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cum-a-calla · 2 months

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i went a little insane on this Jack Delroy tidbit (is it still a tidbit if it’s 4800 words? get back to me on that)

Jack Delroy visits a diner in the middle of the night to wind down. He has very little in the way of expectations in the midst of fighting his own demons, but one thing he doesn’t expect is meeting a starstruck waitress that forces him to truly reckon with his urges.

under the cut: the lightest touch of dubcon, rough PIV fucking, fingerfucking, oral sex, public fucking, internal misery, and the suggestion of possession.

…

The late-night circuit is taking its toll on Jack.

It’s not so much the show - he lives to host, lives to act and react, lives to hype up his guests, to engage the audience. Genuinely enjoys the silly little skits they do. It’s living a dream, being in front of the camera and feeling that very specific, special feeling - not quite acting, not quite being himself. It’s less a façade and more a specific side of him - just a sliver of Jack, a flavor. A taste.

It’s not even really the late-night circuit, is it?

Ever since - …since, Jack’s been off. And why wouldn’t he be? The loss, the never-ending grind, the… the events that precluded this loss. The carving out of something inside of him, and to that end, when did that start? When the ratings fell? When Minnie did? When everything between those two massive events in his life took place? That secret in-between time, the woods, the eerie hooting in the trees, the costumes; God, the costumes had been so hack. He’d come so willingly, veins sluiced with booze, laughing, jeering with the rest of them. Until… until they weren’t.

Until he was kneeling in the pine needles, feeling them crunch under his knees, and had he ever paid so much attention to his surroundings? Had he ever stopped and noticed how it smelled in the forest? Perhaps not until then. Green, thick, heady. The sound of flapping wings, the whispers of his cohorts in the night. The metallic taste in the cup. Feeling something so unlike anything else, coursing through him, and wasn’t it so easy to chalk it up to nothing? It was easier. It was easier.

And then… and then.

It had been a time between sweet Minnie’s passing and his almost-reluctant return. But how long can tragedy keep you from your ultimate calling? There can only be so many mornings, noons and nights spent in a stupor, crying, vomiting, drinking, drugging. Only so much time avoiding every single part of your life, your livelihood. And what an unfair thing, to neglect one love of your life for the loss of another; Minnie’s face, her voice, she still lives in the back of his brain like an aneurysm. Capable of taking him completely out at any given moment.

And so the meetings in the Grove certainly helped, and perhaps did not at all. Before, after - what difference does time make, anyway? Minnie’s passing feels at once a hundred years in the past as well as five minutes ago. Time. Distortion is the only thing Jack knows anymore. There is only his life as the leading Night Owl and his life as Jack, and what in the fuck does that mean anymore unless he masks it with whatever else he can get his hands on?

His hands.

They tremble a little on the table, slid into a booth at a local diner. It’s a perfect imagining of a fifties spot, the plush, scuffed seats, the ridiculous outfits the largely female staff are wearing - the modest skirts, the aprons. The little notebook balanced against his waitress’s arm as she glides dutifully to his table.

“Evening,” she begins, glancing at him for barely a second before flipping a page. “Or - well, I guess it’s more like… good morning, right?” She laughs a gentle little laugh and it tugs at him, somehow. He watches her as he sweats, resisting the urge to wipe at his damp hairline. It’s been a fucking night.

“Evening and good morning to you, young lady,” he responds. Always genteel, always On.

She glances at him again and it’s a classic double-take. Eyes a little wider, she shifts in place and stares at her notebook, making every effort to conceal her recognition. Jack’s seen this look hundreds, thousands of times, so used to it that he can only smile warmly in return. The price of fame, but also the pleasure. She’s turning pink in the cheeks and it’s endearing, the way it lights her freckles up, the way it makes her squirm in place. Jack is charmed. He’s used to all ranges of attention - clamoring women, shy women, forward men. He takes it all in stride, but it’s the shy ones that get him. Demure, unsure. Something in his gut twists, and he waits politely for her to organize her thoughts before he says anything else.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers, blushing. “I… I know you must uh, get this a lot, but… you look like somebody,” she hints. She flicks her eyes from her notepad to Jack’s own eyes, guarded, giddily scared.

“I do get that a lot,” he says warmly. He drops her a quick, clever wink. “You’re clearly up late enough to know for sure, considering.”

She lifts the pad and covers her mouth with it, making an adorable, almost-silent squeal of excitement. The tips of her ears are burning, she’s so flustered. Jack can’t help but grin, laughing at her genuine and unbridled reaction.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I’m being so dumb! I just - I love you,” she gushes, and the words tumbling from her lips embarrass her even further as she cringes at herself. Absolutely gorgeous - Jack can’t help but run his eyes quickly along the line of her body, noting the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. The hint of bare thigh under her skirt. “I’m such a fan. I know everybody must say that, I.. wow, I’ve never met somebody famous before. Especially not somebody I’m such a big fan of.”

“That’s incredibly sweet. Must be my lucky night, being waited on by such a lovely fan,” he flirts. The dark twist in his pelvis keeps him eyeing her, and he’s forced to take the linen napkin on the table and blot at his forehead. “Excuse me - been a long, long night.”

“I bet,” she says. “I imagine you’re constantly busy. Mister Delroy, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting - what can I get you?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Just a… a black coffee will do me for now.”

She nods and the woman scurries away, glowing with excitement. It’s just one of the many perks, the hoards of beautiful women that lose themselves in his presence. The power there. Jack is easy, kind - hearted. He has no need for applause, not in the way you’d assume - he lives to be enjoyed, lives to be an entertainment, sure. But the drive isn’t for the droves of people begging to worship him - and isn’t that cliché? Isn’t that just something a famous, rich asshole would say, or convince himself of?

But it rings true. All he wanted - all he wants, all he sacrificed for -

All he sacrificed for… is to be needed.

The girl comes back with his coffee, placing it down on top of a napkin in an oversized, chipped mug. Jack smiles warmly at her and winks again, watching her thighs under her skirt as she hurries away again. It’s cute, really. It’s heartening in a way, but mostly… it stirs. Jack forcibly turns his head and stares down at the scratched formica tabletop, coffee steaming. A single drop trails its way down the cup and stains the napkin, bleeding through to the table. In the low of his gut, in the back of his brain, a whisper begins. He sweats - he’s always sweating these days. The cocaine, the alcohol, the various other substances he blinds himself with… and -

And…

The… thing. The thing that makes his belly hot, the thing that turns his cock hard even when he least expects it. It’s like a black, swirling possession over him; it’s the only thing that he doesn’t need a substance for, but a substance against. It’s not a drunkenness, not a high - it’s something else entirely, a tingling, pervasive kind of darkness.

It’s been easy to overcome it most of the time…

Most of the time.

It gets harder every day, little by little. What makes it really hard is when he finds a person, a thing, a place, a situation - something that makes his fucking balls ache, something that fills him to the throat with blackness, with need, and he follows. It’s all part of it. Resisting makes him… not himself. Giving in makes him not himself. Where the line between who he thinks he is and who he is now has been blurred, irrevocably lost in the dust of things, impossible to decipher. The ruins of his life have been buried so many ways in such a short amount of time. He looks in the mirror and it’s a miracle to recognize himself anymore. He rakes his fingers through his hair, straightens the lapels on his suit jacket. It’s hot. He takes the napkin, blots his sweat once more.

He stares serenely out the window at the darkened sky. Stars are out, now, piercing through all that velvety blue-black, like freckles, like pinholes embedded in some luxurious cloth. He checks his watch - just about a quarter to three in the morning, and not even a wink of an urge to sleep. Nothing satiates, nothing helps him rest. Constantly on the hamster wheel, doing his little dance.

“Mister Delroy - I, uh - well - I know you just ordered the coffee, but… we had some extra things, so… I just thought - in case you were hungry… On the house, of course.”

Jack turns to the waitress as she carries a plate to him, steaming with all kinds of fixings - hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, toast. She toes her shoe on the floor, and again he steals a look at the little bit of exposed thigh, the way she nervously straightens the apron affixed to the front of her uniform dress. He smiles up at her and there’s a whisper in the back of his mind - he watches her struggle to try to look away, but she can’t. He indulges her in her sweet gaze, refusing to break eye contact just to see what she does. She squirms a little, pleasantly so - her pupils dilate, flicker from his mouth back to his eyes. Trying not to be obvious. It makes him laugh a little, a hum under his breath as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Thank you very much, dear. You sure know how to take care of a tired man.”

She looks at the floor, smiles so big. She ducks under the length of her hair but it does nothing to dull the sheer delight making her face glow so. Jack wants to grab her by the hips - a line of racing thoughts boil his blood, stir his cock as he sits. Thinking about her lips on him, the warmth of her mouth, his fingers digging into her. Stop. Not now. Please. Fighting the urges, the impulses.

“Anything for you, Mister Delroy.”

He almost winces, dick jumping in his slacks. God, she’s adorable. There’s an almost coquettish quality to the way she looks up at him again, under her lashes, hands clasped chastely behind her back. She licks her lips and he feels suddenly so, so feral. He can almost taste her by power of thought alone.

“Jack is fine… I insist.” He reaches out and takes her hand. Her fingers tremble the slightest bit and it sets his soul on fucking fire. He brings her soft hand to his lips and kisses her tenderly on the knuckles, resisting the urge to take her fingers into his mouth, to gently bite on the tips of them. He imagines pushing his own fingers between her pink lips and feeling her tongue, reaching back toward her throat until she’s teary-eyed. He watches her as she exhales, shaky. Uncertain. Absolutely excited.

“Jack,” she parrots under her soft breath. “Jack it is, then.”

As she hurries back behind the counter, fielding some of the other late night owls in the restaurant, he contemplates what exactly brought him here. Why the cocaine never jumps him the way it used to, at the beginning. Before the - the… gathering. Why the booze doesn’t calm him the way it used to. Why nothing works, why nothing can settle the hot, despicable urges, the constant crawling underneath his own flesh.

He spends the better part of the next hour switching between gazing out the window, sipping his coffee (and then another, and then another) and picking at his plate, forcing himself to chew the food, to taste it, to appreciate his server’s gift. It does nothing to satiate him. He can barely feel hunger these days - it’s just going through the motions.

Minnie used to make a killer breakfast. On lazy weekends, while he slept off a hangover, and -

He pushes those thoughts away.

3:55 A.M.

The cute waitress comes around again and seems pleasantly surprised to keep finding him here, alone, lingering. Is he lingering? Why is he still here? He should be trying to sleep everything off, getting at least a snatch of shut-eye before another busy day tomorrow trying to up his ratings. There’s a very special show in the works - still in the idea phase, still scouting for a story, but… it’s shaping. Things are rolling, building up. The smart thing to do would be to pay his bill and catch a cab to his hotel room so he can rest fitfully for a few hours.

He asks for the bill and she swallows her own crestfallen feelings as she turns to retrieve it for him. He glances at it, pulls bills from his cracked leather bifold and tips her so generously that her eyes almost bug out of her head. She begins to refuse his tip and he rises from his seat, shushing her. He towers over here and she has no choice but to gaze up at him, like the very length of him is hypnotizing. The shared hunger. He can feel it like electricity, and for a split second they’re so close to each other that he could hook his hand behind the curve of her skull and pull her into a kiss. There’s zero doubt she would give it to him.

Instead, he grasps her shoulder and gives her a light squeeze.

“Thank you for a delightful breakfast - or dinner. Whatever is appropriate for this time of night,” he jokes.

She smiles, beaming at him like he’s the sun and she can do nothing more but bask in his light. “Of course, Mister Del - er, of course, Jack. It was such a pleasure to meet you. A dream.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, and he means it. That’s one thing about his job, and about protecting the shreds of humility he still has left - he always means it. There is nothing more intoxicating, nothing more rewarding than meeting a person who lights up at his very presence. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Touching somebody in such a profound way that brings a little joy, a little entertainment? “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Her voice is low, quiet and sweet. He stoops just slightly to catch it, that dark little voice tickles the back of his brain as he finds himself just a touch closer to her, and he swallows against the urge again to crush her against him, to sip her breath into his lungs and feel her tongue against his. Her eyes glitter in the old, yellowed lights of the diner. He, the Jack Delroy, finds himself utterly speechless and hanging on to her silence like a life raft, awash in his own deafening desire. “I’ll never forget this night, Jack.”

He’s the one basking, now, wondering what her feverish cheek might feel like against his, what other parts of her might feel just as hot, just as deliriously pink and warm against his own flesh. He summons a graceful smile, but it comes out as more of a gentle smirk, a huff of a laugh. Since when does Jack get nervous?

She waits and he regains control of himself, running his fingers through his hair and swiping the back of his hand across his damp hairline, straightening up, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sure I won’t be forgetting this night any time soon, myself,” he jokes. She’s delighted, practically vibrating in place. He can almost smell her, her sweat. Some delicate kind of perfume or soap.

He makes his way outside and waves at her as she returns behind the counter, scurrying into the kitchens - he imagines her in there pressing her hands to her own cheeks, shaking out her adrenaline and excitement. It’s endearing. It sets him on fire.

There are a line of pay phones outside of the restaurant, and he steps into one and lights a cigarette, flipping through the pages to find a cab service. He finds himself eyeing the building, seeing if he can see her through the windows as she continues serving. Mere glimpses - he sees her flit back and forth a little, remaining largely out of his view.

He closes the abused phone book and drops it to hang on its heavy chain, the pages nearly in tatters by years and years of use. He exits the booth without having so much as put any coins into the slot, opting instead to walk across the parking lot. He glances at his watch - 4:14 A.M. He seats himself on a cement block at the edge of the lot, finishing his cigarette just to light up another one directly after. God, he could really use a scotch or two - not that it would help any.

Minutes tick by and he waits. He rubs his sweaty palms down his thighs, constantly checking his watch. 4:21 A.M.

By the time 4:45 A.M. rolls around, he spots her. The lot is dark, the flickering neon sign of the diner doing little to expose him to her. She has a purse slung over her shoulder and not much else. Jack rises to his feet, wincing at the pop of his knees, the stiffness in his back. He flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and smashes the lit end with the toe of his shoe.

He approaches her and the gravel crunching under his feet has her suddenly alert, jerking her attention toward him. He watches her tense up, eyes wide, clutching the strap of her bag. Her features distort with fear, confusion. She can’t seem to decide how to feel, expression blurring and resetting, blurring again.

“Jack…? What are you - what are you doing here?”

“I was, uh… well, I suppose I was waiting.”

“Waiting for…?”

“For you.”

A hint of delight seems to ease her tension, but not enough for her to relax. She shifts from one foot to the other. Jack aches. He feels the heat pooling in his pelvis, feels that pull. His cock is already half-hard, pulsing with his heartbeat as he comes closer. She’s frozen to the spot, unable to do much else but watch him.

“For me? Wh-why?”

“There is something very special about you, I think. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, if I’m being honest.”

He’s nearly touching her, and he slowly brings his finger to her chin, lifting her face to his. He leans down until he can feel her shuddering little breaths against his mouth. She licks her lips, anticipating him, and he finally bridges that gap. Her lips are so soft, her kiss so submissive, inviting. It’s even better than he’d been fantasizing about, and inky black tendrils of desire creep up through his spine, dripping behind his ribs like ichor. Roiling down from his belly to his balls, stiffening his cock. The violence. The utter, blind, salivating need as he pulls her close, buries his fingers in the fabric of her cheap uniform as he does so. She resists for a moment and seems to melt into him, moaning into his mouth.

He could eat her alive.

They stumble together across the gravel, her hands on his face, skating over his sharp cheekbones to muss his hair. He grabs at her ass, squeezing the generous flesh there. He imagines biting her, leaving a mark that she’ll feel for days to come, imagines her craning to look into a mirror and running her fingers along bruises, bite marks. God, how he wants to mark her.

He guides her clumsily into the mouth of an alley behind the diner. Pressed against the wall, he has the freedom to roam further under her skirt. He tucks his thumbs into the band of her sheer, nylon tights, pulling them down to her calves. Kneeling before her, he watches her flushed expression as he rips her panties off her body with his strong hands, relishing the way she squeals his name. Like a trapped animal. A lamb trembling in the jaws of a wolf. He dips his fingers between her thighs, sliding them into the tight heat of her cunt. She gasps as he fills her this way, stroking, thrusting until she’s practically panting. He ducks under her dress and a growl rumbles up his throat as he tastes her. He wants her dripping down his face. He wants her to beg him to stop, to feel her tighten exquisitely around his fingers as he fucks her with them.

She’s alternating between gently pulling his hair and petting it, thumb slipping occasionally down to trace the bridge of his nose. She does this many times, and it’s so unexpectedly intimate it catches him off guard. Feeling him, painting the image of his profile on the inside of her mind’s eye like a tattoo - it’s not enough to be able to look at him, touch him, kiss him, watch him on TV. She traces him. She memorizes the shape of his nose, the gentle slope of his brow, fingers tickling over his cheekbones. It has him leaking in his trousers.

Her breath catches in her throat and his name is on her lips, sweet and soft as silk, thighs shaking, and there it is - she climaxes. He pulls his fingers out of her and stoops even lower, tongue pushing as far as he can into her folds, nosing her clit. This seems to do something animalistic to her; she nearly screams, covering her own mouth as she grinds against him. He wonders idly if she’ll buck hard enough to break his nose (and so be it, he decides).

Jack can’t wait any longer. He wipes his face off on his sleeve, spins her in place and yanks her hips back. She’s still catching her breath, face so red in the shadows of the alleyway. Eyes half-lidded and dreamy, lips swollen. She glances back at him and watches him struggle to unbuckle and unzip himself, pulling his hard cock out to rub between her wet thighs.

“Jack - please,” she whines. “Please, please.”

“Please what?” God, she’s so fucking slippery. He could swoon on the spot. She makes a soft, whimpering sound and he pulls the head of his cock away, teasing. “Come on. Say what you want.”

“Please… make it hurt.”

For a moment, he stares into her eyes in surprise, and she offers him a coy smile. It changes her features into something a little more sinister than he’d expected. It sets him on fire. Without another word, Jack lines himself up to her plush, slick, waiting cunt and fills her in one brutal thrust. She stiffens on the spot and screams, and now it’s his turn to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, but you wanted this, little dove,” he coos in her ear between grunts. He fucks her hard, fast, feeling all that silken flesh rippling around him. “I had no idea you’d be so filthy. Are you like this for other men? Older men? Spreading your legs in an alley for them to fuck you open?”

The sounds she makes against his hand are probably words - surely they are, but all he hears is her desperate mewling, her high-pitched moans and near-shrieks, the feeling of her breath and drool, her teeth as she considers biting into the flesh of his palm.

“Just me, then? How long have you wanted this, how long have you fantasized about Jack-fucking-Delroy pounding into your little pussy? Do you think of me when you try to sleep? Do you touch yourself thinking of it? Is it what you expected, darling?”

He can barely control himself. There’s a special place between heaven and hell, some secret universe they’ve created with all the heat and pressure of their bodies, with the whispering darkness coursing through him, clouding him, transforming him. There’s nothing else but the urge to rip her in half. To make her scream, to fill her so violently that she feels it for days, for weeks even. He releases her mouth in order to grab her hips, hooking his fingers around the soft flesh there to yank her back against his brutal thrusts. He no longer cares how loud she screams. He likes the way her hands flutter back, grabbing at his wrists, reaching for this thighs in a poor attempt to escape his violence, to temper the way he hammers into her. But he’s too far gone - the smack of his hips into her ass, the way their bodies make the most infernally wet sounds… it’s all there is.

Jack hears a sound, something that nags him in the back of his mind. A rhythmic, gentle noise in the distance, something familiar but unable to breach the ferocity of his current focus. As the pressure builds in his balls, cock harder and more rigid than ever before, he recognizes it. Delirious, he recognizes the sound of an owl somewhere among these buildings, the gentle, almost mocking call of it every couple minutes.

Something about it pushes him over the edge, sweat rolling down his forehead in hot, fat drops, tickling the tip of his nose. He holds her flush as release frees him from all that pressure, muscles tightening and relaxing and waves of molten-hot pleasure surge all through his belly, between his thighs. She’s nearly sobbing at this point, and who can blame her? Each throb of his cock has him grunting against her, draped over her body, teeth bared.

Jack’s easing up, now. He rocks through his orgasm and fills her with his cum, pushing himself as deeply as he can as if a slave to his biological urge. Coating her, marking her with his seed. Mine. I did this.

As he’s emptied himself into her, so empties his mind. No more owl sounds, no more swirling thoughts, the darkness dissipating. He pulls his softening cock from her body and tucks himself away, doing his best to help the poor woman straighten up. Tear tracks shine on her cheeks, little sniffles accompanying her embarrassed smile. There’s fear there, just a little. It hides beneath the veneer of guilty satisfaction, of still being starstruck by her company. It seems that she can barely believe everything that’s just happened. He puts an arm slowly around her shoulders and guides her out from the alley, taking a secret and perverse satisfaction in the way she has to limp a little at first.

“Hey - that was… well, that was something, wasn’t it?” He laughs nervously, searching her to make sure she’s okay. “Are you all right? Do you need a cab? I’d be happy to get one for you, to share?”

“That would be great, actually, if - if it isn’t a pain, Mister Delroy.”

“Jack,” he corrects her gently. He turns her toward the phone book and she waits beside it as he makes the call, staring into the night sky and hugging herself warm. He reemerges, and the way she looks up at him fills him with something he can’t quite name. Some kind of near-familiarity. He’s suddenly struck with his need for the affection, to hold her, to lean own and kiss her lips and be tender to her after all of that. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, drinks in her warm little smile as she tugs it around her. They wait in a comfortable silence, occasionally smiling at each other until a car pulls into the lot. It doesn’t take very long at all. He escorts her to it and slides into the back with her once she’s seated, resting his heavy hand on her knee.

“Would you like to… do you need a place to stay the night?” The nip of loneliness. The need, poking its head restlessly into his mind, his body. So different than what they’d done against the wall, so much scarier. “If you’d like to join me…”

She tries unsuccessfully to hide a grin, turning to stare out the window at nothing at all. Hiding her delight, her own need. “I’d love to, Jack.”

#can i just jump into my own story or what like #hurry up and invent the technology #my writing #mine #jack delroy #lnwtd #late night with the devil #jack delroy smut #jack delroy x reader #jack delroy x you #jack delroy/reader #jack delroy/you #my tender violent daddy ass fuckin man right here holy fuck #i actually considered doing some daddy shit in here but it didn’t feel right. maybe another time #hail satan y’all

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