#biting cw

[tallbluelady]

🎲

A kiss after a bite~

Rowan's breath hitched as Urianger pressed his teeth into her skin. The sensation was always one he reveled in, but eventually he released his hold and gave a quick kiss to soothe the area. Her soft moans spurred him on, and it wasn't until Rowan put her hand between her neck and his mouth that Urianger stopped.

"You're starting to make my neck ache with all this biting, darling," Rowan chuckled as they parted. "I didn't realize you were so insatiable."

"I must needs fill myself in ways thou art comfortable with, my dove." He licked his lips and took stock of his work upon her neck. "Though I fear my devotions towards thee may have been rather zealous this night."

"I can't say I don't enjoy your zeal. Though mayhap a healing spell is in order..." 

Urianger gave a contrite smile and traced his fingers over the marks he left, leaving small pearls of starlight at each one. He thanked Thaliak that he had honed his skills in astrology during the time they had been separated. The clarity in how to proceed during perilous times was a boon, of course, but the healing magicks of the art had proved practical. And pleasurable, as it turned out.

He leaned back, eyes drawn to the constellation he had drawn along her neck. Rowan was growing accustomed to being admired, at least by him, but still shied away when they were intimate. It only endeared her to him more.

Then the magic swelled and burst, leaving tiny galaxies of glittering dust across the sky blue expanse of her skin. Rowan gasped as the aether seeped into her bruises and sought to make her whole.

"Doth there be aught else I can do to give thee succor, my love?" he asked, tracing the now fading bruises.

She shook her head and hummed contentedly at his touch. Urianger couldn't tell how much time was lost in this hazy, contented lull, but after a while he drew her close to kiss her again.

Rowan gave a small chuckle. "If we do aught else tonight, love, then you'll have to focus on the other side of my neck."

[djarinova]

you bite xavier one time as he's cumming inside you and suddenly he's begging for it every single time the two of you have sex.

and you have to give it to him, otherwise he gets all pouty and teary eyed. he'll complain that he won't be able to cum properly until he feels your teeth sinking into his neck and he'll whine and paw at you until you give in

[shayandwildlifepack]

Next poem to post. Kinda rushed through. Have we being used.

Tw/cw: Chained up animal, caged animal, growling mention, biting mention, clawing mention, hissing mention.

- Shay (They/it)

Not Wild and Not Tamed

Chained up and caged.

Not human is what we are.

Not wild and not tamed.

We growl and bite.

We hiss and claw.

Not wild and not tamed.

We aren't a pet.

We aren't free.

Not wild and not tamed.

Chained up to a fence.

Caged in like a threat.

Not wild and not tamed.

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2024 Day 17: Venom

Just kidding. Unless? :3

---

Need to upload all the remaining works, but... so... tired... Probably tomorrow lol.

[odetokeons]

♱ Nosferatu (2024) dir. Robert Eggers ♱

+ bonus

[xitsensunmoon]

My hand slipped... Close ups and a little suggestive joke under the cut

[orcatnip]

"The worst she can say is no" Bro.

Also,

Love seeing this 300lb bird be thrown around like a ragdoll

[catsharky]

Ember please you're gonna kill him

Rewinding back to the Last Light Inn cause I haven't tormented Rolan enough. Ember's got zero shame and no interest in getting dressed before breakfast (she's worked nights for 2 decades so the fact she's awake before noon is a miracle, honestly)

If Rolan didn't owe her big time she would be getting the dressing down (hah) of her life.

The Rolan Comic Part 1 • Latest part

[fleur-a-whump]

he BITE >:) hehe rereading this and the part where Stephan drops to his knees is so funny to me. the image of Roon with a literal hand in his mouth following him down, looking at him like tf is happening rn? hilarious

The bahkauv

Bite

Stephan is bitten and will not get free by physical strength alone

They’d travelled all day without incident. Francis was confident in the decision to leave their fourth member unmuzzled, unbound except for his ankles, which were constrained only enough that he could not take more than one short stride after the other. Once they chose a camp, Francis slid the saddle from his grazing horse, setting it on its horn at the base of a tree.

Stephan screamed out a curse, and Francis turned in time to see him pulling back his hand from the mouth of the bahkauv— to no avail. The jerk of his arm did nothing to dislodge the teeth in the buried in the heel of his hand, and only made it more apparent that he was bleeding. He struck the boy—the creature— on the side of his head with his left fist. Their bahkauv only yelped deep in his throat, and hung on ferociously, as if for his life.

Francis got the immediate impression he hadn’t meant to hurt. He had reacted in fear, a distrustful instinct triggered by a thoughtless moment on Stephan’s part. Now that he had a mouthful, he was afraid to let go.

Arthur grabbed the bahkauv by the back of the hair in a tight fistful, but the vicious yank he gave it only made Stephan curse at him, too. Francis rushed forward but stopped, suspecting yet another human presence would only send the bahkauv into a deeper panic.

“Let go,” Arthur growled, gripping the boy-creature tightly by the hair like it was the scruff of an animal’s neck. Stephan winced in pain, watching blood drip from his fingers to the ground. He cursed again, loudly. The bahkauv flinched, wide eyes raising to the man he had in his sharptoothed grip.

“Arthur, enough!”

Stephan was the largest and strongest of the three of them, used to felling trees and cutting lumber for carts, barns, or even ships. If his blow to the bahkauv’s head could not pull his hand free, the three of them might not be able to, even together.

“Arthur, you’re not helping,” Francis insisted. “Let go.”

Arthur shot him a doubtful look but couldn’t deny the situation had not improved since his intervention. He let go, shaking a clump of hair from his fingers as if it might be tainted with magic.

Stephan turned his head toward Francis, grudgingly calm despite the pain. “Get your fucking beast off me before it takes my hand off.”

“I’ll only make it worse as well,” Francis said evenly, though his heart was pounding like a drum. This was his fault, after all. Maybe they’d have known what to do with a vampire. If he’d just been satisfied with that, they wouldn’t have this unpredictable creature on their hands. He didn’t even know what a bahkauv bite could do. Their new purchase looked so disconcertingly human from a distance of just a few feet, it was easy to forget he was not.

“He’s scared. He bit you because he was scared and he’s not letting go because he’s scared. We can’t rip him off without making the bite worse. Talk to him.”

Stephan groaned as his hand continued to drip blood. The veins in his forearms were bulging and blue, a new sheen of sweat beading his forehead. “It doesn’t fucking understand us, mate,” he gritted with reproach.

“I think we’re wrong on that too. Just try.”

Stephan took a sharp breath through his nose, jaw working visibly as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

Arthur took several steps back, showing his hands in accordance to the new plan. The bahkauv’s dark eyes followed him before snapping fearfully back to Stephan.

“Let me go, Devil.”

“Well don’t talk to him like the hunters,” Francis said, exasperated. “Honey. Not vinegar.”

Stephan dropped slowly to his knees, his hand still tight in the bear trap of the boy-creature’s sharp teeth. Confused, the bahkauv followed suit, lowering to follow the man closer to the ground. Now kneeling, blood dripped between them like a ritual. Stephan swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before reopening them.

When he spoke his voice was low, nothing like his gruff curses before. “You can’t hold on to me forever, you know. You’ll have to let go sometime so we can give you something to eat.” He actually smiled, strained as it was. “Something other than my hand, that is.”

Francis and Arthur exchanged a glance. The little monster was listening, watching Stephan intently. His chest rose and fell with his own frightened breaths, otherwise completely still. The blood around his mouth and the flash of sharp teeth was the only thing that made him look feral, something other than entirely human. And something unnameable in the eyes Francis was eager to study, once he had the university laboratories and libraries within reach.

“I’m very sorry I struck you,” Stephan continued gently, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse, or charm a snake. “You frightened me, is all. When you let me go, I promise not to hurt you. I understand. My friends do too. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Francis marveled at his composure, despite the bloodied hand still being held tight between teeth. Only the bloodless pallor of his friend’s complexion gave away the pain beneath his softened voice.

Stephan, usually gruff and straightforward, tilted his head in a gesture of genuine thoughtfulness. “Do you understand our words, or only our actions? Can you read my thoughts? How can I talk to you, hm?”

Cautiously, he raised his non-injured hand from his side, slowly bringing it to the side of the bahkauv’s head where he’d struck him just minutes before. He hovered in midair for a moment, waiting to see if he got a strong reaction. Francis was afraid Stephan might get his hand free only to have the other one bitten. But when at last the open hand touched him, the bahkauv only whimpered, a stirringly human sound.

“You’re alright,” Stephan said, stroking the dark hair with his calloused woodsman’s hand. It looked huge on the creature’s delicate head. “Just an accident. It’s alright to let go now. I won’t harm you.” He tucked a piece of hair behind a pointed ear. “I need my hand back now, little beast. If it please you.”

Francis thanked the gods when the bahkauv’s jaw moved, unsticking his teeth from the meat of Stephan’s hand. Stephan’s jaw muscles worked with the effort to stay quiet, lest he frighten the bahkauv again. He drew his bitten hand close to his chest, and when he took the other off the bahkauv’s hair, Francis couldn’t help but notice the way their captive tensed, watching if the hand would strike. Stephan doubled over on his injured hand, finally able to staunch the bleeding. He hissed a string of curses under his breath, but made good on his promise of no retribution.

They must make sure that remained true, and that none of them do anything to break it. How else would they ever hope to gain their captive’s trust? And without trust there could be no humane method for control.

The bahkauv dropped the rest of the way to the ground, backpedaling several feet until he was pressed flat to the trunk of a spruce tree, ankles still bound to ensure he could not try to run again. He wiped the blood from his mouth with his wrist, almost as if unsure how it got there.

Arthur was already headed to the horses, where the muzzle was hanging on a branch alongside their bridles. He approached the base of the tree with it like a man about to lasso a rabid animal. But the bahkauv took it with the stoic compliance of a prisoner.

*

taglist

@paperprinxe @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds @handsinmotion @stormchaser819

@annablogsposts @clickerflight @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud @scoundrelwithboba, @blood-and-regrets

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Please tell me if you’d like to be on the list and I missed you. Some people asked while I was on a brief hiatus last month. :))

[shayandwildlifepack]

5th poem to post. Another dog & wolf related poem, lol. A lot of my poems are canine related cause of me being a canine kin [specifically wolfdog kin].

Tw/cw: biting mention, abuse hinted at(?), and I think that's all. Let me know if you find any tw/cw I didn't add that I need to.

- Zuki Shay Lupo (They/it/xe) [trying something new with my sign off thing on my poem posts]

Roll Over/Growl

I think that

I should roll over

And whine sorry

Over and over again

But instead I growl

I bare my teeth

And snap at you

I bite and growl

I should roll over

I should say sorry

I should be a good dog

A good wolf

But I'm not

I growl and bite

I'm a bad dog

A bad wolf

I should roll over

I growl and snap

I should whine sorry

I bare my teeth and bite

I'm sorry I'm not good

I bite even when

You try to help me

For I'm scared

I'm sorry I'm bad

I growl even when

You're kind for I don't

Know when you'll stop

[simonbrain]

godddd simon going home after an intense deployment and dumping all the violent details about his kills on his poor bird while he plays with her cunt, ignoring her miserable little whines for him to shut up because she's about to cum. or something

[xitsensunmoon]

How come moon has fur on his clothes? 👀

cw: implied death, minor blood

Familiar textures

[xazse]

Cw: A/b/o dynamics + Omegaverse + Alpha!Satoru x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Suguru + my Abo dynamics are different so sorry + mentions of anal + smut + knotting + crying + size difference + biting

If you’re meant to be Sugurus Omega that means you’re definitely Satoru’s, you don’t get a choice they’re a package deal, they can’t stand being away from one another so they went against everything that alphas stand for and bit each other: now fully intertwined with one another.

Suguru yearned for you, he knew he had to have you, those nights where he was ravishing Satoru and feeling something was missing, an itch he couldn’t scratch, he hated it, he hated how rough he’d get with Satoru even though the blue eyed man said he enjoyed it so much.

Knotting Satoru was something he loved but the thought of knotting your little cunt alone drove him mad, made him so hard he’d think about it all day, constantly having to go “adjust” himself.

When he finally had you, he went absolutely fucking mad, he couldn’t stop smelling you: you smelled like cookies and vanilla. He couldn’t stop licking your soft supple skin, your spongy cunt that he’d have to finger for a good while to get you ready.

And of course he’d have Satoru by his side just as thirsty for the sight of you, he’d be fondling your tits and giving you long drawn out kisses that you’re eager for, like a puppy.

There was no argument about who got to fuck your cunt first, that was always going to be Suguru, he was gonna be your first for your ass as well.

His leaky redden tip lined up with your awaiting slick hole, his counterpart distracted you with sweet words, Suguru couldn’t afford to be sweet right now, he slams his fat cock in one swift move, the whines that spill from you do nothing but egg him on. He pushes your legs toward yourself and the sound of skin meeting skin feels the room, he fucks your soppy pussy so messily, he’s been craving this for so fucking long, he’s constantly readjusting his long hair that he doesn’t bother to put up, your pussy is just the sweetest thing.

When his fat tip starts to swell inside of you, you’re crying into Satoru’s kiss, he knows it hurts, your first ever knot is always gonna hurt he tells you in a comforting tone.

You don’t know it but Satoru absolutely is obsessed with you also, you look so cute crying trying your best for them, trying your hardest to accept Suguru’s fat knot, youre small compared to them and he loves it.

When Suguru bites you, all you see it white, he isn’t surprised that you passed out, you’re gonna have to do it all over again when it’s Satoru’s turn.

[hawnks]

You're jealous. It makes you lash out, makes you meet Keigo with claws and teeth and cruel, irrational accusations.

You pack a bag after your last big blow up, shame dogging your every move. A week. Maybe a little more. However long it takes you to stop feeling like a monster, to rein in these dark impulses that have taken hold of you.

He stops you at the door with a firm grip around your arm. Looming over you, leaning down until he's in your space.

"Why?"

How can you even respond. Why? Isn't he angry with you? Doesn't he see how unreasonable you're being?

You tell him the truth. "I'm embarrassed, Keigo."

His hold on you tightens. "So you're running away?"

"I'm not--" You let out a long breath. "I just need to calm down. Get a hold of myself."

"You can do that here. At home."

You tug. He doesn't release you.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

His expression turns stormy.

"You want to keep secrets from me?" You can't even question this before he's continuing, eyes amber bright and sharp as he pulls you further into his space. "You don't want me to see you what --jealous? Don't I have a right to know? Don't I deserve to be with you for this? We're lovers, and you still want to hide pieces of yourself from me?"

Trembling, you let yourself be drawn back into the penthouse. You couldn't fight him even if you tried.

He sets you on the bed, so he can push you down, curl up on top of you, all around you. Caging you in.

"There," he says. "You're not going anywhere. Would it help if I told you about all the times I wanted to kill anyone who touches you? How about how I want to lock you up, forever and ever? I can show you the collar I picked out, if that would make you feel better." He leans up so he can nibble your ear, whisper, "Or you could put it on me, if you want."

[lets-ignore-that]

Hear me out

"Saturn eating his son" painting but bite of 83 /j

nom nom :)

[horny-marbles]

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

a/n: 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. Proffessional 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 right there .

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

Jack stands in the doorway, barechested 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 fucking 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 crescent shaped bite marks and bruises in the shape of unrestrained 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, 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.

“...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 too. 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 fucking 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 cuts in, 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 around the lump in your throat.

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 what if.

“...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 on the spot.

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 iss work.

Then he speaks. Voice low. Graveled. Careful.

“One last warning.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. Your gaze stays locked on him. It feels like he's watching 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, no smirk, no game. Just raw, desperate honesty, dragging out of him like it physically hurts to say it. Like his mind it battling between the need to warn and save himself the guilt - and the need to fuck and breed and devour.

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 try not to 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 shred through skin and muscle and tendon and bone without any effort.

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 and pointed and dragging - but not bitting. 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 by the time he bites - your lower lip, a clean tear that sounded like nosing into a summer peach - you were already breathless, enough to gasp silently and jerk back on instinct.

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 - slow and warning, but 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, cracked and raw and 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 take you in, your taste, your smell, your fucking essence thick in his nostrils like summer air, 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 bursts at the seams. 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, gums pressing into the immeidate swelling, and you yelp - half pain, half fucked-up thrill. 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 and clawed and not crafted for love, 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 what you're eyes are being flashbanged by.

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 - wail. Because it’s too much. Wet, hot, writhing pressure on every nerve all at once, wasting no time in easing you into this otherwordly genre of overhwelm, 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, precum 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 something barely resembling his name, just guttural syllables and sobs, because it’s so much. Too 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 with no warning. 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 shoving 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 like laundry, forcing 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 with quick snaps of his hips, deep enough to make the bed cry out lbeneath 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 animal whines 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.

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.

“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.”

"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.

Jack 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.