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horny-marbles · 2 months ago

Note

I read your Toby fic and ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT! So I humbly ask if you could feed my deranged monster loving brain with some Eyeless jack filth.

I trust your amazing brain to think of something. But if I could request something... maybe it involves tongue and teeth :3

omg thank u anon 🫶🏻🫶🏻 i freaked when i saw this bc i was already halfway into writing this already, i call that divine timing :p i hope u likey <3

Peace Offering (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: biting, blood play, size diff, oral (f receiving), breeding, a bit of spit, a bit of choking, overall monster fuckery

word count 4.5k

you're a cannibal too!! no graphic descriptions of cannibalism in this one but just a heads-up lol. also, mating szn!!

The hall outside Jack's door smells like antiseptic and viscera. Different from the stench of death and rotting wood permeating the rest of the mansion. You’ve been standing in front of the door for a full minute, fist raised, frozen in decision paralysis.

You don’t even know Jack. Not once spoke to him, or even held eye contact. But you supposed that was the default.

You just knew that he’s tall. That he doesn’t speak. That he moves like smoke and shadow and his claws gleam like scalpels in dim light. You’ve passed him a few times in the mansion—once in the kitchen, where you stood still as a statue holding a raw pancreas while he silently poured black coffee. Once in the hall, where his shoulder nearly brushed yours and you were sure you were going to die—and then he just kept walking.

You’ve only been here a week. The others mostly leave you alone, but you can feel the eyes. You smell like flesh and dirt and bad decisions. They know what you are. You’re a cannibal, same as Jack. But Jack’s been here longer. He’s not just another creep—he’s the fucking cannibal. And you’re afraid he’s gonna see you as competition.

Or worse, an intruder.

You’re not here to offer a sacrifice for his mercy. You’re here to be normal. To knock on the door like a grown-ass human being and say, “Hey, just wanted to introduce myself, I’m new, I eat people too but I’m not gonna step on your turf, all good?”

Y’know. Professional courtesy.

You don’t even know if he cares, but it's been gnawing at you all week. He hasn’t looked twice at you, hasn’t said a single word—but that just makes it worse. You can’t tell if he’s ignoring you, tolerating you, or planning to dissect you in your sleep. So you’re gonna clear the air.

You take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and knock.

You expect silence.

You expect slow, heavy footsteps.

You expect him to open the door with that same blank stillness that makes your stomach twist—stoic, unreadable, the kind of presence that makes you feel like prey even when you’re not. You hope you're not, at least.

You do not expect it to swing open less than a second later like he was already there.

And you definitely don’t expect what’s behind it.

Jack stands in the doorway, bare-chested and heaving. His presence hits you like a freight train—six foot seven of solid, silent terror. Black, scarred, empty sockets that somehow still manage to pin you in place. His skin has a weird, almost too-warm flush to it—gray tinged with red, like stone under heat. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his collarbones. His hair is damp. His claws twitch, flexing in and out of fists at his sides. And worst of all—he stinks.

Not like gore. Not like antiseptic. Not like you. Not bad, but strong.

He smells like sex, like pure pheromones. Like heat and musk and ozone and blood and salt, like ancient stone cracking under pressure, like the kind of sex that leaves bite marks and bruises in the shape of hands.

“...Hi,” you say, weakly.

His head tilts. His nostrils flare.

“New proxy,” he says. Voice like gravel, deeper than you imagined. Rough.

“Y-Yeah. I—I just came to say, like, I’m not here to… step on your toes or anything? I know we’re both, uh. Y’know.” You gesture vaguely, too nervous to say the word cannibal for some reason. “I don’t want beef. Pun not intended.” You're rambling. God, shut up.

Jack exhales through his nose. It almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

“I know.”

His voice is slow. Controlled. Too controlled. Like every word has to push through clenched teeth.

You shift in place. “You, uh… okay, man?”

He closes his eyes—what’s left of them, anyway. His claws clench into his fists, then relax.

“No.”

Oh.

You blink. “...Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

Your brain makes a soft popping noise.

You try to take a step back anyway, but one of his claws lifts, just slightly—not threatening, more like a halt gesture.

“It’s mating season.”

You freeze.

“I—what the fuck.”

Jack doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t do anything—he just stands there, flushed and feverish and breathing like he ran a marathon. But the air around him feels hot, electric, heavy. You feel it in your stomach, in your teeth.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says, jaw tight. “I have control.”

You believe him. That’s somehow worse.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “I didn’t know. I—fuck. I wouldn’t have come here if I knew.”

“I know.” Another breath. “You couldn’t have known.”

He leans a shoulder against the doorframe like his legs are tired—his body vibrating with the effort of staying still.

“I can smell you,” he murmurs. “You’re afraid.”

“Yeah. A little.”

“I’m not a threat.”

You almost laugh. “You sure look like one.”

That earns a sound from him—low and dry, almost a chuckle. Barely. Not really. “I won’t hurt you. But if you’re going to stand there, I need you to say what you came to say.”

Right. Words. You had a plan.

“I’m not competition,” you blurt. “I’m not here to challenge you, I don’t even want the woods, I’m barely domesticated enough to live in a house, and I’m scared shitless of you, so please don’t eat me.”

Silence.

Then, deadpan: “You’re not very threatening.”

You look up sharply. He’s watching you, what’s left of his expression unreadable—but his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. Still tense. Still fevered.

Like a beast in a cage, pacing internally, chained by sheer willpower and nothing else.

You manage a laugh. Weak. Awkward. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—go.”

His fingers twitch. You take a step back.

And then, his voice—low, raw, almost slurred with restraint:

“If you don't have a peace offering, you could always offer yourself.”

It hits you like a bullet.

You freeze. Blink. Your brain throws up the blue screen of death.

Your eyes snap to his. Not that there’s much to see—but something moves in his face, a flicker of realization. Like his mouth acted before his brain.

Jack’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the air feels razor sharp.

Then:

“...That was a joke.”

Bullshit.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stare, pulse hammering, skin prickling. He’s not smiling. He’s not leering. But something about the way he said it—low, even, matter-of-fact—is so much worse. Like it wasn’t a threat. Like it wasn’t even fantasy. Just a passing suggestion. A biological truth.

Your breath catches. You definitely didn’t mean to look at him the way you did—like you’re not just scared, but curious. Like some lizard part of your brain is weighing it—like it wants to know what kind of creature could say something that filthy with a face so blank.

And he smells it.

Your arousal isn't loud. It's not dramatic. But it’s there. A flash of curiosity through the panic, an ugly little throb in the base of your spine, something your body registered before your brain could veto it.

His body goes still.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

But his chest rises, slow and deep, as he inhales—and you see it hit him like a goddamn punch. His throat bobs. His claws twitch. His stance shifts just barely forward, toward you.

“…Fuck,” he mutters.

Your heart seizes.

“Okay, what the fuck was that—”

“I told you,” he says—voice low, rough, tight. “It’s mating season.”

“That didn’t sound like a seasonal allergy just now, man, you sounded like you were about to—”

“I wasn’t.”

“You aren’t now?”

“I’m not going to touch you.”

He says it like a promise. Not to you—to himself.

You swallow thickly.

Jack’s chest is still heaving, slow and deliberate, like he’s meditating through it. You don’t miss the flex of his fingers. The faint tremble in his shoulders. And worst of all, the fact that he’s still staring, like you’re a threat, or prey, or a goddamn solution.

“…Didn’t mean to say that,” he mutters.

“You did,” you say quietly.

“Didn’t mean for you to hear it.”

You should leave.

You know that. Every cell in your body is screaming it—but your feet don’t move. You don’t want to die or find out what happens if you don't die. But your mind is tangled, twisted, caught somewhere between fear and intrigue.

“...You’re still standing there,” he says.

You nod. “So are you.”

Silence, another breath.

“You should leave.”

You nod again. “I know.”

Neither of you moves.

And in that moment, everything is suspended—your pulse, the air, time itself. Jack stares at you like he’s memorizing you. Every molecule of scent, every twitch of your breath. Like he’s holding himself together cell by cell.

“You’re not a threat,” he says finally. Quietly. “But you are dangerous.”

“To you?”

His mouth twitches. That almost-smile again.

“To me,” he echoes, “and to yourself.”

You swallow. “...You’d still fuck me, though.”

That catches him.

Something flickers under his skin, his jaw flexing tight as he stares at you like he didn’t just imagine it—but heard it, loud and clear, from the source. He doesn’t answer right away.

But when he does, it’s barely a whisper.

“...If you asked.”

You almost shudder.

The weight of those three words drops into your spine like a stone. Not if he wanted to. Not if he could. If you asked.

You don’t know how the words come out of your mouth. You don’t even feel your lips move. It’s like something else in you—deeper, hungrier—took the wheel and said,

“I’d ask.”

His breath stops.

The silence that follows is indecent. Your ears ring with it. You watch Jack go still, not like a man—like a beast feeling the air shift before a quake. His head tilts the slightest bit down, his nostrils flare again, and his lips part like he’s tasting your fucking soul in the air.

Then, slowly, like he's afraid to break the spell, he steps aside.

You cross the threshold.

And you're immediately hit with a wall of scent so thick and delicious it curls into your lungs and lingers like smoke. Blood, coppery and sharp, but not stale—fresh enough to hum beneath your skin. A faint iron tang, the subtle, meaty funk of consumed organs. And underneath all of it, him—that deep, heavy, impossibly male scent that makes your legs tremble and your mouth go dry.

The door closes behind you with a click.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

He just looks at you. The tension in his body is so sharp it practically hums, his shoulders rigid, hands flexed and trembling at his sides, claws curling like he’s trying to crush the air. His chest rises in slow, shallow gulps, like every breath is work.

Then he speaks. Voice low. Graveled. Careful.

“One last warning.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. Your gaze stays locked on him. He watches your throat move as you swallow.

“You don’t know what this is,” he says, and for the first time, it’s not calm. It’s strained. “This isn’t like fucking some guy in the mansion. I'm not human. It hurts. It's violent. I’ll lose control for hours. It’ll leave marks. You’ll feel it for days. Maybe longer.”

He’s not boasting. Not posturing. There’s no lust-drunk swagger here, no smirk, no game. Just raw, desperate honesty, dragging out of him like it physically hurts to say it. And despite every survival instinct shrieking in your bones, you stay.

You nod. “I know,” you whisper.

“You don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

You mean it. You don't know why, but you mean it. Even if your hands are shaking. Even if you feel like you might pass out from sheer adrenaline. You don't know if it’s insanity or instinct or just some deep, terrifying desire—but something in you wants this. Wants him. Like an offering to a god that never learned how to be merciful.

Jack takes one step toward you.

Then another.

You don’t flinch.

His fingers reach out—hesitate—then curl just barely beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His touch is hot, impossibly warm for someone who looks like a walking corpse, and his claws tremble where they rest near your throat. You can tell he’s holding back by the millimeter. That he could rip through your skin without trying.

His voice drops lower, almost broken.

“I won’t take what isn’t offered,” he murmurs. “Say it. Or walk away.”

You stare up at him, skin buzzing, breath shallow.

“…I want you."

Jack’s restraint snaps.

Not in some sudden, ravaging burst—but like a beast unchained. Controlled, deliberate, inevitable.

His lips barely graze yours. Just hovering.

“…Fuck,” he growls.

And he lunges. Not with speed—just momentum. Gravity. A controlled collapse.

His mouth crashes onto yours, and you feel the teeth first—sharp, pointed, dragging—but not biting. Not yet. They graze. They threaten. They tease the edge of pain. And then his tongue follows.

It drags over your lips. Slips past your teeth. You can’t breathe, can’t think, and then he bites—your lower lip, a clean tear—and you gasp into him.

The taste of your own blood floods your mouth, and he moans. Deep, equal parts strained and relieved, like you just fed him.

His hand fists in your hair. The other splays across your lower back, dragging you flush to his chest. You can feel every taut, strained inch of him. Every hard line.

Then his tongue pushes back into your mouth, thick and intrusive, and it carries your blood with it, making you taste it. Your whimper tastes even sweeter in his mouth.

His claws rake lightly up your back—not enough to slice, just enough to make your skin scream. And then one palm cups your ass, the other grips your waist, and he groans like your body just did something to him.

“You taste good,” he pants into your neck. “You smell like—fuck, you don’t even know—”

He licks a stripe up your throat. You feel his tongue flick over a pulse point, but you swear you feel something more there. You don't have time to dwell on it, but your pulse is fluttering now.

His teeth nip your skin. Break it. Blood wells. He laps it up, groaning again—feral.

Hands roam. Bold. Bruising. Claiming. Gripping you like you’re already his. His mouth stays locked on your throat, jaw, shoulder—biting, licking, drinking. And for a moment, he pulls back just to look at you, lips wet with your blood.

“I can't go easy on you,” he repeats, voice barely held together. “I’m not human. I can’t do human.”

You don’t answer. You grab his face and kiss him again, and he breaks. Moaning into your mouth, hands everywhere, blood smeared between you, tongue tangling with yours like he’s trying to devour you from the inside out.

You’re still reeling from the kiss—bloody, deep, consuming—when his mouth moves back to your throat.

This time, the teeth sink deeper.

No more testing, no more gentle nips. He bites, hard enough that your knees almost give. Sharp canines sink into the soft muscle where your shoulder meets your neck, and you yelp—half pain, half fucked-up thrill—and he moans around the wound like it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

"That's better," he growls into your skin, lapping at the blood. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your clothes don’t stand a fucking chance.

His claws catch your shirt and rip. Fabric tears like wet paper. He’s not even trying to be careful. Just shreds it off, mouth biting its way down your chest, your ribs, your stomach—leaving bruises, welts, more shallow punctures. Blood blooms in hot trails, and he follows every drop with his tongue.

His hands—huge, clawed—grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he throws you onto the bed, clothes half-hanging off, breath caught in your throat.

You're still catching up, still blinking at him towering at the foot of the bed, shirtless, panting like he ran miles, sweat slick on his chest and broad shoulders, your blood staining his lips, and then he's on his knees.

You expect his tongue again.

You expect a tongue.

When his mouth drops between your legs and his face splits open wider than it has any right to, you barely have time to process it—because you see them.

Three tongues. Long, thick, slick with saliva. Moving independently. And they descend on you, no warning, no tease. He doesn't have time for that shit.

Just devastation.

He shoves your thighs apart and dives in, tongues moving like they’ve been starving for this—two spreading you open, one plunging deep and curling inside your cunt, fucking you while he holds you up like you weigh nothing.

You scream. Not just moan—scream. Because it’s too much. Wet, hot, writhing pressure on every nerve all at once, like his mouth was built to destroy you.

"What the fuck—" you yelp, hands flying to his hair, half prying him off, half pulling him deeper like you can't take it but want to.

And he growls into you. Deep, low, inhuman. The sound vibrates against your pussy, against your fucking soul, a guttural snarl like some wild thing burying its face in a fresh kill.

He's jacking himself off the entire time—fist pumping slowly, strangling, pre-cum drooling from the head of his cock, but not enough. Not nearly enough. This isn't for pleasure. It's just to keep from exploding.

His claws dig into your thighs as he lifts your hips off the bed like you're weightless, mouth working between your legs, tongues licking, twisting, ravaging.

Your back arches, you can’t breathe. You’re crying out his name—just guttural syllables and sobs—because it’s so much. So wet. So loud. Slurping, snarling, every movement feral and unrelenting.

When one of his tongues flicks over your clit and the others deepen, you lose it. Your orgasm hits like a brick wall, blinding and sudden, and you keen again—legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head, and he growls louder.

Moans.

Keeps fucking eating you.

Keeps jacking himself harder, like your orgasm made him hungry.

Because it did.

He breaks off only when you're twitching, overstimulated, barely conscious—and even then, he doesn’t speak. He just pants against your thigh, teeth latched to the soft skin there like a leech, blood and slick and saliva smeared across his mouth, stroking himself like he’s about to burst.

You're still trembling when he yanks your hips down the bed, claws dragging over your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you that hard. There's leftover blood, slick, spit, and he licks it off his palm like he can't help himself, before bracing himself over you—and that's when you see his cock.

Big is an understatement. It's obscene.

Long, thick, heavy, and curved just enough to make your insides clench on instinct. The skin is flushed dark, veins bulging, and it looks angry—like it’s been aching, throbbing, desperate for this for years.

You flinch when he lines up, heart thudding, and he hears it.

You expect another warning, maybe some stoic restraint. But no.

Jack leans in—panting, black sockets narrowed like every second he's not bruising your cervix is fucking strenuous—and spits in your mouth.

Heavy, hot, thick—your blood, his saliva, the mess of you—and your mouth is too open in shock to stop it.

"Swallow," he growls.

You do.

And that’s when he thrusts in, like the spit was only a diversion, like a doctor distracting a patient with small talk before driving a needle into their arm.

No teasing. No easing you into it. Just shoves the whole thick length of himself inside you in one brutal, unforgiving motion.

It's so fucking vicious that your scream catches in your throat, strangled and pained.

The stretch burns, splits you open, the pain folding over into something too deep and too hot to name. And he doesn’t fucking stop—doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s got both your legs bent and pinned to your chest, folding you into a goddamn pretzel, pushing deeper.

His strength is terrifying.

He holds you down like nothing. Just one hand pinning your thigh against you, the other wrapping tight around your throat, thumb under your chin to tilt your head back, making you look at him—if you could see anything past the blur of tears and fucked-out haze.

His hips snap forward and you wail.

“Ohh, fuck,” Jack groans, voice thick, rough, feral, pace already too fast, too hard, too deep. “Tight little thing. Been starving for this. So—fucking—tight.”

The praise isn’t sweet. It’s raw. Like he’s talking to himself more than you. Like every inch of him is relieved to finally, finally bury himself in something hot and wet and clenching and have the weight of this blistering heat lifted off his shoulders.

“Feel that?” he grits through his teeth, pounding into you so hard the bed rattles beneath you. “Sucking me in—like you were made for it.”

You whimper, mouth open, barely forming words. His grip on your throat tightens—not enough to stop your air, just enough to control it.

“You’re gonna take every fucking inch,” he growls. “Take what I give you. Take—all of it."

His pace turns brutal. Every thrust punches a sound out of you—raw, helpless cries drowned out by the wet slap of skin, your blood and slick smearing between your bodies.

And still—he holds you there. Bent. Exposed. Pinned.

You can’t move. Can’t run. Can’t breathe. Just heave and wheeze out broken wails while he fucks into you like his sole purpose in life is to breed.

And when he shifts his angle, grinding deep, dragging against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you cum with a strangled sob. Instantly, without as much as a heads-up from your pussy.

He feels it.

“Fuck—there it is,” he snarls, still rutting into you, relentless. “That’s it, yeah— So fucking good for me. Just like that—fuck yes—just like that.”

The overstimulation has you clawing at his arms, legs shaking, breath catching on every moan that tears out of you, but all Jack does is growl. Low and heavy in your ear, dark praise melting into the crackling static of pure need.

"God, keep fucking clenching," he pants, voice thick with hunger, hips slamming against yours with brutal rhythm. "Tight little cunt. Gonna make me lose my fucking mind."

You’re whimpering—high and broken—when he finally pulls out with a wet pop that leaves your pussy gaping, twitching around nothing.

Before you can even think of begging for a break, you're flipped onto your stomach, your face barely sinking into his sheets before he slams back in from behind with a ragged, guttural snarl. You cry out, hands scrambling for grip, spine arched in a shiver of pain and heat as he bottoms out in one vicious thrust.

The stretch is horrible all over again. You're soaked, so open and used already, and still—he splits you wider.

Jack’s claws dig into the soft meat of your ass as he grabs two full handfuls, dragging you back into every sharp, hungry thrust. The sound is feral—skin clapping, bedsprings shrieking, his lupine growls vibrating in your chest.

Then his hand finds your hair.

He wraps it around his fist like a rope and yanks your head back, arching your spine and baring your throat. His pace never falters—he fucks you like he needs it to survive, like your body was made to take this. (It wasn't.)

You barely get a breath before his grip changes again—his arm slides around your neck, elbow snug against your throat, and he pulls you upright into him. Your back arches tight like a drawn bow, head lolling on his shoulder as he bends down to snarl into your ear.

The other hand slides over your stomach, down low, low—palming the spot where his cock bulges inside you, visible and so fucking deep.

“Feel that?” Jack breathes, breath hot and ragged. “That’s how fucking deep you're taking me. That's how deep you're gonna take my seed."

You can’t even speak. Just shudder and whimper, stuffed so full it aches deep in your belly. The arm around your neck tightens just enough to make you dizzy—floaty, pliant, mind slipping out of your control.

Right where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth sink in deep again, sharp teeth and longer canines piercing skin like butter. You yelp, back arching harder, but he just holds you there, locked tight in his grip as blood wells up and rolls down your chest. His tongue drags over it, lapping it up greedily, moaning like your essence is just fueling Chernabog inside him. To breed, to fuck, to relieve, to destroy.

“Fuck... fuuuck me,” he snarls, every word a tremor. “Gonna fucking fill you— Breed this tight pussy, shit—"

He slams into you. Once. Twice. A third time—

And then he groans, loud and shaking, as he cums.

It’s hot. Endless. You can feel it pulse through his cock, feel the flood of it painting your insides, thick and heavy and too much. His hips don’t stop moving—slow now, dragging through your overstretched cunt just to make sure none of it goes to waste.

"Yeah—yes, yes—fuck," he rasps, breath stuttering as he presses in deep, so deep you feel it in your lungs. "Finally. Finally... fuck, take it—

Like he's been waiting for this. Like he’s been going rabid over the idea of this for months and now he’s got a warm, bleeding body to fill instead of his own fucking fist.

You feel so full that it would make you nauseous if you weren't on the brink of passing out.

Jack's still holding you there. Still buried deep, arms locked tight, cock twitching as the last of it seeps out of him.

“Mine now,” he murmurs against your ear, voice wrecked. “You feel that?”

You do. You just can't fucking answer, only managing a strangled little whine, more wounded animal than human.

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