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mistytanzanite · 1 month ago

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OH LAWWWDDDDD HAVE MERCY IM BOUTTA COMBUST

Okay but imagine Toby doing all that with his partner. NEEEED to be pinned down & ruined by this man. forest floor sex 🤤🤤

BIG OLD CW: this is one nasty ass drabble. cnc, rough outdoor sex, heavy degradation

Count me tf in. Especially if its like full on roleplay <3 likeeee you’re stumbling clumsily through the woods like some protag in a horror movie, blood pumping as your heart races in your chest - your stomach twisting with a mixture of fear and arousal.

Today had given you a thirty second head start, but you’re quickly learning that it didn’t matter at all. He was quick, and quiet. Years of doing this exact thing honing his stealth skills down to a near perfect degree. Almost as if he was gliding over the ground rather than running, his heavy boots barely making a sound as he pursues you. Maybe that was worse than if you could hear him, because you dont realize how close he is until he speaks.

”B-Breaking a sweat yet, lamm?” It sounds like he was right behind you, a few feet away at most. And he sounds so unbothered, so unaffected by the strain of the chase.

You were wheezing, lungs aching with each breath in. Your mouth was dry as a desert from gasping in lungful after lungful of crisp forest air, your eyes watering from the force of the wind hitting them. You felt like you were second away from collapsing, calves screaming every time your feet hit the ground.

And yet Toby, was laughing at you. “Poor thing.” You hear him snicker, closer this time. “C-C’mon, just give up! Y-You’re just makin’ yourself look p-pathetic.”

You let out a strained grunt, your teeth grit as you force yourself forwards more - hair whipping in the wind and sticking to your sweat slick skin. The adrenaline was definitely helping.Maybe, if you kept up this pace you could outrun him.

But, the forest was on Toby’s side. Of course it was. It was his domain after all, you were just a trespasser.

Your foot snags - on a root, on a fallen branch, you don’t even know - but with the speed you were going at it practically catapults you. You yelp as your feet hit the ground, and when your body collides with the dirt, it knocks the wind out of you. You wheeze, your eyes blowing open wide as you ears ring - but through the shock of the impact you can still make out one noise.

Toby laughing. Cackling, actually. Laughing so hard you’d be surprised if he wasn’t doubled over with it, but you don’t have the strength to look. Good thing he helps you with that. Within seconds you feel fingers curling into your hair and holding on tight, getting a nice fistful before he’s yanking your head backwards with such a force it makes your neck crack. “C-Caught you.” He leaning down to snicker into your ear, his voice rotted with sadistic glee. “Shoulda luh-looked where you were goin’.”

All you manage out is a strangled whimper, stars still dancing in your vision as you blink against the darkness. Toby doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response - if anything he might just like it. “D-Don’t you look defeated.” He snorts before letting go of your hair, letting your face smush back into the dirt. “Don’t tell me you a-actually though you were gonna win?”

You let out a soft huff, and he fucking cackles. “Cute, cute.” You feel something hard and heavy pressing against the back of your skull - the blunt end of his hatchet’s handle - before he’s using the leverage to smush your face even more into the earth below you. “Think i-its time for me to claim my winnings, hm?”

You barely have time to answer before he’s on you, dropping the hatchet in favour of slipping his gloved fingers under the waistband of your shorts - tugging them down in one swift move. “No panties?” Course not, that was a part of the game. “L-Lucky me, I caught a s-slut.”

You let out a pitiful yelp when one hand pulls your hips upwards, the other one pressing down between your shoulder blades to force your body into a mean arch - bare ass exposed to the cool night air, and when the breeze hits the slickness between your thighs you shiver. “A-And you’re wet? You’re o-one sick bitch. Soakin’ your fuckin’ shorts just cause of the fear.”

You hear his belt buckle come undone and you squirm fruitlessly just for show, which is immediately met with Toby forcing your body down further into the dirt. The pressure of his weight making all the air leave your lungs in a wheeze. “D-Don’t try and run away now.” His one hand is gripping your hip so tightly you’d swear it was bruising on contact. “F-Freak bitch. Just as fucked as I-I am, eh? Stupid slut’s just g-gonna take any cock she can get?”

”I’m not-“

”Sh-Shut the fuck up.” His voice is downright brutal as he pushes you further down, forcing a whimper out of your lungs. “Lie if you want, b-but your pussy’s tellin’ me the truth.” A wet slap to your cunt has you jolting, a confusing mixture of pain and pleasure blooming between your legs. Harsh, but it stings so good. Burns so good. Just like the stretch of his cock when he finally sinks into you.

Quick, without an ounce of prep, but the amount of slick you were gushing out makes it an easy glide as he pulls you back against him - getting every inch buried in your quivering body. It’s still a shock, still makes your eyes blow open wide. Still has you clawing at the dirt like a wounded animal, dirt caking under your fingernails.

You try to squirm free, but his grip his relentless - and so is the pace he picks up. He fucks you like it’s a punishment, like you had offended him by running away. Snapping his hips into yours as one hand snakes down into your hair again - using it as leverage to smush your face harder into the dirt. Getting some of it in your mouth because your jaw’s gone slack, pathetically trying to spit it out between moans.

“Tryna tell me you d-didn’t want this.” He rasps from behind you. “Fuh-Fuckin’ listen to you. You moan like a whore.”

You’re half convinced your ass is going to be bruised just from the sheer force of his hips slamming into yours, punching moans out of your lungs with each thrust in. Fucking into you like he owned the cunt he was abusing. (He did.) “Nasty fuckin’ b-bitch. Soakin’ my cock even though I might just lob your p-pretty little head off when I’m done.” You tighten up around him, and he’s barking out a laugh. “Oh, you really are fucked. You get dropped as a baby or somethin’?”

You can’t answer. Not with how much of an incoherent mess you’ve turned into. Drool and tears smeared across your face, dirt caked into your fucking teeth as your face drags against the ground with each thrust in. “You g-gonna cum to the idea of me killin’ you?” You let out a gargled whine. “You l-like thinkin’ about me slashin’ your throat wide open?”

Evidently, yes, because you’re cumming mere seconds after the words leave his mouth - tears springing to your eyes from the intensity, your body all but convulsing beneath him as you sob into the dirt.

The depravity of it all, is what sends Toby right down with you.

He slams his cock in deep, nestling right up against your womb when he spills into you - his head tilting back as he lets out a drawn out gravelly groan. His grip on your hips still like a vice, holding you there, forcing you to take every drop.

When he’s finally had his fill, he releases you, and you crumple. Body near limp as your lay sprawled against the forest floor - your mind dazed as you just barely register the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs.

And you’re just about to tap out completely, your eyes heavy and fluttering, but then there’s a hand - calloused and rough, devoid of his gloves, gently cradling your face and tilting it upwards. “S-Still with me, pretty girl?”

All the harshness from before is gone. Fizzled out to make way for honey sweet adoration dripping from every letter. Through your blurry vision, you can just barely make out his face - but you can tell his gaze is fond as his words. “I d-didn’t break you did I?”

“No.” You murmur out softly, leaning into his touch. Toby smiles, smoothing his thumb against your cheek.

“No? Was I t-too mean?”

You let out a little shaky sigh before looking up to meet his gaze, your lips curling into a tired smile.

“Wasn’t mean enough.”

And Toby laughs. Not wicked and sadistic like he did before. Soft and warm, an amused little chuckle that makes your battered body feel gooey.

“Noted. G-Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.” Then he’s bending down, scooping your limp body up into his arms like you weight nothing. Cradling your head as it comes to rest against his shoulder, leaning his down to press a soft kiss into your hair. “Now, let’s g-get you cleaned up, yeah?”

#reblog #ticci toby

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mistytanzanite · 2 months ago

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eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x Reader)

eyeless jack x f!reader nsfw — CW med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

#eyeless jack x reader #reblog #ive never been into medical stuff before buuuttt #this has changed me i fear #for better or for worse #its subjective

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