steady, sockets fixed on the wet muscle, studying the anatomy with detached precision. His other hand came up, thumb and forefinger bracing your tongue gently at the tip, pulling it forward just a little further.
The cool latex of his glove brushed against your lips, the faint taste of sterile powder blooming on your tastebuds.
He hummed low in his throat, tilting his head as if mapping invisible lines. “You’ve got enough thickness. No major veins in the way. It’ll take a bar.” He let your tongue slip free, wet with spit, and straightened again.
Reluctantly, he gave a short nod. “It’ll work.”
You grinned triumphantly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Knew it.”
Jack rolled the stool toward the tray, muttering, “Stupidest thing I’ve agreed to all week.”
Jack rolled the stool forward until his knees brushed the edge of the table, slotting himself right between your legs. The tray clattered softly as he pulled it closer, then reached up to angle the lamp until the harsh white light spilled down over your face, highlighting every flicker of unease.
Eye to eye now, his ruined features filled your view—fluttered scars twisting over sharp cheekbones, the raw darkness of his sockets locked onto you. Close enough that you could smell his cologne as it tried to overpower the musk of him.
Your pulse picked up. Adrelaine. Yeah, yeah.
Jack didn’t care for your nerves. He dipped the slender barbell into a dish of sterilizing liquid, tapping it once against the rim before setting it neatly aside. Then his hand closed around the clamp, cold steel gleaming under the lamp.
You shifted, breath catching. “That’s—big,” you murmured, eyeing the prongs.
Jack’s mouth tugged faintly, not quite a smile. “You don’t say.”
He lifted the clamp off the tray and leaned in, his palm finding your jaw with firm familiarity, tilting your head just so. His thumb brushed along the edge of your chin, coaxing. “Open up.”
You hesitated for a heartbeat, then parted your lips, the heat of your breath misting faintly against the glove. Your tongue slid out, tentative, trembling just slightly under the weight of his stare.
“Good,” he muttered, almost distracted, adjusting the lamp angle one more time. The clamp clicked lightly in his other hand as he brought it up, the metal chilled even in the warm basement air.
Your hands hovered, restless—then, almost on instinct, you reached forward, grabbing onto the hard muscle of his shoulders. His shirt stretched under your grip as you braced, knuckles whitening.
Jack barely glanced at you, but the sockets lingered on your face for a moment before dropping back to the task. “You’ll live,” he rasped. And with calm precision, he settled the clamp around your tongue, locking the flesh into place. The cold bite of steel made your stomach swoop. Your tongue strained slightly against it, but his hand kept your jaw steady, immovable.
He swabbed your tongue with antiseptic, the cool sting spreading across the soft muscle, then angled the clamp a little tighter. The bite of pressure made your throat bob.
“Hold still,” he murmured, low and even, as if this were nothing more than stitching a wound or setting a bone. To him, maybe it was.
Your fingers dug harder into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch, didn’t complain—just kept his focus on the tiny spot he’d marked. His gloved hand shifted minutely, keeping your jaw steady, and with his other hand, he raised the long piercing needle.
The sight of it hovering made your stomach twist. You whimpered through your stretched tongue, body tense.
“Relax,” Jack said. The rasp in his voice was strangely grounding, rough but steady. “You’ll make this harder on yourself if you fight it.”
You tried—really tried—but when your tongue twitched, saliva spilled messily over your lip, sliding down your chin. Your face went hot instantly.
“God—sorry,” you mumbled around the clamp, humiliated.
Jack’s thumb brushed along your jaw again, firm, not unkind. “It’s normal,” he said simply. “Stop worrying about it. Focus.”
The lamp’s heat bore down, sweat slicking the back of your neck. And then the cold edge of the needle touched the top of your tongue. For a heartbeat, everything in you screamed not to let him. But Jack’s hands were steady, immovable, his face unreadable as he pressed.
The burn was sharp, white-hot as the needle slid through the meat of your tongue. Your entire body jolted. A groan tore out of your chest, muffled and shaky, as you clung to his shoulders like a lifeline. Jack’s grip on your jaw held you firm. “Almost there,” he muttered, calm in the face of your panic. He threaded the barbell through the other end quickly, efficient, then secured the ball at the end with a careful twist of his fingers.
The pressure was gone, but the ache throbbed hot and deep. Your breath shuddered out in a whine, tongue swollen, drool still slicking your lip.
Jack finally lowered the clamp, tugging it free with a clean snap. His gloves adjusted your chin once more, tipping your head so the light caught his work.
“Done,” he said. Just like that. No drama, no softness—only that steady, quiet certainty.
The sting lingered like fire on your tongue, radiating down your jaw and into your throat. You winced, trying to lift a sleeve to wipe at the mess smeared along your chin—but before you could, Jack’s gloved hand was already there, brisk and practiced as he swiped away the drool with a sterile pad.
Your cheeks burned hotter. “I—”
“Don’t move,” Jack cut in, tossing the pad aside. His hand returned to your jaw, thumb pressing with controlled pressure to tilt your chin. “Open.”
You obeyed, sticking your tongue out again despite the raw ache.
Jack leaned closer, eye sockets shadowed under the lamp’s glow. His gaze sharpened on the small bar now settled through your flesh. For a rare moment, a smile tugged at his lips—subtle, fleeting, but proud.
“Hm,” he muttered, satisfied.
Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened again. He released your chin with a scoff and snapped your jaw shut with a firm push of his fingertips.
You swallowed around the throb, ears burning. “…Thanks. And, uh—sorry for, you know—” you gestured vaguely to the wet spot on your shirt where drool had seeped down onto your chest. Finally, you eased your grip from his shoulders, realizing just how hard you’d been holding him. Jack straightened on his stool, tugging his gloves off with quick flicks. “You owe me,” he said flatly, though his tone carried a hint of amusement under the gravel. “And don’t think getting it done here means I’m not keeping an eye on it.”
You blinked at him, still lightheaded from adrenaline. “…Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Jack continued, dropping the gloves onto the tray with a snap, “you’ll come find me every two weeks. I’ll check the healing. If you screw this up, I’ll take it out myself. Understood?”
Your heart hammered, but you nodded quickly, tasting metal as your tongue roved against the new barbell. “Understood.”
── .✦
Every two weeks, like clockwork, you found yourself back in Jack’s basement clinic. At first it had been strictly business: you’d shuffle in, he’d grumble about you having too much metal in your face already, and then he’d tilt your chin up under that harsh lamp, checking for swelling, infection, proper healing. He always worked with the same efficiency—sterilized gloves, cotton pads, a tray of instruments laid out in neat rows.
But something had shifted.
The third visit, when he asked to see your tongue, he didn’t just glance. He hooked two clawed fingers into your mouth without warning, tugging your tongue out between your lips. His cool tone didn’t match the sharp tensing of his jaw.
“Still alive. Guess you didn’t manage to ruin it yet,” he muttered, peering down at the barbell. Then he smirked faintly, tugging your tongue just a little harder before letting go. You’d coughed, cheeks hot, but the memory of his latex covered claws brushing your lips had stuck with you for days.
By the fourth check-in, you were starting to notice the way your pulse picked up when he called you down. Jack always phrased it like an obligation—“basement, now,” or “let me see it.” His voice was steady, exasperated even, but the fact that he remembered, that he insisted on you coming to him, left a quiet warmth knocking in your chest.
The room itself had grown familiar. The low ceiling, the cracked linoleum floor under your shoes. The old exam table you always perched on, cool leather biting through your clothes. It should have been cold, clinical, even unsettling—yet with Jack there, it felt like a fun routine.
Sometimes, during the check, he’d taunt you.
“You really begged for this? For what—so you can lisp when you talk?” he scoffed once, his claws pressing insistently at your jaw until your mouth fell open. You rolled your eyes around the barbell, only for him to slide two fingers inside and tug at your tongue.
You’d made a muffled sound, half protest, half laugh. Jack raised an eyebrow, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t tell me you actually like this,” he said. His tone was teasing, but his grip was firm, keeping you there as he inspected the piercing. When he finally let go, the absence left you oddly empty, craving the contact again.
By the fifth visit, you’d stopped thinking of it as just a check-up. You found excuses to linger, kicking your feet idly against the exam table as you made conversation. Jack would sigh, pretending to be annoyed, but he didn’t send you away. Sometimes he even responded—short, dry comments that still gave you more than you expected from him.
“You keep coming back like this is a social call,” he said once, cleaning off his instruments. His tone was flat, but his sockets flicked to you in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Maybe I like it here,” you replied softly.
Jack huffed, tossing the cloth aside. “Then you’re stranger than I thought.” But he didn’t tell you to leave. Instead, he reached for your chin again, thumb brushing your bottom lip before sliding a claw between your teeth.
The dynamic was shifting, and you both knew it. What had started as a compromise—your insistence on getting a tongue piercing, his reluctant professionalism—was twisting into something else. You weren’t just there for the piercing anymore. You wanted him. His sharp comments, his cool hands, his claws tugging your mouth open. Even the sound of his voice, gruff and unimpressed, had become something you looked forward to. And though Jack wouldn’t admit it out loud, he’d grown used to you, too. He remembered your schedule better than you did. He always called you down before you could forget. He still rolled his eyes when you smiled at him, but there was no hiding the fact that he wanted you there, perched on his table with your lips parted, waiting for his hands.
── .✦
Your shoes thudded lightly against the concrete as you hopped down the narrow steps into Jack’s basement clinic, the sound echoing faintly in the low, cool space. You knew the way by heart now—the dim light bulb swaying gently overhead, the constant tang of antiseptic laced with something older, iron and copper. The hum of Jack’s equipment filled the quiet like a low drone.
You bounded the last step, a little too eager, and caught sight of him at his workbench. He looked more tense tonight, the sharp lines of his jaw and the pale shadows under his hollow sockets illuminated by the lamplight. He looked up, and though his face was unreadable, something in his posture told you he’d been expecting you.
“Back again?” he muttered, voice gravel low.
“Yeah,” you said, grinning as you hopped onto his exam table like it was your seat. You leaned forward slightly, tongue pressing against your teeth before you stuck it out, showing off the piercing. The little jeweled ball glinted as you rolled it, pinning it between your teeth. “See? All healed.”
Jack’s gaze tracked the movement, expression flat, but his attention heavy. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
You did another little trick, pushing the bar back and forth with your tongue, hoping to get a reaction. When he still didn’t speak, you tilted your head. “…What?”
Jack finally leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “What are you doing?”
The words dropped like a brick hitting metal. Not curious, not amused—an interrogation. You blinked, suddenly aware of how your heart had sped up, of how much space you were taking on the table. The piercing didn’t need to be checked anymore. He didn’t need to see it. Your throat went dry.
“I—” You closed your mouth quickly, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth. The little ball clicked softly.
Jack stood slowly, the scrape of his stool against the floor loud in the silence. He crossed the room with loud steps until he stood over you. Then, with one swift motion, he stepped between your knees, caging you in against the edge of the table. His height loomed, the lamp light shadowing the sharp planes of his face.
You swallowed hard, but didn’t move.
Jack tilted his head, sockets narrowing slightly as he studied you. “You’re not here for the piercing anymore,” he said flatly. Your breath caught. He didn’t phrase it as a question, but still waited. You opened your mouth, searching for something to say—but all that came out was a shaky exhale.
Your gaze flicked downward, just for a second, to his hand. You hadn’t meant to look. But you did.
That was all he needed.
His fingers flexed at his side, claws catching the lamplight. He leaned in, voice low and steady as a blade pressed to skin. “Are you really here so I’ll put my fingers in your mouth?”
You sat frozen, his shadow stretching over you, swallowing you whole. Jack’s presence was suffocating—broad shoulders tense, his stance planted like he wasn’t going to let you slip past. Your eyes flicked down his frame despite yourself: the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way his hands flexed at his sides, claws catching the faint light. Your legs swung restlessly at the edge, nervous energy spilling out in small movements. The sound of your legs creaking against the table echoed in the low-ceilinged room.
Then, without warning, Jack’s hand shot out. His fingers closed firmly around your knee, halting the swing. The grip wasn’t cruel, but it was final. He leaned closer, face dipping into your space until you could see every scar etched into his pale skin, every twitch of tension in his jaw.
The air in your chest stilled.
“I—It was an accident,” you blurted, the excuse stumbling out clumsy, weak. You shifted on the table like you might hop down, flee past him, but his looming frame blocked the way entirely.
Jack tilted his head, studying you like he was dissecting a specimen. The sockets of his eyes, hollow and unblinking, were unbearable at this distance. His voice came low, rough as gravel.
“Open.”
The single word cut through you, sharp and uncompromising. You froze, lips pressed together. For a second, neither of you moved. The silence stretched taut.
Then your resolve cracked. Slowly, cautiously, you parted your lips.
Jack’s other hand lifted, claws glinting faintly as he reached up. His touch wasn’t gentle—his fingers gripped your chin, angling your jaw just how he wanted it. The pads of his claws brushed against the sensitive edge of your lips, pressing into the soft skin as he held you open, testing the weight of your obedience. Your breath shuddered, warm against his knuckles.
He pressed against your lips, pulling them apart just enough to expose the faint gleam of the piercing ball against your teeth. He held you there, hovering close, the sharp curve of his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like a smirk laced with disdain.
“It’s funny,” he murmured, his voice low, edged in mockery. “All that metal in your skin for attention, and you still get nervous the minute someone looks at you too long.”
Heat rushed to your face, but you stayed still, his grip on your chin firm.
He leaned in closer, sockets locking onto your eyes. “What’s the matter? You came all the way down here just to sit on my table, show off, and now you can’t even keep your mouth open?”
Your pulse drummed in your ears. You wanted to look away, to escape his hold, but his claws dug faintly into your jaw, tilting your face so you had no choice but to look at him.
Jack dragged the tip of one claw lightly along your bottom lip, tugging it down. “Embarrassed?” he asked, voice a taunt. “Or are you waiting for me to do all the work for you? Like always.”
The weight of his words, the pressure of his hand—it made your whole body tense. You wanted to answer, but your throat had locked tight. Instead, your tongue slipped forward on instinct, the silver barbell catching the light as you stuck it out, trembling under his gaze.
Jack didn’t move. He only watched, unblinking. Waiting.
Your breath hitched. Then, nervously, you leaned into the touch of his claws, letting the wet heat of your tongue drag across the tips. Only then did he push. His fingers slipped into your mouth, firm and unrelenting, sliding over your tongue until you gagged softly around the intrusion. His sockets narrowed, his smirk deepening as his claws rested heavy against your tongue.
“That’s better,” he muttered, voice low and cruelly amused. “Finally figuring out how this works.”
Your breath hitched around the weight of his fingers, the taste of him hitting your tongue—sweat and chemicals clinging to his skin, but beneath it something rawer, him. It wasn’t gloves this time. It wasn’t clinical. It was his bare hand, his claws heavy against your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from trembling as your tongue moved around him.
Jack angled his head, sockets narrowing in a mockery of focus. “Mm. I should check the barbell,” he drawled, his tone mocking the professionalism he usually wore like armor. His fingers flexed, pressing down on your tongue, the pad of one claw nudging the cool metal of the piercing. He rubbed against it once, twice, as if inspecting his own work.
But then his hand didn’t retreat.
Instead, he pushed deeper.
The intrusion made your throat seize, spit slicking his fingers instantly as you gagged around him, eyes watering. Your hand shot forward on instinct, gripping his shoulders like the first time—digging into the fabric of his shirt as if he were your anchor.
Jack’s sockets flicked down at your hands, and a laugh—a low, rasping thing—escaped him. “Relax,” he murmured.
He dragged his fingers out slow, saliva stretching in long strings from your lips to his knuckles. Your chest heaved, gasping for breath. Then, without hesitation, he shoved them back in. Deeper.
Your whole body jolted, thighs squeezing tight against the edge of the table as his claws pressed on your tongue, his knuckles pushing against your teeth. You gagged again, the sound muffled and wet, and he watched every second of it.
“Messy,” he taunted, pulling out again, only to thrust them back in, his pace relentless, cruel. “Listen to yourself. You think you’d be used to it by now.”
Your spit coated his fingers, glistening under the lamplight as it dribbled down your chin. He moved them with purpose now, dragging in and out of your mouth like he was fucking it, each thrust pressing deeper into your throat. You whimpered, nails curling tighter into his shoulders, body arching helplessly under the rhythm.
Jack tilted his head, sockets fixed on your face, on the tears brimming in your eyes, on the sound of your wet, gagging breaths. His lips curled in that faint, cruel smile.
“Good,” he rasped, his voice thick with mockery, but low with something heavier. “Have you had enough to satisfy yourself?”
Jack let his claws drag slow through the air, holding the soaked fingers up between you like he was displaying evidence. His sockets narrowed in cruel amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin.
You coughed, your chest hitching as you caught your breath, spit smeared on your chin. For a moment you could only stare at him, wide-eyed, stunned. Then your lips parted, voice weak, trembling. “You’re so mean.”
The laugh that rumbled out of him was low, dark—pleased. He leaned closer, sockets shadowing your face as he rasped, “Mean, huh? Funny… your body doesn’t seem to think so.” He inhaled, a sharp sound through his nose, and his grin widened. “You’re excited. I can smell it on you. You can play coy all you want, but your body always tells the truth.”
Your stomach twisted, heat crawling through your veins.
Before you could respond, Jack’s clean hand hooked under your knee. With a rough jerk, he dragged you forward on the table until your thighs wrapped around his hips. The movement made you gasp, and then you froze—because the thick, unmistakable bulge of him pressed into your hip through his jeans. He didn’t move away. He pressed harder, pinning you there like prey.
Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling quickly as your eyes flicked up to him. His soaked fingers still hung in front of you, spit dripping down his knuckles. Your gaze lingered on them, shame and hunger colliding, until your hand shot out. You grabbed his wrist.
Jack let you—watched you—his sockets unreadable, his body still and tense.
You pulled his hand toward you, guiding the spit-slick fingers back between your lips. The taste of yourself and him filled your mouth, thick and salty, as you pushed them in deeper, willingly this time.
His sockets widened just slightly, then his other hand came up in a sharp, decisive motion. His claws clamped around your jaw, tilting your head up to him. He forced you to meet his eyeless stare as he shoved his fingers down, pressing deep into your throat without hesitation. Your body jerked, a gag ripping out of you, tears instantly springing to your eyes. His grip on your jaw tightened, claws pricking your skin as he leaned over you, hissing, “That’s it. Take it. Show me just how bad you wanted this.”
Your legs locked tighter around his hips, clinging, trembling, your hands sliding up his shoulders for balance as he mouth-fucked you with his fingers, grinding into you with the same cadence. Jack’s hips rolled, slow at first, then harder, grinding his cock against the heat of your clothed core. The pressure lined up right where it needed to, his thickness pressing into you with every shift. You bucked your hips to meet him, chasing friction shamelessly even as your throat was stretched around his fingers.
The noise you made was guttural—half moan, half gag—as his knuckles bent and pressed lower. He shoved down on your tongue, forcing your jaw open wider, until he slipped past that tight clutch at the back of your throat. The intrusion was brutal, making your entire body jolt. Tears streaked hot down your cheeks as you gagged around him, spit bubbling and pouring from the corners of your lips. You instinctively jerked your head back, but his grip on your jaw held you still, causing you to cough roughly around the digits.
Jack hissed through his sharp teeth, pulling back for a beat, watching you sputter and drool. A slow smile twisted across his scarred mouth. “Messy little thing,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice thick with satisfaction. “Is this all you can handle? Surely not.”
But he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he leaned closer, his looming form crowding every inch of your space. You could feel the grind of his bulge against you, the heat radiating through his jeans, the sharp prickle of his claws holding your jaw steady.
And then you realized how close his lips were to yours.
He inhaled, sockets narrowing, and the corners of his mouth curled as something inhuman stirred. From between his lips, his tongues slipped out—three slick, long, dark appendages. They writhed lazily, tasting the air, one curling over his bottom lip, another licking slow across the corner of his mouth. He let you see them. Let you hear the wet sound of his tongues flicking over his own skin, tracing the sheen of your spit that still clung to his hand. His sockets burned down at you, watching the way your body quivered as you moaned around his fingers. One tongue dragged along his lip, tasting the place where his grin ended. Another curled upward, so close you could almost feel it brush your cheek.
Your hips moved on their own—grinding harder, sharper, desperate for friction. Jack groaned low in his chest, the sound rumbling deep, vibrating against your lips where his fingers still stretched your mouth. His sockets narrowed, hungry, as if your writhing only confirmed something he already knew.
And then—he withdrew. His fingers slid out, leaving your tongue slick and aching. You barely had a chance to gasp before something else replaced them.
Wet heat. Heavy, overwhelming.
One of his tongues pushed past your lips, then another, until all three were sliding into your mouth in a seamless, fluid invasion. They filled the space his fingers left, but deeper, longer, stronger. Jack’s clawed hand clamped around your jaw, forcing your mouth wide as his tongues shoved further down your throat. You gagged immediately, throat convulsing around the intrusion, spit gushing down your chin as your body jolted against him.
He groaned at the sensation, his hips grinding harder, cock dragging over your arousal through layers of clothes. His other hand hooked behind your knee again, yanking you forward so your core was flush with the heavy bulge in his pants. Each roll of his hips pressed harder, made your nerves spark hotter, your legs trembling around his waist.
Your hands shot up—gripping his hair, desperate for purchase, tugging at the dark strands as if you could ground yourself. His hair was coarse, thick, and your nails scratched his scalp, but he only growled against you, tongues writhing deeper.
You felt everything. Each tongue moved differently—one pressing flat and heavy against your pierced tongue, flicking at the metal barbell, another tracing the roof of your mouth, and the last sliding down, teasing the back of your throat mercilessly. They roved every inch, tasting, testing, mapping you out as though he’d claim every corner of your mouth for himself.
Your gagging only seemed to fuel him, his grip on your jaw bruising as he forced you to take more, his body grinding harder into yours. His groans slipped into low chuckles, muffled around his own writhing tongues as he pushed you deeper into submission.
But just as quickly as he pushed them in, he pulled them right back out.
Jack grumbled, retracting them slowly, leaving your mouth slick and overstimulated. Both of you were panting, breaths ragged, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips glistened with saliva as he licked along them, catching stray dribbles of your spit. You swallowed, throat still sore, and your hand brushed your own hair out of your face.
“You’re such a hypocrite,” you gasped, voice shaky, eyes wide.
Jack cut you off with a low, guttural growl. “Your debt,” he rasped, leaning closer. His voice was hard, no room for argument. “Remember? You wanted this piercing. Said you’d do anything for me if I gave it to you.”
You swallowed hard, nodding. Heat pooled between your legs, body trembling with anticipation and fear.
“I’m cashing in,” he continued, dragging a clawed hand down your side, fingers smearing the spit on your chin, pressing you back against the edge of the table before tugging you forward. “I want it now.”
Before you could fully process, he was shifting you off the table, hands firm on your shoulders as he shoved you down onto your knees. You hit the floor with a hard thud, legs spread slightly as he loomed over you. His intensity was almost palpable, his cock pressing against his hip through his jeans.
“I want this favor to be you,” he said, voice low and sharp, “I want to feel that tongue. I want to feel your piercing. I want to feel warmth,” he growled, stepping closer until his bulge was level with his face.
Your breath caught in your chest. His hand gripped your hair, holding your head steady, and with the other, he fumbled at his belt frantically, ripping it open. He tore at the button of his jeans, shoving the fabric down until his boxers came with it, his cock springing free.
Jack’s cock was thick, pale against the dim light of the basement, veins standing out sharply along the shaft. You knew he was big, could feel him when he ground against you, but this was absurd. The tip glistened slightly with pre, catching the overhead lamp’s glow, and the way it throbbed with each shift of his hips made it clear how impatient he was. A dark shadow of pubic hair framed the base, and the sheer tautness of the skin along the shaft made your heart hammer. He was twitching with every breath he took.
“Can’t wait another second,” he muttered, low and rough, leaning his weight toward you. His gaze bore into yours as he growled, each word a command, “Take it. Now.”
Jack didn’t give you a second to adjust. One hand wrapped firmly around the base of your skull, the other under your jaw, and with a single shove he forced the head of his cock past your lips, past your teeth, until the tip hit the back of your throat. You gagged instantly, eyes watering, body jerking against the sudden, merciless intrusion. He was so big, having to strain your jaw to fit all of what he was trying to push inside. Instinctively, your hands shot out, gripping his thighs for purchase, nails digging into the taut muscles. Every inch of him pressed into you, slick heat brushing against your tongue piercing with each shallow shift.
Jack hissed low, a rough, wet sound, as he leaned forward, pressing his weight down. “Fuck… that’s good,” he groaned, voice vibrating deep in his chest. “So warm… that piercing—Jesus… it’s perfect.”
You swallowed around him, feeling the metal bar on your tongue press against the vein along his cock. Heat and friction radiated up, making your thighs quiver. Your mouth watered, gagging again as he adjusted slightly, pressing deeper.
Jack’s lips parted over a hiss, and he leaned down to talk down to you. “You’ve convinced me. I do like it. A lot.”
Then he started to move. Not slow. Not gentle. He began bucking into your throat, each thrust forcing your jaw open wider, your tongue stretched over his length. You gagged and cried, strained, muffling sobs into him, while he kept his grip firm, hollow gaze boring into your tear filled eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, voice low and cruel. “Like taking it deep… like having your little mouth played with.”
Your throat burned, saliva pooling in your mouth, but you clung to his thighs tighter, grinding your piercing against the thick vein with every desperate thrust. Jack groaned again, hissing as he pressed further, cock sliding in and out, bucking hard. “Look at you… choking for me… good little thing,” he mocked, reveling in the way your body reacted, every gag, every tear, every shuddering breath.
You could barely think—just feel the heat, the pressure, the weight of him forcing you to take him, your tongue pressed to every ridge, every vein, every slick surface.
Jack’s hips bucked hard against you, merciless, driving himself as deep as he could into your throat. Your gagging was muffled, choking sounds spilling around him as he fucked you with no hesitation, no mercy. Every inch of his cock stretched your mouth, pressing the barbell on your tongue against thick veins and ridges, making your eyes water and your chest heave.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d started, he pulled out entirely, letting you gasp, cough, sputtering for air. Your lips were slick, throat sore, and your tongue burned from the raw feel of him. Jack didn’t give you time to recover. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking fast, slick sounds filling the basement. His other hand yanked on your hair, tilting your head back toward him.
“Stick it out,” he growled, low and vicious.
You coughed, trying to catch your breath, weakly asking, “J-just a second—”
“No. Open,” he snarled, jerking your hair harder. The growl in his throat made your knees shake, your body responding even as you tried to protest.
You did as he commanded, opening your lips and sticking your tongue out. The cool barbell gleamed wetly under the lamp, saliva sliding down it, pooling at the tip. Jack pressed the slit at the head of his cock against the piercing, tapping it, testing the metal against the sensitive underside of your tongue. Your eyes widened at the pressure, mouth quivering, and you felt the first slick bead of precum warm your tastebuds, rolling down and dripping into your mouth.
Jack cursed low, throat vibrating as he adjusted, pressing harder. “Fuck… feels so good,” he muttered, eyes dark and hungry. His strokes accelerated, slick hand pumping, cock rubbing against your barbell, teasing and testing every nerve. You let your tongue flick and slide, teasing the head of his cock. The jeweled ball pressed against the sensitive underside of his tip, rolling and tapping as you circled the slit with the tip of your tongue, dragging it across, swirling around the crown. The warmth of him, slick with precum, coated your mouth, mixing with the shine of your saliva.
Jack’s hips stuttered, groaning low as he stroked himself in time with your movements. His hand pumped fast, fingers tight around the base, while his cock rode the rhythm of your tongue. Every flick, every press of the barbell against his slit, made him hiss and curse, the sound rough and intoxicating in your ears.
“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, leaning down so the only thing you could see was the expanse of his body, his snarled face. “Taking it all for me… can’t get enough, can you, little whore?”
You shivered around him, lips slick and quivering, the barbell dragging teasingly over the sensitive flesh. He grunted, jerking harder as he watched you, brows knotted with concentration. “I’m gonna fill that pretty mouth,” he growled, voice low and rough, “Do you hear me? And you’re gonna drink it all.”
The words, harsh and commanding, made your stomach clench. Your tongue moved faster, swirling, flicking, dragging the metal against his slit over and over. Jack groaned again, bucking slightly against your mouth, hand moving faster over his cock, body rigid with overstimulation.
“Fuck… yes,” he cursed, throat vibrating. “Such a filthy little thing… so nasty… should give you more of those stupid little piercings…”
Jack’s body tensed violently, his hips stuttering as he snarled low in his throat, a sharp, guttural warning. “Fuck… I’m going to—” His voice broke into ragged growls, and your tear-soaked eyes locked onto his yawning sockets, wide and pleading, your chest heaving from exertion.
The first hot, slick string of cum hit your tongue, the warmth making your stomach clench as it coated the barbell. Before you could even react, he pressed back in, slamming his cock deep into your throat with no hesitation, pushing every inch past your gag reflex. Your mouth stretched impossibly wide, jaw trembling, as he groaned and cursed over you.
Jack didn’t relent. One hand gripped your hair tightly, tilting your head just so, while the other hooked a thumb into the corner of your mouth, forcing your jaw open further. Pain and overstimulation collided, making your body spasm involuntarily. You groaned, choked, and gagged around him, desperately trying to swallow, keep up, drink down every shot of searing cum into your throat.
Every thrust pressed you flush against his abdomen, your nose flush with the patchy hair there, the scent of him overwhelming, addictive. You shuddered, trembling as your own taste mixed with his, your tongue rolling across the barbell as you drank him down, swallowing whatever you could.
Jack’s grunts and growls filled your ears, thick and hot, a constant pressure driving you crazy. Each pulse of his cock pressed deeper, pressing your throat against his abdomen, your lips coated in his warmth. He was relentless, riding your gagged attempts to take him fully, every movement of your tongue over the piercing drawing new sounds from him as you swallowed his cum.
“Good… good little whore,” he growled between harsh breaths, hissing as he slammed into you, “That’s it… all of it… swallow it all—good little mouth—”
Jack’s hips stuttered violently, every last pulse of his cock spilling over your tongue and lips, warm and thick. You gagged around him, eyes watering, body trembling as the strings of cum dribbled down, coating your barbell, teeth, and tongue. Finally, he pulled back, leaving your mouth filled and dripping. You gasped, heaving for air, tongue slick with him, trying to swallow and catch your breath. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy, glazed, every muscle trembling. You let go of his thighs—the only anchor keeping you upright—and sagged forward, but his grip on your head kept you from falling completely.
Jack sank to his knees before you, claws gripping the sides of your face, tilting you up as he leaned close. “So good,” he growled, voice low and rough. Without waiting for a response, he shoved his tongues past your lips, sliding deep into your mouth.
They twisted and pressed over your tongue, exploring every surface, pressing against the piercing, swirling around the slick mess of cum and saliva coating your mouth. You gagged and choked softly, but your body couldn’t resist, hips shifting instinctively against him even though he wasn’t pressed against your core anymore. Jack’s sockets locked onto yours as he worked his tongues in and out, tasting himself over your tastebuds, a low, pleased growl vibrating through his chest. “Good,” he slurred, pulling you just a fraction closer, forcing your mouth wide, “Tastes good… you know it does.”
Your hands rested on his shoulders, trembling, barely able to keep your balance, mouth full of him, body on fire, utterly braindead.
Jack’s relentless tongues slowed, hesitating as if testing you, then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted. Instead of shoving further, his lips met yours. The kiss was sudden at first, heavy and demanding, but it quickly softened, losing the harsh urgency of him trying to consume your mouth. Your jaw ached, tongue burned, slick and overstimulated, and yet it pressed against him, tasting him still, as your hands slid up to either side of his face. He held you there, firm but gentle in contrast to the chaos moments before, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, thumbs grazing along the sides of your jaw. His sockets were dark and intense, but there was a softness there too, a tether anchoring the frenzy.
The kiss lingered, deep and wet, and your body shifted instinctively against him. The basement felt smaller somehow, shadows flickering across the walls from the lone lamp overhead, the smell of antiseptic and sweat mixing thickly with the lingering taste of you and him.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were panting, breaths ragged and hot, foreheads almost touching. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in his shoulders, the lingering slickness of your mess.
Jack swiped a thumb across your lips, gathering the remnants of spit and cum, gaze scanning your flushed, messy face. His voice was low, rough, teasing but softer now, “Fuck… I don’t—I don’t know what got into me.”
You exhaled shakily, tasting him on your lips, voice breathy, “You… you’re impossible…”
He let a low chuckle rumble through his chest, thumb lingering against your lips, pressing gently. “Maybe those stupid little piercings aren’t the worst thing.”
You bite lightly on the ball of your tongue piercing, the metal pressing between your teeth as you give a lazy, tired smile. Jack huffs before you, chest rising and falling, the dark heat of him still lingering in your senses. You think for a moment, stirring the thought in your mind, then leaning close, you brush against his shoulder, voice soft and teasing as you whisper into the pointed edge of his ear, “I… I also have some on my nipples.” The words hang in the air, playful but loaded with intent.
For a moment, he freezes, sockets narrowing as if processing the information. Then a low, guttural growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your ear. You feel the shift instantly—his cock, already slick and warm, stiffens again, twitching freelyn between his legs, heavy and insistent. His claws against your head, and before you can blink, he lunges.
You’re hired as the housekeeper by the big boss— but unfortunately for you— the creeps see you as their housewife.
The job was self-explanatory. HELP NEEDED, the newspaper said. LIVE-IN HOUSEKEEPER FOR SHARED RESIDENCE — Full-time. Basic cleaning and cooking skills required. Duties: deep cleaning, laundry, organization, and light meal prep. Housing provided with a private bedroom and bathroom. STRICT CONFIDENTIALITY & DISCRETION REQUIRED. Background check and references mandatory.
Looks innocent enough, right?
Innocent enough to have you working for them in the duration of 5 months and counting.
You wanted it to be a mundane yet honest routine, peaceful work hours with minimal interaction—
But certain residents just make it too hard to do so.
For instance: you’re making dinner. Simple. But they aren’t simple.
“Honeeey, I’m hooome,” the exaggeration of the fake gusto in Jeffrey’s voice hung sourly in your ear as you flipped over the savory mix of beef and broccoli in the pot.
Nonetheless, you kept smiling.
Jeff creeps closer. “Are you making me dinner, honey?” His grin was wider than ever, his cold, large hands resting on the back of your waist, toying with the ribbon lace. You knew the nickname was a mockery of your position, but you still couldn’t help but blush.
You serve him quietly, still smiling, and when he sees you giving him the bowl of rice and stew, the fake high-tone of his voice drops to a dangerously low rasp.
“Why, thank you, honey.” Jeff tilts his head menacingly, smile wider than before.
He squeezes your ass briefly with a squeal from you before leaving.
Another instance, you cleaning their guns. But they have more than just ammo locked and loaded.
You were nothing more than delicate with the cotton pinched between your hands moving through the breach all the way to the muzzle when Toby sputters.
“Yuh-you have s-such pretty hands… can I– can I huh–hold ‘em?”
You smile and about to say yes, but Tim on your left side interrupts.
“Get back to work, boy. She ain’t here for you,” he gruffs, muttering under his breath. “Y’need help there, sugar? You ain’t hafta tire yourself from this–”
“She wants to stay, Tim.” Brian butts in. “I can tell.” the end of his mask was still hung on the bridge of his nose, but you can tell— no, you can feel his eyes on you.
You smile politely and continue, catching the three of them staring at you at least one time.
You also remember folding BEN’s clothes and neatly piling them in one laundry basket labeled with his name.
It wasn’t a big deal. Your mother taught you how to fold clothes in the right and quite fast way, and this was no problem. Plus, you knew BEN wasn’t really a neat person. You just wanted to help him out a little.
And along with doing his laundry without being asked, you’d also whipped up some waffles smothered in nutella with whipped cream on top, shaped like a heart.
You need knock on his door only three times before he shuffled to open it. His eyes widened, revealing more of the black of his scleras.
He looks at you, then the neatly folded clothes, the waffle, then back at you.
“Aw, no way, ma,” the red pupils of his eyes seemed to sparkle at you. “You… you did this… all for me?”
You nod, offering the plate with his waffles toward him. He takes it.
“No, no way. No way I’m gonna let you get away with this unscathed,”
You raise an eyebrow in confusion.
“Let me make it up to you, ma,” BEN’s grin screamed half-high and excited. “I can make it up to you, I swear–”
Then, he sets his eyes slowly, slowly, until they landed on the pushed-up look of your tits held by the apron you were still wearing.
“I know more ways than one.” He cocks an eyebrow, one hand holding the plate, and the other pulling at the tie of your apron.
And finally, the most unexpected but surprisingly pleasant memory: giving Jack a massage in his own clinic cot.
You noticed he’d been a little too stiff lately.
He was organizing pill bottles in his cabinet when you came in, quietly, and asked softly to give him a massage.
Jack had denied at first, but seeing you so very sweetly insist— how could he say no?
You’re behind him on your knees while he sat in front of you facing the wall. Your hands worked to find the gnarly knots and firmed to let them free, slowly working from the edge of his shoulder blades all the way up to the base of his neck—
He’s… he’s purring.
Jack had tried to stop it– but your palms were simply magic in flesh’s form.
After you were done, you two sat in comfortable silence, before:
“I have a full 12-hour shift this Thursday in lieu of Tim and Brian’s patrolling duties.” He pauses, twisting his body around to look at you from behind.
“I would like… some company.” Jack clears his throat. “Stay with me for the night. My shoulders could only work for so long. You should know. After all, it’s you who knows how to touch me.”
Toby holding the joint to your lips and forcing you to inhale 🤤🤤 making sure you hold it in till you're coughing and sputtering to the point your brain goes fuzzy 🤤🤤🤤🤤 him fucking you while you're in the clouds so he can hear all the whorish moans you make and so he can watch you go dumb for it🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤
Catching Toby sniffing your dirty clothes and making him wear them as punishment >:) call him an attention whore while you jerk him off in front of a mirror he tries to hide in your neck, head lolling against your shoulder whining how it's too much. Pulling his hair and forcing him to look at himself squirm in the reflection. Pretty baby thought you wanted this? Look how well you're taking this- if he looks away you take your hands off him <3
Then you overstimulate him till he's crying and begging you to keep going till he's just a blabbering mess
✦ . Note: Got it out as quickly as I could, hope you enjoy! In my mind, Jack is a confident, talkative guy when he's drunk, so take that how you will, lol.
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As the bottle whipped around on the coffee table, you quickly realized you were neither drunk nor high enough to deal with the embarrassment you were about to face.
It wobbled, catching on an ashtray on the edge of the space, before it slowed from one face, to another, then—
Jack.
You would’ve thought a gaggle of crows had just found their way into the living room at the sound that erupted from the corner of the room.
Natalie and Toby lost it.
Natalie slapped the back of Jack’s head with a loud smack while Toby howled, kicking his leg higher over Jack’s thigh as if he needed the extra support to keep from falling over laughing. Jack didn’t look the least bit impressed. He sat there between them on the loveseat pushed into the corner, his absent sockets pointed blankly at the bottle, its tip completely motionless and aimed right at him.
You felt a pit form deep in your stomach.
Being locked in a closet with the resident cannibal suddenly felt a lot less like a fun party game and a lot more like a very bad idea.
People started whooping and cheering, especially Toby and Natalie, who were still losing their minds. Jack slowly stood up, shrugging both of them off like they weighed nothing. They tumbled dramatically into the arms of the loveseat, still cracking up and clutching their ribs as they reached for each other.
“Good luck, big guy,” Natalie wheezed, wiping tears from her good eye. “You’re gonna die in there.”
Toby pointed at you with one shaky hand, laughing so hard he could hardly sit up right. “Don’t let him eat you!”
You glanced around the room, hoping for even a scrap of mercy, but everyone else was either grimacing in sympathy or grinning like this was the funniest thing they’d seen all night. Jeff and Ben looked especially pleased with themselves.
Jack rounded the coffee table without so much as a word. His tall frame cast a long shadow over you as he came to a stop right in front, staring down with his blank gaze. The black voids of his eyes seemed to swallow the light from the lights overhead. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Until, “C’mon.”
You nodded quickly and pushed yourself up from the floor, legs a little unsteady. Jack turned without another word and started down the hallway. You followed a few steps behind him, fingers picking nervously at the hem of your shirt. The moment you left the living room, you heard Jeff yell over the noise, “Ben. Music.”
The music rushed in seconds later—loud, gritty rock blasting through the busted speakers twice as loud as before, the bass rattling the old floorboards under your feet.
The walk down the hall felt longer than it should have. Jack’s broad shoulders took up most of the space, his steps quiet and even like a cat. When he reached the closet door, he opened it and stepped aside.
You stopped a few feet away, looking up at him. The overhead light in the hallway cast strange shadows over his face, making the black eyesockets look even deeper.
Jack gave a nod toward the inside of the closet. One of his ears twitched against his head as he spoke, “After you.”
You swallowed, nodded back, and stepped past him. Reaching up, you tugged the pull chain. The bare bulb clicked on overhead with a hum, washing the small space in weak yellow light.
It was smaller than you remembered. Way smaller. The coats hanging on the rod ruffled against your shoulders as soon as you stepped in, and the stacks of old boxes and junk left barely enough room to stand.
Behind you, Jack had to duck. He placed one large hand on the top of the doorframe and bent down to fit through, his frame nearly filling the entire doorway before he stepped fully inside. The door pulled shut behind him.
The music outside dulled to a rumbling, muffled thump.
Now it was just the two of you.
The closet felt even tighter with Jack in it. He had to keep his head slightly lowered so it wouldn’t hit the hanging rod, his shoulders almost touching both walls. You stood with your side pressed against the coats and your back shoved against the wall, your heart beating fast as you looked up at him.
He was tall—always had been—but in the cramped little closet he seemed enormous. The light overhead cast a sickly yellow glow over him, highlighting every unsettling detail. His muted gray skin, almost ashen in places, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Pointed ears poked up through messy dark hair, occasionally flicking and twitching once he straightened as much as the low ceiling would allow. You’d occasionally catch the gleam of his sharp teeth between his lips or the flash of his claws when he moved.
He looked… bigger in here. Like the walls had shrunk just to make him seem more imposing.
And then there were his eyes.
Or rather, the places where his eyes should have been. Nothing but deep, endless black voids stared back at you. In the dim light, they looked infinite—like if you leaned in too close, you might fall forever into that darkness and never get out. It was unnerving. And strangely hard to look away from. Like all the awe and horror of a black hole swallowing a planet.
He was dressed simply in baggy black sweatpants and an oversized blue shirt that still somehow looked tight across his broad shoulders and chest. You think he tried to dress as normally as possible to offset everything else that was jarring about him… or maybe this was just all that fit his size.
You swallowed, pressing your back a little more into the adjacent wall.
“…Are you comfortable?” You fished for something to talk about.
Jack grunted, “Mhm.”
That was it.
You racked your brain for something—anything—to say, your fingers twisting together nervously.
“So… uh, how’s your night been going?” you tried.
“Fun.”
You nodded awkwardly. “The party got pretty wild after that fight, huh?”
He gave a nod.
You waited. Nothing else came. You think you could die.
You tried once more, voice a little more chipper. “You, um… you like playing these kinds of parties usually, or…?”
“Sure.”
You let out a small, nervous laugh and looked down at your hands. Talking to Jack had never been easy, but this felt like pulling teeth. The seven minutes had barely started, and the silence already felt suffocating. Jack remained perfectly still, towering over you, content to simply exist while you slowly unraveled under the weight of this encounter.
“So… what have you—”
“Calm down,” Jack cut in.
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He let out a chuckle, the sound surprisingly warm. “Your heartbeat. It’s pounding so loud it’s giving me a headache. It’s gonna explode if you keep that up.”
Your face burned. You pressed a hand to your chest without thinking, feeling the frantic thud against your palm. The embarrassment made it worse.
“I—I can’t just make it stop,” you sounded exasperated.
“Yes, you can,” Jack replied simply. “You’re just not trying.”
You rolled your eyes, letting out a short laugh. “Fuck off. Quit with the weird body shit.”
Jack tilted his head, looking at your sideways. Then, in a dry, surprisingly sarcastic tone, he said, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize the doctor had to cut it with the ‘weird body shit.’ How many times have you come down to my room after a mission asking for painkillers again? Oh yeah… a lot.”
You stared at him, genuinely surprised. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.
“Wait… was that sarcasm? From you?”
Jack’s shoulders moved in a small shrug, the corners of his mouth pushing up just a bit.
“I have layers,” he said flatly.
“I didn’t know you could be funny.”
Jack hummed. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”
You shrug, picking at your fingers as you looked at the ground. “Maybe it’s because you’re always so quiet. People can get intimidated.”
“People are usually scared of me. Easier to stay quiet.”
The words were simple, matter-of-fact, but they landed with a strange weight in your chest that made you look back up at him.
“I’m not scared of you,” you said after a beat. It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he chuckled.
You laughed despite yourself, the sound a little nervous but genuine. “Okay, maybe a little. But not… not like that. Not the way people usually are.”
He didn’t respond right away. The music outside pulsed dully through the walls, the bass vibrating faintly under your feet. Jack shifted his stance, trying to get a little more comfortable in the tiny space, and ended up closer to you than before. The warmth coming off him was noticeable.
“You’re shaking a bit,” he said quietly.
You hadn’t even noticed. You crossed your arms over your chest and tried to play it off. “It’s cold in here.” But that was a lie. If anything, it was just below sweltering.
“Semantics.” Jack hummed, clearly not believing you. But he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, giving you a little more room—or at least trying to.
It got quiet again.
For nearly a full minute, the only sounds were the muffled thump of music outside and the occasional creak of the old floorboards whenever one of you shifted. Your mind wandered to the living room—wondering what kind of shit was unfolding now, who was winning at whatever stupid game they’d moved on to, whether Toby and Natalie were still laughing their heads off about you and Jack being stuck in here together or if someone else had voiced their opinions on it.
Then Jack spoke very matter-of-factly. “See? There it goes.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Your heart,” he said. “It’s calm now. You did it.”
You let out a small breath, almost laughing. “Ah… I didn’t really try to do it, though. It just… happened on its own.”
Jack huffed, he almost sounded amused. “Semantics.”
You rolled your eyes. “You can’t just say ‘semantics’ every time I make a point.”
“I can,” he replied, completely deadpan. “And I will.”
“Jack.”
“Semantics.”
“Jack.”
“Semantics.”
“This is very demeaning, y’know.”
“Semantics.”
You laughed at him. You were about to tease him again when Jack suddenly let out a chuckle—wait, a laugh? Not the short, dry sound he usually made with little amusement, but something warmer that bubbled up and out of his chest. His mouth curved into a wide, toothy grin, his sharp teeth gleaming like little pearls. His eyelids squeezed shut over his sockets as he laughed, and you found the sight so odd, like pulling a curtain over some void and trying to pretend it wasn’t there.
The sight caught you completely off guard. You’d never seen him smile like that—so open and genuine, almost boyish. It made something flutter oddly in your chest.
You laughed with him before you could stop yourself, surprised and delighted all at once. “What? What’s so funny?”
Jack just shook his head, still smiling big. “Nothing. You’re just… funny.”
You stared at him for a second, still processing the expression on his face. Then the question slipped out before you could think better of it.
“Jack… are you drunk?”
It was quiet again for a beat, until Jack let out a deep chuckle. The sound started delighted but quickly turned sheepish when you asked.
“No way,” you gawked, eyes wide.
Jack shrugged one broad shoulder. “Is it so obvious?”
You shook your head, still smiling. “No, it’s just… funny. This is probably the most I’ve ever heard you talk. And you’re being sarcastic? I thought, either that or you’re tripping.”
He laughed again and you couldn’t help but laugh with him, a little stunned. You’d never seen him like this.
“I barely even saw you drink tonight,” you added, tilting your head. “How did you manage that?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, that smile on his face shifted from one cheek to the other as he looked down at you. Something about the way he was watching you made your stomach flip with nerves again.
Then, without a word, he lifted his hands.
You watched, frozen, as his large gray hands curled under the hem of his baggy shirt. He slowly pulled it up, just high enough to expose his midsection. Your eyes widened.
God, he was built. Thick, solid muscle sat under muted gray skin, abs clearly defined and right above a deep v-line etched into his just-visible pelvis. A dark trail of hair disappeared down into the waistband of his sweatpants. You felt a little dizzy just looking at him.
But then your gaze caught on something much brighter.
Tucked neatly into the waistband of his sweatpants, wrapped all the way around his torso like some ridiculous colorful bandolier, were about two handfuls of little 99 brand alcohol shooters. Tiny bottles in every color—cherry red, lime green, coconut, orange, grape—all strapped against his skin, hidden right under his shirt.
You gawked at it.
Jack glanced down at himself, then back at you, still holding his shirt up. He must have noticed you staring at the colorful little bottles strapped around his waist, because he let out a low huff of a laugh and explained, “Toby and Nat ransacked a gas station right before the party started. They stole a whole bunch of these and hid them on me. Said it was the best way to keep them from getting passed around.”
You blinked, connecting the dots. “So that’s why you three have been glued together all night.
Jack gave a small nod. “They keep sneaking me into corners or bedrooms so nobody gets nosy and asks for any. Works pretty well.”
That also explained why Toby and Natalie had been so cuddly and hysterical—they were definitely beyond wasted by now.
“There were a lot more two hours ago,” Jack added, almost wistful.
Your eyes kept drifting between the little shooters and the hard planes of his torso, the contrast between the silly colorful bottles and his gray, muscled skin making your brain fizzle out a little.
Jack huffed. “Your heart’s loud again.”
You startled, pressing a hand to your chest like that would somehow quiet it. “Sorry. I’m trying.”
He reached down and plucked one of the shooters from his waistband—a bright cherry red one. The tiny bottle looked comically small in his large, clawed hand. He held it out toward you.
You waved him off. “I’ve had enough tonight, really.”
Jack’s mouth curved into a small, toothy smile. “As your doctor,” he said, deadpan, “it’s in your best interest that you drink this.”
You let out a surprised laugh. “As my doctor?”
A low growl rumbled in his chest, all gravely, and dark, and way more effective than it had any right to be. Every hair on your body stood on end.
“Drink it,” he said, quieter this time, but no less daunting.
You swallowed, took the little bottle from his hand, and twisted the cap off. It snapped open with a tiny clicks. You brought it to your lips and downed it in one go.
It burned.
God, it burned—like liquid fire sliding down your throat, sharp and sweet and way too strong. You winced, your eyes watering as the intense wave of alcohol hit your system. You hissed sharply as it went down, immediately tossing the empty shooter to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Jack—that tastes like rubbing alcohol.”
Jack laughed, then reached down and plucked a coconut-flavored one from his waistband, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one smooth motion. His pointed ears pressed back against his head as he swallowed, and then—to your viewing pleasure—three slick, dark tongues slipped out from between his sharp teeth. They curled around his lips, cleaning what he missed before disappearing again.
You stared, a little dazed.
The words left your mouth before your brain could convince yourself that you shouldn’t say anything.
“…Do things taste better with three tongues?”
Jack paused, considering the question like it was a serious inquiry. Then he shrugged one broad shoulder.
“It feels more intense,” he said plainly. “Like the taste is tripled. Overwhelms your senses more.”
Your heart skipped a beat in your chest.
Jack’s head tilted, his ears twitching a couple times. He must have heard it, because his gaze stayed fixed on you for a long second.
“…Can I taste yours?” he asked, just barely grumbling.
You blinked. “I already drank it all.”
Jack’s mouth curved into a wonky, toothy grin. The realization hit you just as the alcohol did.
Oh.
The buzz finally crashed over you in a warm, dizzy wave. Your heartbeat suddenly felt loud in your own ears, muffled like the music outside. You wondered if this was what Jack always heard when he was around people—that constant, frantic drumming. It made you wonder what else he could hear.
He shifted his weight onto the leg closest to you, leaning in until the space between you felt almost nonexistent. His shadow fell over you immediately like a stormcloud.
“You can taste mine too,” he purred.
You opened your mouth to say something—“Um—”—but your foot caught the edge of a box next to you. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.
Jack moved faster than you could see.
One strong arm hooked under your side and hauled you upright before you could even gasp, pulling you flush against his chest. Your hands instinctively grabbed onto his arms, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
“Sorry—” you started, breathless.
Jack just grumbled. His hands settled heavy on your hips, holding you steady as he leaned down over you, his face hovering just above yours. The closeness made your heart stutter all over again.
You looked up at him, still gripping his arms. “I’m not a good kisser,” you whispered, pulling uselessly at straws to not make this seem awkward.
Jack’s response was immediate and blunt.
“Shut up,” he muttered. “Open your mouth.”
The command sent a shiver down your spine. You tilted your face up obediently, lips parting.
Jack leaned in closer. His own lips parted, and three slick, warm tongues slid out from between his sharp teeth. They brushed your lips first—tasting the area—before one of them pressed forward and licked into your lips and across your tongue.
Then he kissed you.
It was overwhelming.
The three tongues moved with a mind of their own, sliding against yours, curling around it, exploring every inch of your mouth like they were starving for the taste of you. One licked along the roof of your mouth while another tangled with your tongue, the third teasing the space inbetween. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, your hands moving up his arms to his shoulders to pull him closer.
A soft, surprised sound escaped you, muffled against his mouth. Jack answered with a low rumble in his chest, one hand sliding up your back to keep you pressed close while the other stayed firm on your hip.
He kissed like he did everything else—completely consuming.
You tasted coconut.
Jack pressed you back until your shoulder blades met the wall, one large hand planting beside your head while the other gripped your hip and pulled your lower body forward. The angle made your back arch slightly toward him. Then his hips rolled forward, and you felt the unmistakable, heavy shape of him pressing against your hip through his sweatpants.
You gasped sharply into his mouth and pushed weakly at his chest. “Sorry—” he slurred through a mouthful of you.
But Jack only tightened his grip on your hip and tugged you closer, grinding you against him with all the lack of resistance he had. His three tongues never stopped moving, overwhelming as they curled around yours and licked along the roof of your mouth, teasing the inside of your cheeks. You tried to kiss him back the best you could, but it was hard to keep up. Your breathing quickly turned shallow, little gasps and whimpers slipping out between the messy slide of tongues.
You’d never seen Jack like this.
He was usually so quiet, so reserved and mysterious. But right now he was surprisingly blunt, almost greedy with the things he was saying. This was probably the most you’d ever heard him talk, and you couldn’t get enough of it. The low growls, the occasional muttered curse, the way his voice dropped when he felt you react to him… it was doing dangerous things to your buzzed head.
You found yourself getting lost in those endless black voids where his eyes should be. The anxiety and embarrassment that had been clawing at your chest slowly melted away, like he was draining it out of you with every pass of his tongues and every roll of his hips.
Jack pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.
“Slow your breathing down,” he murmured, almost teasing you. One of his tongues slid across your bottom lip. “Still nervous?”
You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.
“A little,” you admitted. Then, quieter, “Don’t stop.”
Jack made a deep, pleased sound in the back of his throat. His hand on your hip squeezed harder as he leaned back in, tongues sliding back into your mouth with renewed hunger. His hips pressed forward again, letting you feel just how hard he was against you. His lips eventually left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, then down to your jaw. When they reached your neck, he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss there before dragging one of his tongues along your skin. The sensation made you shiver.
His hand left the wall and came up to the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he firmly tilted your head to the side, giving himself more room. He licked wet, warm stripes up the side of your neck, then sucked just below your ear.
You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. A nervous flutter shot through your chest as the reality of who he was hit you again.
“…Jack,” you breathed, half-joking but not entirely, “are you gonna eat me?”
He paused, his lips still pressed against your neck, before he begins chuckling against you.
“If you’ll let me,” he murmured against your skin, his breath causing goosebumps to rise across your shoulders. Your knees went weak instantly. A rush of heat flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.
Jack must have felt it, because he straightened up, pulling back just enough to look down at you. One of his hands stayed on your hip, steadying you.
“You have no idea how brilliant your anatomy is,” he said plainly, as if he was just stating a fact. “I don’t mean to be crude… but your structure is perfect. I could map every inch of you with my eyes closed.”
You let out a startled laugh, your cheeks burning. The words were grotesque and strangely flattering at the same time.
“You can’t even see anyway,” you pointed out, still laughing a little. “Doesn’t that already mean you’re doing it with your eyes closed?”
“Kinda. It’s more like I’m looking through layers of thick film. Everything’s… foggy. I don’t understand it any better than you do. I stopped questioning how my body works a long time ago.”
You grinned, feeling bolder. “I don’t think you could actually do it without seeing. So what if you went to Yale, I’m still not that impressed with you.”
Jack’s hand lifted from the wall and reached above his head, his fingers finding the dangling pull chain of the overhead bulb.
You glanced up. “What are you doing?”
“So you know I’m not cheating,” he said simply.
He gave the chain a tug.
Click.
The light went out.
The closet plunged into near-total darkness, save for the thin sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door. For a second, your eyes struggled to adjust. And then you saw him.
In the dark, Jack was… horrifying.
The little light from beneath the door only barely outlined his silhouette, but it was enough. He looked like something that had crawled out of the woods at night—like something that you’d see in a horror movie. You understood his reputation, the stories you’ve heard from others about the things they witnessed the demon do, but you’d never faced the reality of it until now—never gotten a full picture of what he really was. His gray skin seemed to drink in what little light there was. The sharp points of his ears angled and swiveled to bumps and creaks all around. His claws curled at his sides, clenching the air as his shoulders slumped to account for the little space, his frame hanging over you. And those empty black sockets… they looked like holes punched straight through the sky. Bottomless. Ancient. You think they’d drop off like a cliff if you leaned any closer.
If you were anyone else, anywhere else—especially in the woods at night—you would’ve screamed and ran.
But you weren’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning closer.
Jack stepped in, pulling you against him with one arm around your waist. His mouth found your neck again, hot and wet as he kissed and licked along the flushed skin.
Then he began to map you. His fingers and lips moved carefully along your skin, until he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.
“This is your Sternocleidomastoid,” he murmured against your skin, His clawed fingers traced the muscle on the other side of your neck, following the muscles shape. “Runs from here… to here.”
He dragged his mouth lower, his lips peppering your collarbone as his fingers followed.
“Clavicle,” he said, pressing lightly on the bone. “Deltoid…” His hand slid over your shoulder, squeezing the thick muscle there. “You hold so much tension right here.”
You shivered, little gasps and sighs as he massaged and traced areas. He had to maneuver you a bit, tugging you closer to his chest as he leaned down further. His fingers trailed down your side, his digits finding their way under your shirt until you felt them along your goosebumped skin. “External oblique…” His hand slid behind your back. “Latissimus dorsi…” Another kiss, lower this time, his teeth nipping as he moved. “You’re so well-built. Everything fits together so nicely.”
Jack’s hand slid down your arm until he caught your wrist. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to the thin skin on the inside, right where your pulse beat frantically.
“Right here,” he kissed it once more. “This vein runs straight to your heart.”
You thought it embarrassing how much you were shivering.
Then he moved his head lower, trailing his mouth down to your chest. He kissed you through your shirt, before slipping his hand from your back to your abdomen under your shirt. You felt shaky and exposed and way too vulnerable.
Jack’s claws curled and pressed in just a fraction at one specific point on your side, the sharp tips teetering on the idea of pressing further.
“This is your spleen,” he said with a little smile in his voice. “If I pressed any harder… I could puncture it. You’d bleed out quickly internally. It’d be so messy.”
He let the words settle in your head.
“Isn’t that interesting?” he whispered. “One little slip… and it could all be over.”
Anxiety twisted sharply in your stomach. But underneath it, something much darker and hotter stirred. Excitement. A sick, dizzy kind of thrill that made your thighs press together.
Jack noticed, because why-fucking-wouldn’t he? His claws dragged down your skin as his hand dipped lower, slipping toward the waistband of your pants. You grabbed his shoulders tightly.
“Wait—Jack, we don’t have much time,” you warned, looking to the door. “It’s gotta be almost seven minutes.”
He stopped for a second, only to chuckle to himself and lean back in, pushing a kiss against your jaw. Then, “I don’t think you really care,” he smiled. “Your body sure doesn’t.”
You whined as Jack’s hands roamed down your hips and around to your lower back, pulling you closer with a coaxing tug that said ‘I wasn’t really asking’. The heat of his palms bled through your clothes, making your skin prickle and scorch in spots.
“Shit,” you cursed under your breath, your nerves spiking to an all time high. “We can’t do this here—”
Jack just grinned at you. “It’s not me you’re gonna have to worry about getting us caught.”
You didn’t have time to ask what he meant.
His hands slid down and grabbed your ass, squeezing firmly. You squeaked, your hips jerking forward as you gripped the front of his shirt like a vice. Jack let out a satisfied noise and moved you exactly how he wanted—strong enough that you couldn’t have resisted even if you tried.
He spun you slightly, pressing your back more firmly against the wall as his fingers worked open the button and zipper of your jeans. The fabric gave way easily under his hands, the hem of your underwear peaking through the now-open folds. With one smooth tug, he shoved your jeans down your hips, letting them bunch around your thighs. The cool air hit your exposed skin and you shivered, trying to catch the breath that was so suddenly knocked out of you. Jack stood as straight as he could and examined his meal.
“Ah… fuck—just be fast, please,” you hissed.
Jack stood as tall as the low ceiling would allow, looking down at you by the bridge of his nose. And as if you couldn’t feel any smaller, he chuckled at you.
“You sure did give in quickly,” he hummed with satisfaction.
Embarrassment flooded your face. You squirmed against the wall, refusing to meet the place where his eyes should be. “Shut up and get on with it,” you grumbled, heat crawling up your neck.
Jack leaned in closer, planting one large hand on the wall beside your head. His other hand trailed down your side, then to your hip, before his fingertips drug over your stomach until they pressed firmly just above your pelvis. You tensed. Your hips tilted forward instinctively, fighting against the awkward bunch of your jeans still caught around your thighs.
His hand continued lower, stopping just above your clit, his palm hovering over the damp fabric of your panties. He leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear. “You’re in no place to get bossy right now,” he whispered, his breath tickling your ear.
Then he pressed one thick finger between your folds, right over your soaked panties. The fabric clung to you, and the moment his finger slid along your slit, it came away slick with your arousal. Jack kissed the edge of your jaw, peppering your skin, before pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies. A pleased sound escaped him.
“Well… this is a nice surprise,” and you could practically hear how pleased he was with himself.
You groaned in embarrassment and wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, burying your burning face into the side of his neck instead of letting him see you. His shirt smelled so strongly of his warm, crisp scent that it made you dizzy, but you’d rather hide from his taunting than pretend like it wasn’t turning you on something terrible. He could at least whisper it in your ear seductively, like a gentleman.
Jack’s finger continued rubbing exploratory circles over your clit, testing different pressures and angles to see how your body reacted. Every time he found a spot that made your hips roll or your breath punch out of you, he lingered there.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured, trying to sound plain, but the thrill in his voice gave away how much he was enjoying this. “Look at you… getting even wetter every time I touch you.”
“Shut up,” you whined, the words muffled against his shoulder.
“But I like it,” he hummed softly. “I like how your body tells me what you won’t.”
“Because you’d tease me,” you tried not to sound as pathetic as you felt.
Jack’s voice felt like somebody dragging a hot brand across your skin. “But you’d enjoy it, wouldn’t you?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the heat scorching low in your belly.
Jack made a hum of acknowledgement, like he’d expected exactly that. His finger slipped beneath the edge of your panties, tugging the damp fabric to the side and exposing you to the air. You gripped him tighter, fearing if you’d let go you’d fall off the earth somehow.
He teased you—because why-fucking-wouldn’t he—dragging the pad of his finger along your folds, then higher up your inner thigh, then back again. But all so slow. He was enjoying how you tried (and failed) to stay still and not look desperate, your hips following wherever you felt his warm digits.
You pinched his shoulder in frustration.
Jack pinched you back, right on your upper thigh, “Impatient.”
“We don’t have time,” you nearly growled.
“Alright, alright,” he cooed.
Just as Jack’s fingers started honing toward your entrance, right when you thought he was finally going to give you what you wanted, you heard it. Heavy footsteps thumping down the hallway toward the two of you.
Your eyes flew open. Panic shot through you like ice water being poured over your head. You shoved at his chest, stumbling frantically, “Jack— I told you—”
But he didn’t stop.
Jack straightened up slightly, looking down at you like he always fucking did. His face was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth pulled up like he was amused. You tried to push his hand away, but he simply pressed forward, two thick fingers now sliding through your soaked folds and teasing at your entrance again.
“Jack—” you whisper-yelled, thinking maybe he thought you were still playing around, “we’re going to get caught—”
The footsteps grew louder, right outside the door now. Voices and laughter followed. But Jack brought his free hand up to his mouth in a little “shhh” motion, his pointer finger pressing to his lips. Then, without missing a beat, he reached beside him with that same hand and cracked the closet door open just an inch, enough for his face and upper torso to be visible while the rest of you stayed hidden against the wall and him.
Natalie and Toby’s voices burst through immediately.
“J!” Natalie called, clearly still drunk and delighted if the swimminess of her voice was any idea. “Time’s uuuup.”
Toby was laughing so hard he could barely speak, although nothing was really happening at the moment to warrant all the hysterics. “Is the poor thing still—HA—alive?”
But even still, Jack didn’t stop.
The tip of one thick finger pushed against your entrance, and before you could make a move to stop him, it pushed slowly into your aching cunt, stretching you open as you stood there, trapped between the wall and his body. You slapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with panic and overwhelming pleasure as he sank the finger deeper, curling it lazily against your walls.
“Yeah,” Jack answered them, his voice back to its monotonous tone. “Alive. Barely.”
You clapped your hand over your mouth as his finger pumped in and out slowly, slick sounds barely masked by the loud music still blasting from the living room and their talking. Your knees trembled. Jack shifted his weight, pressing you harder against the wall to keep you upright while he casually chatted with his friends. You could see him trying to hold back a smile.
You couldn’t see Nat and Toby, but you assumed they were cheesing and standing on their tip-toes to try and get a view over Jack’s shoulder. “You didn’t actually bite ‘em, did you?”
Jack’s thumb found your clit just as a second finger tried to push in to join the first, the large digits catching on your entrance. It took shifting your hips, but they both pushed in. You could feel yourself clenching around him, having to bite down on your own hand to stay quiet.
“Not yet,” Jack finally grinned, his sharp teeth peeking out just as he curled his knuckles and massaged the inner wall of your cunt. “You shouldn’t eat big meals all at once.”
Toby wheezed with laughter. “You’re so w-weird, man. Hurry up and come out, we’re gonna d-do another round soon.”
Jack shifted his arm closer to your pelvis, the palm of his hand finding a home snug against your clit as he rubbed, curling his fingers just enough inside you to make small noises fight to escape.
“We’ll be out in a second,” Jack grinned. “We’re chatting.” The word alone sounded weird coming from his mouth, and Natalie sure didn’t miss it.
Natalie let out a loud, obnoxious laugh and slapped the wall on the other side of your head, making you jump. Jack acted like it was him adjusting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers kept moving between your legs, massaging your soaked cunt as your slick dripped down over his knuckles. Your panties were absolutely ruined and you knew it.
He ignored her hysterics, turning his attention to Toby instead. “Hey. Remember those cases of beer you two stole? They’re still upstairs. Don’t forget them.”
It was like a starter pistol. Toby and Natalie immediately perked up.
Natalie cackled. “Jack, you’re a fucking genius. We’ll start another game! Take your time in there, you twoooo.”
Jack gave a small nod. “Start without us. We’ll be there soon.”
You heard their footsteps retreating down the hall, loud and clumsy with excitement, and maybe the sound of them shoving each other against the walls as they left. The second they were far enough away, Jack pulled the closet door shut, plunging you both back into near-darkness.
You immediately yanked your hand off your mouth.
“You asshole,” you hissed, smacking his chest. “I told you—I fucking told you—”
Jack just laughed, punctuating it as he curled his fingers deeper inside you. He bumped them, circling that perfect spot that made the words fizzle from your mouth.
“Did you hear that?” he leaned down next to your ear again. “They said we could take all the time we need.”
You gawked up at him, jaw dropping open in disbelief, but any protest died the moment he thrust his fingers harder, curling them just right until you felt a deep pressure in your gut. Your knees buckled. You tried to cover your mouth again, but the demon pulled your hand away.
“Jack—” you whimpered, pressing your head back against the wall to try and get some air.
He hummed in satisfaction, watching as he pumped his knuckles in and out, and in and out. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe.
Just when you were about to give in, when your nerves finally melted under the heat of his touch, Jack easily pulled his fingers out of you.
You gawked at him, all breathless and frustrated. “You’re such an asshole.”
He just kept grinning. “For somebody who keeps saying we shouldn’t be doing this… you sure do get upset when I stop giving you what you want.”
Your face burned with embarrassment. Before you could snap back at him, his hands moved to your jeans, still bunched around your thighs. He tugged them down with ease, and you helped him by shimmying and kicking them off when they caught around your sneakers. They landed in a heap somewhere beside you. Then his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties. He snapped the thin fabric against your hip, making you hiss, before dragging them down your legs. You started babbling nervously, words tumbling out without thought.
“Jack—wait, this is—this is bad—we’re gonna get caught, someone’s gonna come back and—oh my god—”
Either he didn’t hear you or he didn’t care. Your panties slid down your thighs and pooled at your ankles. You managed to kick one foot free, but the other stayed tangled as Jack placed one large hand on the inside of your thigh and pushed your legs further apart. You tried not to shiver—out of nervousness or excitement, you weren’t sure—but you gripped the bottom of your shirt like it could somehow hide you. You felt so unbearably exposed, just standing there half-naked like there weren’t people just feet away outside.
“You smell so fucking good,” he murmured. “So sweet.”
“Jack…”
“I’ve wanted to taste you for a long time,” he admitted. “Now I finally get to.”
Jack dropped to his knees in front of you.
The floorboards creaked under his weight, and you felt it in your bones—that heavy, solid presence suddenly lower, looking up at you from the most beautiful angle you think you’d ever seen. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight. He was so tall that even on his knees he took up most of the space, his broad shoulders sitting at your waist-height. His large hands came up to grip your thighs, thumbs rubbing from your hips down toward your knees, coaxing your legs further apart. You felt like you could crawl up the wall from pure nervousness as he leaned in closer.
He started soft.
Warm lips pressed to your hip, then lower to your pelvis, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses across every inch of soft skin he could reach. His breath was hot against you. When he finally settled fully between your thighs, his face hovered right in front of your cunt. You could feel him grinning—you could feel it.
You reached down with shaky hands, grabbing fistfuls of his messy hair to steady yourself. “Jack… please be easy,” you whispered.
He tilted his head up. “What are you so afraid of?” His lips brushed your inner thigh as he spoke, and you had to swallow your nerves.
“Your teeth…”
Jack pulled back just enough to show them off—the sharp, gleaming points smiling up at you. Then, just to be funny, he snapped his teeth together right in front of your cunt, the clack making you jump.
He chuckled. “You’re alright. I won’t hurt you.”
Before you could say anything else, Jack leaned in fully. He pressed a soft kiss just above your clit, his nose brushing against your skin. Then his mouth disappeared between your legs.
“I won’t hurt you a bit.”
The first touch of his tongue made you melt.
One thick, warm, wet tongue pushed slowly between your folds, dragging up through your slick heat and soaking in the taste. The feeling was overwhelming—hotter and more intense than you expected. He groaned at the first taste, the vibration rolling straight through your core as he licked again, like he was tasting something he’d been starving for.
Your grip tightened in his hair, a broken whimper slipping from your lips as your head fell back against the wall.
Jack’s hands slid around the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he angled your hips forward, opening you up even more for him. He pressed his face deeper between your legs and licked a broad stripe through your folds, dragging the flat of his warm tongue right over your clit.
It felt like a thick, wet tentacle sliding against you, like it had a mind of its own. His spit coated your cunt in a ridiculous amount, dripping down your thighs and making everything messy and obscene. For someone so stoic and quiet in his everyday, Jack was suddenly a mouthful of grunts and hungry groans against your skin. His pointed ears fluttered against the sides of his head with every lick, and his claws tugged and gripped against your thighs like he couldn’t pull you close enough.
You felt your resolve completely dissolve.
Your bones went soft, your legs relaxing as you started grinding against his tongue, chasing the pleasure with desperate rolls of your hips. Jack groaned deeply in response like he was approving the movements.
“Mhhm…” you whimpered, trying to curb your embarrassment to let him hear you. “Feels so good, Jack… feels really good—”
He made an appreciative sound and nudged the tip of his tongue against your entrance. It took some effort, but his fingers had done most of the hard work of stretching you, so your eyes rolled deliciously as his tongue breached your entrance and nudged its way inside your cunt. His tongue was longer and thicker than his fingers had been. It slid into your soaked heat with ease, warm and gummy from how wet you already were, reaching deeper than anything had before. You whined loudly, your hips jerking as he began to fuck you with it with thrusts that curled and stroked inside you.
Jack groaned as your hands gripped his messy hair, his eyelids slowly closing over those dark abysses you keep getting lost in.
But Jack was completely lost in you—eating you like a starving man, grunting and growling against your cunt while his claws dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open for his mouth. Every time you clenched around his tongue he made a pleased noise and pushed even deeper than before.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words died on your tongue the moment you felt it. A second tongue nudged insistently against your full entrance, probing and pushing alongside the first. It tried to slip in, but the angle was tight. You shifted your hips, trying to help, but Jack made an impatient growl and moved.
One of his large hands slid down the back of your thigh, hooked under your knee, and lifted it smoothly. He pushed your leg up and outward, spreading you open even wider before resting your knee over his shoulder. The new position left you imbalanced, and you had to halfway hold onto the wall and him for support.
But that was all the room he needed.
The second tongue nestled in alongside the first with a lewd plunge. You groaned loudly, your head falling to your shoulder as you felt too dazed to stand up straight. Two thick, warm tongues filled your cunt, pushing and pulling, curling and stroking against your walls in a messy, uncoordinated rhythm that somehow felt even better because of it.
“Fuck—Jack—” you whimpered, your voice breaking on every word.
He groaned in response, letting you know it felt good for him too. His claws dug into the soft flesh of your thigh as he held your leg in place beside his head. The sensation was insane. You felt so impossibly full, every inch of your cunt being claimed by him. Spit and your own wetness dripped down your thighs and his chin as his tongues worked deeper, twisting and exploring like they were trying to map every part of you from the inside.
You felt it before you could even process it—before you’d even had time to process the second one—a third tongue slipped from between his lips, sliding wetly between the other two. It nudged right up against your swollen clit, pressing and rubbing torturously well.
A violent shiver ripped through you. Your hands flew from his hair to his ears, your fingers curling around the pointed tips to get some semblance of stability.
Jack shuddered. His whole body jolted like he’d been shocked. His ears pinned flat against his head for a second before flicking wildly under your touch. The reaction was so sudden and strong that you both froze for half a heartbeat.
Then, cautiously, you started rubbing them.
Your thumbs stroked over the sensitive tips and along the soft lobes, gently feeling his cat-like ears. He tried his best to keep licking you, but kept getting caught on stiff moans.
“Jack…” you gasped. “Umm… Does that feel good?”
He nodded against you, jaw and chin bumping messily into your soaked folds. He was taking deep, loud breaths through his nose, exhaling against you. Then the most unexpected sound rumbled out of his chest.
A low, rumbling purr.
At first you thought it was just your own nerves buzzing in your head, but no—you could feel it. The vibration rolled through his chest and straight into your bones, all warm and constant, making your toes curl and your eyes flutter shut.
“Oh my god—” you moaned, your mouth falling open as the sensations intensified. It felt obscene, like his entire body was vibrating against your most sensitive places and melting your mind.
Jack was losing himself, too. His purring grew louder, deeper, as you kept stroking and rubbing his ears. His tongues moved with renewed hunger—two thrusting and curling inside you while the third flicked and sucked messily at your clit. It seemed as if he was wholly content on drowning himself in you.
You were babbling now, open-mouthed and shameless. “Fuck—Jack, that feels—hah—oh god—I can’t—please—”
The pressure built fast—too fast. A sudden, overwhelming wave of bliss crashed over you, pulling a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Jack—Jack, I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, scrambling to hold him tighter.
His eyelids fluttered open halfway, empty eyesockets staring up at you while you trembled. You got lost staring into them, your head spinning to a heap of mush as you felt pleasure running your veins. That look alone pushed you over the edge.
You came so miserably hard.
Your whole body seized up, thighs shaking violently around his head as pleasure ripped through you in crashing waves. You clenched desperately around his tongues, moaning loud and shamelessly as your orgasm flooded his mouth. Jack groaned at the beginning of the taste, your slick flooding his senses so quickly it made him just as delirious as you.
His tongues stiffened inside you, pressing and nudging firmly against your rapidly clenching walls, milking every last pulse of pleasure as he sucked greedily on your clit. His nose stayed crammed tight against you, his lips sealing around you as he swallowed again and again, drinking everything you so graciously were giving him.
You were loud at first—broken moans and desperate praises spilling from your lips without filter. But as the peak began to fade, it melted into soft, mewled whines and shaky groans. Your orgasm turned into a rippling, lingering current deep in your gut, sending aftershocks through your body that made your legs twitch and your hips jerk weakly against his face.
With some effort, Jack began to tug his tongues from your body one at a time, the thick muscles sliding out of you, and a mess of slick followed. Jack made sure to lick it all up, his tongues running through your folds once more, savoring every twitch and flutter like he couldn’t bear to pull away.
You gasped sharply, everything suddenly feeling way too oversensitive.
“Jack—wait, it’s too much,” your voice was hoarse. “Too sensitive—”
He made a reluctant sound but slowly retreated, his tongues slipping back into his mouth like it pained him to do so. He sat back on his knees, looking up at you. His chin and mouth were glistening with a messy mix of his spit and your slick, and those black voids stared at you with unmistakable longing.
The moment he pulled away, the leg you still had planted on the floor buckled. You slid down the wall with a surprised yelp, landing in a boneless heap in front of him. Your ankle was still hooked over his shoulder, leaving you sprawled and openly exposed across his lap.
Jack caught you instantly though, his strong hands bracing your waist so you didn’t hit the floor too hard. You panted quickly, your chest billowing up and down as you tried to catch your breath. It felt like your whole body was buzzing.
Before you could even try to sit up, Jack gripped the ankle resting on his shoulder and tugged upward. You were pulled further down until your ass rested on top of his knees, your shoulders braced against the baseboards behind you. You felt like you were folded in half. You tried to scramble upright, feeling awkward, but Jack was already catching your other leg—the one with your panties still dangling uselessly from the ankle—and lifted it smoothly onto his opposite shoulder.
“More,” he grumbled.
Your stomach flipped with panic.
“No, no, no—wait, I need a minute,” you babbled through deep breaths of air, throwing your hands up. “I can’t—you’re too much, I need to breathe—just for a second—”
But he wasn’t listening. His focus had narrowed completely. Those endless black sockets were fixed between your legs with single-minded hunger.
“I’m sorry,” was all the response you got.
“Jack—”
He handled you like you weighed nothing.
His hands gripped your hips firmly and pulled your lower half upward in one smooth motion. Your knees hooked over his broad shoulders as your head and shoulder blades slid and landed against the floor. Your body folded almost in half, completely upside down, your shirt riding up to expose your stomach and chest. His large arms wrapped around your torso, strong hands gripping the soft flesh of your sides, holding you securely in place so you couldn’t even squirm out of it if you wanted to.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, but there was no real remorse in it. If anything, he just sounded excited. “You just taste so fucking good… I need you to cum again. Just a little more. Then I’ll be done.”
Your head was already spinning from the rush of blood, so you had no fight in your body or your words. You gripped his arms tightly, trying to brace yourself.
“Let’s just go to my room,” you fussed, trying to get him to just take a second. “It’s way too cramped in here, we can’t—”
But every protest died on your tongue the instant you felt it.
A familiar sensation dragged up through your soaked folds in a broad, wet lick. Your legs fell open limply over his shoulders as a broken moan wailed from your throat. The new angle gave him the perfect access, angling you however he wanted.
“Oh god…”
Jack moaned as he licked again, savoring every inch of you like he couldn’t get enough. His arms tightened around your torso, pulling your hips up and against his hungry mouth.
“Fuck…” he rasped against your cunt. “Do you even know… mhnnn… how good you taste?”
Jack’s eyelids fluttered shut again, the black voids disappearing as he focused entirely on you.
Then you saw it—the absolute horror and fascination of his other two tongues slipping out from between his lips to join the one. They were sickly blue-black, glistening and drooling with spit, long and monstrously thick. They dangled for a moment before curling forward, licking up the insides of your thighs until they finally converged, forking together right at your entrance.
Through a mouthful of his own tongues, Jack mumbled against your cunt, “Jus’ hang on to me.”
You dug your nails into his forearms, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps as the three tips pressed against your pulsing entrance at once. Your hips jerked, thighs instinctively trying to clamp shut around his head, but Jack held you firmly in place. It took a little work—a slight shift of your hips, a change of the angle—but eventually, the three tongues wiggled their way inside you together.
The stretch was impossible.
You let out a keening moan as your walls were forced open wider than they’d ever been, the bulbous, wet muscles filling you as completely as they could reach. No inch of room was left untouched. The sensation of burning was so intensely good that your mind went fuzzy at the edges. Your body went limp and mushy in his hold, your legs shaking helplessly over his shoulders as he sank all three tongues as deep as they could go.
Jack groaned loudly into you, the sound vibrating through your core as he began to move them, greedy thrusts and curls that rubbed against every sensitive spot inside you at once. Spit and your own arousal dripped messily down your ass and stomach as he practically fucked you with them.
You could barely think. All you could do was cling to his arms, your mouth open in a silent cry as he devoured you from the inside out, purring and growling enough to cause concern that he might actually be eating you.
And as if it couldn’t get any worse—or wonderfully better—Jack shifted one of his arms from your torso up to between your legs. His thumb found your throbbing clit and began rubbing slow circles over it, smearing your own wetness across the sensitive bud.
The shock of pleasure was devastating.
Your back arched hard off his lap, spine curving sharply as a silent cry tore through you. Your hands flew up above your head, palms slapping against the wall behind you for any kind of leverage. You tried to speak—tried to moan his name, to beg, to curse—but nothing came out. All the air had been punched out of your lungs. The only sounds your body could produce were the wet, filthy squelches of your cunt accommodating its intruder. You bucked your hips desperately, riding his face as much as your weak, trembling legs would allow. Every thrust of his tongues and stroke of his thumb sent white-hot sparks shooting up your spine. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders, muscles twitching uncontrollably as you ground yourself against his mouth and tongue like you’d lost all semblance of control.
Jack’s purring grew louder, deeper, the constant rumble vibrating straight into your cunt and making your eyes roll back. He was completely lost in you, this newfound, insatiable hunger dampening his mind until all he could do was eat. You couldn’t even form words anymore. Couldn’t even think anymore.
You felt it building again—that familiar coil tightening deep in your core, winding tighter and tighter with every thrust of his tongues and stroke of his thumb.
“Ja… Ja—ck… Jaahh—” you tried to warn him, but your voice was just as useless as the rest of your body. Your hand slapped weakly at his arm, your fingers grappling desperately as panic rose.
But Jack didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. If anything, he doubled down. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, spilling over and running down your flushed cheeks as the pleasure became almost too much. You managed one shaky, broken whimper of his name right before you felt it.
Little sharp pinpricks.
Your eyes flew open through the tears. Jack had pulled back just enough for you to see his face. His lips were pulled back in a growl, sharp teeth fully exposed and pressed right against your slick, sensitive folds. Not breaking skin, not hurting you, but just resting there, a deadly reminder of exactly what he was.
You almost found it shameful how quickly that ruined you.
Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering uselessly as your vision blurred. You saw his face, then the ceiling, then the back of your eyelids—and then white.
“I’m cumming—fuck, I’m cumming—” you blabbed, trying ridiculously hard to say nearly nothing. “Jack—I’m—oh god—”
This one slammed into you harder than the last.
Your whole body seized up, back arching violently as you came with a silent, open-mouthed cry. Your cunt clenched hard around his invading tongues, pulsing and gushing around them as wave after wave crashed through you. Tears streamed down your face pathetically.
Jack growled louder against you, the sound feral and satisfied as he drank down every drop you gave him. His tongues kept working you through it, thrusting and curling relentlessly gathering everything they could.
“Jaaaaack—” you mewled.
He finally pulled his tongues out of you with a wet pop sound, leaving you clenching around nothing. He was panting hard against your cunt, his breath hot and ragged as he licked slowly through your folds, then across your trembling thighs, cleaning every trace of your release like he couldn’t help himself.
Your legs slipped weakly from his shoulders, falling limply around his hips. For a long moment, the only sounds in the tiny closet were your shared heavy breathing and the distant thump of music as you tried to calm yourselves. Jack looked down at you, his face glistening with your slick. He stayed quiet, just watching you with those endless black sockets while you tried to remember how to breathe.
When your breathing finally evened out a little, he asked softly, “Are you alright?”
You managed a small, shaky nod.
Jack carefully helped you sit up, guiding your back against the wall. “Can you stand?”
You tried shifting your weight, but your legs felt like jelly. You shook your head, embarrassed.
He let out a low chuckle. “It’s alright.”
Jack moved your legs gently off his lap so he could stand. He turned and rummaged through the hanging coats until he found one that looked soft and long enough. Without an explanation, he draped it over your mostly naked body, wrapping it around you like a blanket. Before you could even thank him, he leaned down and scooped you up into his arms. One arm hooked under your knees, the other supporting your back as he held you securely against his chest. He bent down just enough to snag your discarded jeans off the floor.
You clutched the coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I can’t go out there like this…”
He chuckled again, the sound warm in his chest. “Toby and Nat have everyone occupied by now. No one’s gonna notice.” He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Besides… I think a nice bath in my room could do you some good.”
You hesitated for half a second, then nodded, too tired and floaty in the head to argue.
Jack cracked the closet door open, listening for a moment, his ears swiveling around. When the coast seemed clear, he slipped out with you cradled against him, your arms grabbing around his neck. You both moved quickly down the opposite end of the hall, away from the noise of the party. Laughter and shouting echoed from the living room as you snuck up the stairs like two stowaways.
He never let his grip loosen on you for a second.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
