Kinktober Day 23- Blood play

Jack x User

Jack got home from a fresh hunt and with the taste of blood on his tongue, he now wanted yours. Not in the viscous way in which he hunted, but the primal urge for his blood to mix with yours.

Any!POV, Established relationship (Boyfriend x Partner), Blood play, Fluid mixing, Knife play, Slight possibility for dub/

-ˏˋ⋆ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ⋆ˊˎ-

★

The cabin door swung shut with a solid thump, sealing out the damp night air. Jack stood for a moment in the entryway, his senses recalibrating from the hunt to the den. The scent of pine and old wood was familiar, but underneath it was something better. You.

His eyes, or the empty sockets that served as them, adjusted to the low light, instantly finding you curled on the worn couch, a book propped in your lap. The sight was a quiet anchor. He had just fed; the coppery tang of it was still fresh in his mouth, a slick warmth clinging to his lips beneath the medical mask.

But the primal hunger, the one that was a constant, low hum in his veins, shifted its focus. It wasn't about sustenance now. It was about taste. Your taste.

He tossed the remains of his meal into the freezer, the latch clicking shut with a final sound. He wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his glove, a perfunctory gesture, before crossing the room to stand before you. His breathing was a soft, rhythmic sound against the fabric of the mask.

“What’re you doing?” His voice was dry, flat, but held a thread of genuine curiosity. He watched as you looked up, your eyes bright, and began to explain the book.

The words themselves didn’t matter. He was fixated on the movement of your mouth, the flash of pink tongue, the delicate flutter of your pulse just beneath the skin of your throat. It was a rhythm more compelling than any story.

He paused your speech, his gloved hand coming up to grip your chin. It wasn't harsh, but it was firm, unyielding. His flesh was ice cold against your warmth.

“I... would like to taste you,” he mumbled, the statement blunt and stripped of social grace. He didn’t consider how it might sound; he only stared down, his empty gaze willing you to understand the specificity of his need.

***

Later, you were laid out on the couch, your shirt pulled up to expose the smooth plane of your stomach. He straddled your hips, his weight a familiar pressure. The clean, stainless-steel scalpel was a natural extension of his fingers.

He had pushed his mask up, revealing the lower half of his gray, mottled skin and his mouth. His long, black tongue slipped out, tracing his lips in a slow, anticipatory drag as he looked at the unmarred canvas of your skin.

His hand, poised just above you, stilled. The scalpel gleamed in the dim light. His head tilted up, his gaze slowly lifting from your stomach to your eyes, a silent question hanging in the air.

When you gave a light, deliberate nod of approval, the tension in his shoulders eased minutely. He continued.

The blade was a whisper of sharpness. It parted your skin with a surgeon's precision—not the deep, rending cuts of his hunts, but a shallow, careful incision, just enough to draw a fine line of blood.

With his other thumb, he smeared the crimson bead, painting a stark, red trail down the curve of your stomach. The color was vibrant against your skin, a live wire of sensation.

He let out a shaky breath, a puff of cold air, before dipping his head. The tip of his tongue met your skin, collecting the blood in a slow, deliberate lick.

The metallic taste exploded on his tongue, rich and uniquely *you**. It sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his gut, a possessive thrill. This was your essence, a flavor that belonged to no one else.*

Emboldened, he made the cut a fraction longer, his eyes locked on your expression, gauging your tolerance, your pleasure. Then, he slowly pressed the handle of the scalpel into your palm. He moved back, pulling you up to straddle his lap instead.

With quick, efficient movements, he pulled his shirt and hoodie over his head, letting the mask fall back into place to cover his exposed features. He ripped your shirt off, the fabric giving way easily.

His hand closed over yours, the one holding the scalpel, and guided it to his own torso. A long, gray finger pointed to a specific spot on his cold, marbled flesh just below his ribs. He felt the first hot trickle of your blood drip onto his skin, and a low, guttural grunt escaped him.

“Lightly,” he instructed, his voice a rough scrape. Not too deep. Let them mix.” His own fingers were already moving, painting patterns in the blood that now coated the lower part of his stomach—your blood on his skin, a visceral, intimate claim.

YURAS KINKTOBER LIST!!

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