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The wood itself is something painful, yet not so much so that it renders him as breathless as he could’ve been - though much of the oxygen had been knocked from his lungs, it takes but a moment of pathetic wheezing to catch it back. Accursed lungs knew no better than the addiction of nicotine, coating it verily, and yet Philippe hadn’t so much as been afflicted from the effects of it until now.
Great. He’s stuck in the windowsill. How did he ever end up here? It was a simple plan at best and foolish at worst. Come his realization that Jack was likely waiting for crows, Philippe presumed that his plan (note: a plan to see his face to study it) was ill-timed for this match. He was injured. Jack had detention. He appeared to be in a particularly foul mood today, were the bleeding of others any indication of this. Really, the floor itself was slick with blood and more - he could’ve sworn he saw a finger or two.
A cough bursts from his lungs, and Philippe swallows the phlegm. He really ought to cut down on the cigarettes sometime.
He can hear the hum. Were it not for the broken pieces of wood misshapen and splintered by his knees (which had woefully sunk further into the muddied ground of China town), Philippe might’ve just thought this was a one-off incident of a windowsill gone wrong.
(Absentmindedly he wonders, hadn’t he heard of a young boy being decapitated by such before?)
(Was this going to break his spine? Surely not? Then again, children have bendier bones, and if a windowsill was enough to—)
(Ah, perish the thought.)
It grows louder, and there’s a visceral sense of urgency to free himself. His back ached, it was sure to bruise, and there was an impending serial killing on his waltz towards him. The walkie talkie crackles to life, and for a moment does he ponder asking for help - until the arrogance of not needing it chokes the request dead in his throat. They were all dead, anyways. Their souls to be returned to the manor and for them all to argue with one another on ‘who did what wrong’ before inevitably getting over it by dinnertime.
Philippe can do this. He can free himself.
Hands scrape themselves on the wall in front of him, palming themselves up against the wood in an attempt to reach the sill. Eventually does he get it, forcing a space between his torso and wood through force alone. The tip of his worn fingers whiten - as does his own features when he hears such a candid voice.
“Philippe? Oh, Philippe. What a mess.”
And for a moment, Philippe waits for the impact. Of claws digging through his back, pushing through vertebrae and separating each and every fiber anchored to his body.
“Don’t,” Philippe almost vehemently spits. It comes out as tense. Cautious. As if reasoning was some probability Jack would heed call to - like a dog. “Don’t you dare.”
He’s not sure what he’s demanding.
“Waiting by the gate…” It’s spoken like Jack is chastising him. He is, probably. Like a disappointed parent. “I overheard your little plan. To try and see my face, no?”
Philippe freezes. Ah. Well, he was not the most liked on his team. They forget the importance of his research, they present it not a smidgen of respect. What does it matter? One of the rats let it slip, he presumes, in exchange for an escape. Not that it matters, as Jack had undeniably gotten the three kills he needed to secure the win. He savors them, that much is true, as each length of match had gone unbearably long.
“I can grant you it. Truly, it would be a pleasure.”
Ah. Here comes the catch.
“But I would like something in return.” Fingers stroke down his back, hiking up dress shirt ever so slightly. “You know, good things in life are never free.”
A clawed finger divots across his jeans, ass-crack and all, before slipping itself by the fabric of his crotch. Slowly does he undo but a singular stitch. “You can choose to deny it, of course.”
Philippe could get this information any other way. What a joke. “Then I deny it,” he almost spits. “What do you take me for? Desperate?”
“I’ve decided you no longer have any room to refuse,” Jack says. “My apologies. You understand, don’t you?” A hole forms in his jeans now, the glint of metal toying with his panties. Philippe almost instinctively closes his legs, as if to protect himself from impending mutilation, but he’d rather his thighs not be sliced to ribbons.
“Hunters are so stressed all the time…” Pulling his fingers cleanly, he undoes the lining of denim across his crotch, pulling apart the fine cotton of his underwear in doing so. “We’ve no room to relax. I heard survivors have some form of camaraderie. The manor has said I am free to seek it elsewhere.”
Jack grabs his legs. “I have decided I’ll find it in the cheapest whore I know.”
“Surrender,” Philippe murmurs through grit teeth. As if the walkie-talkie across from him could hear him. Could pick up his command and end the match. He must have dropped it in the rush, alongside his carving knife. The sole two items that could have helped him in this situation. “I have to…”
Legs spread, and Philippe cannot help but wince when he feels the cool fog graze itself against his pussy.
“Further now,” Jack murmurs, hand gliding itself down the curvature of his spine. “How badly do you want this?”
Badly. So badly. This was his only chance, and yet truth be told, Philippe hadn’t felt more humiliated in his life. “There has to be some other way,” comes an almost pathetic sputter, feeling Jack gently trail blades down to the cusp of his ass. “My team. I can tell you where they are. Lead you to them, even. In the next match we share.”
Yet, bartering was of no use. With great force does Jack separate his legs with the sheer sliding of his own foot, messy and muddied boots. It’s an odd sensation, to feel his outer lips slowly push themselves apart and expose in tribute of an undeserving man.
He feels a finger gently tug on his bush, before twinging the dampened fibers of his slit underwear between thumb and forefinger. “You can’t be wet this quickly. Surely,” Jack hummed, massaging himself ever so gently along the wet plush of his insides. “Oh… I know…”
It feels good. The coldness of long fingers, dexterous and fine, teasing him. His body revolts against him, legs splitting further apart as he grinds his wet against Jack - forcing his finger into the pink of his clit and coating it thoroughly. Fuck.
Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Women like you have that special little stage, don’t you? You know, before all that reprehensible blood that spews from your cunt,” Jack withdraws his fingers, and presses it through the window. Across gloved hands and pallid flesh is spotting of blood. “Where you’re most fertile. No?”
It’s the know-it-all in Philippe that wants to correct him. Ovulation, you idiot, is what he avoids saying.
Philippe almost lunges to bite at him, pert nipples tender and needing crushing against his weight on the wood - causing him to withdraw teeth and maw in pain. It had been so long since he even had time to masturbate, more or less give into what his ovulation demands. Loathe he be to admit it, his body needed to be fucked. He needed to be pulled apart and used like a hole, to be groped and pinched, to push milk from wanting nipples. He may not have wanted it. But his body did.
“From the women I had such fun with,” spare hand presses itself against abdomen, dancing against sweat-soaked flesh. “Your uterus is much puffier during this time. Your cervix is more slippery, too. Wouldn’t you fancy being the first knocked up survivor in the manor? All of this to touch my face…”
“I take it back,” Philippe kicks, foot meeting the knee of Jack and causing him to stagger forward, hands resting against upper wall. His head was clouded, and his body almost at a fever pitch. His carving knife was too far away, and it’s not as if he could do anything to reach him. All he could do was kick, like a wild animal, rendered defenseless like predator onto prey. It’s panic-inducing at worst, and nauseating at best. “Kill me. Hurry up. Just bleed me out already.”
At that, Jack coils his hair around his fist, yanking it backwards. “Useless slut,” and suddenly, the civility in his voice is gone. “What more can you do for me except for be a hole? You’re lucky I’m even using this worn out thing.”
“Throw away the match already!” Philippe barks, spit unceremoniously sputtering from gaping maw and coiling itself against his chin before staggering itself onto ground. He was panicking now. Badly. “If you refuse to kill me, then I’ll do it myself.”
There’s a white hot alarm pulsing through his veins, riddling tongue with a metallic taste of horror. Mind over matter, mind over matter, it is a mantra he repeats himself. He hadn’t been fucked before, and he wasn’t going to let his first time be here. It’s meant to be romantic. On a wedding night. Done with his lover, in their bed, with roses and candles and—
Not here! Not bare-assed, covered in mud and sweat, for the sake of a favor!
Hands grow slicker with sweat. Clammy, too, rigid in how he finds it harder and harder to unfurl them. It dawns on him - it had been some hours since he last ate. Whatever it is that the manor puts in the food ought to be wearing off, were the walls of China Town melting ever so slightly an indication of that. Philippe shakes it off. He has to move quickly. He has to see his face before the inevitable.
(“You pass out,” he recalls Emily telling him once. “It’s to keep us from thinking about it too hard…” She continued. Something something the manor owner was rather adept in who he employed for his drugs. His forced dependencies.)
(“But why do you stay?” She would always ask, at Philippe’s persistent refusal to eat in some futile attempt to steel his addictions. The answer was quite simple. If the manor attracted all kinds of criminals, then what better fly trap could ever exist for Philippe to add to his exhibit?)
(He can kick it any time he wants.)
“Then scream,” Jack laughs, airy and carefree, forcing two digits into the wet of his cunt. Scissoring him open, stretching, pushing and prodding. Eventually he withdraws, cupping his pussy with his hand, before gently rubbing the hood of his fat outer lips mockingly. “There are still servants lurking about. Ensuring everything in a game runs well. Scream for help, and I’ll let you go.”
Nobody would help, obviously. It’s nothing more than a power play. Philippe feels his blood boiling.
There’s spittle lining his teeth now, and Philippe can’t help but squeeze his legs together. In defiance of the intrusion, of course, but it only pushes his clit harder against the intruders hand. Slowly does he let out a shaky breath, the wet sounds of slapping starting to weigh deeper on shrouded mind. “I… and let them see me like this?” He gasps, eyes forcing themselves shut before he pulls them open physically with his hands. It felt good. He was so sensitive he needed this. Was it so bad to let himself just have this? Surely… “I can’t. I won’t. I’ll— I’ll do it myself!”
Fingers were drawn raw from the scraping, in a meandering attempt to pull himself towards his knife. The artery located within his throat would kill him instantly, enough to save him from the loss of his virginity and the humiliation of his teammates seeing him fucked raw against the windowsill in the postmatch. Yet it was just so barely out of reach, his arm shaking vehemently from exertion (or was it pleasure?).
“It wouldn’t stop me, poppet,” Jack pauses, before yanking down against his hair once more as a means to pull him backwards from the knife. It lets out something mortifying of a whimper from the depths of Philippe’s chest, his breasts staggering against the windowsill as his body juts backwards. Almost in continuation of his misery do the buttons of his blouse pop off, the plump of his breasts spilling from disheveled and misshapen bra. “I do prefer my bodies warm, however.”
“Afford me some dignity!” Philippe clutches at his own breasts, tearing head forward as strands of black break apart from Jack’s fingers. The burn was excructiating, and yet, sent nothing but heat down to his needing pussy all the more. “You—“
It’s aggressive, how Jack forces himself inside the folds of his pussy, cock nestled against labia as he slowly rocks himself back and forth.
His dick is something strange. Misshapen. Thin, unappealingly so, and horrifically long. The head is far too slanted, and the protruding blue veins wrap about it in a revolting manner. Far too many. Like vines coiling around a branch.
Fuck, that felt good. Isn’t Jack lucky he must have a penchant for pathetic cocks?
“Ngh…” Philippe cannot help but pant, jagged and wanting, back arching in blatant rust as he ruts his hips hard onto the mans cock. With every twitch of his cock can he feel Jack harden, as if his submission was a greater turn on than the intrusion of his unwanted dick. “Oh… God…”
It’s… well, a mewl. He mewls, and try as he might to bite his lip, he notices how good it feels for his perk nipple to get caught ever so slightly on his own fingers. “F…Fuck, get out…”
He doesn’t sound very wanting.
“Oh, I knew every cheap woman just needed a good cock to calm her down…” Jack relinquishes his grip, continuing to jut himself back and forth, precum coating the hood of Philippes wet pussy. His dick was thoroughly coated now, differentiating every push and pull between slow and hard to fast and light. Philippe feels the spill of hot and wet from his tip, and it’s borderline primal how badly he needs that to coat his insides. “I’m sorry, Philippe. You’re such a good girl. I shouldn’t have threatened you.”
It’s all false promises. It’s all mock pity.
Philippe’s thighs are shaking now, coated in himself and Jack, barely capable of keeping him standing. He— the knife, he has to…
At that, Jack presses into him, deep and hard in one fell blow.
It hurts. It hurts so badly that Philippe almost throws up from shock, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. “Jack,” he whimpers. His virginity was gone. There’s no point now. There would be no wedding day, no beautiful roses. But he wants to pretend. He wants to act like he’s not getting mercilessly fucked against a window against his own accord. If he has to remember this, let it be ever so slightly shrouded in the beauty of rose-tinted glasses. “Your face.”
Tears bead from his eyes, and he’s not sure why. Philippe feels them roll down his face and slip into his lips, hot and salty, and all he can do is take the plowing of his dick.
“Mm? Oh, right. That,” Jack’s voice is more haggard now, but he pulls out. Philippe feels empty. As if some integral part of him had been lost, and he yearns for the return - his own breath hitches as globs of both himself and his intruder intermixed scoop from his hole and pool on the ground, layered with the spotting from his period. “Turn around. Be obedient.”
Jack lifts the window, hand firmly on Philippe’s hair once more if he tries to run. There was no use preserving his identity, Philippe reasons. He’s no stranger to the unholy amount of drugs he must be on to hallucinate the hunters as something different. But a fleeting dream is a dream nonetheless, and one he would surely achieve regardless of his budding sobriety or not.
“Spread your legs when you get on your back,” Jack adds. “Be a good girl.”
Philippe abides, hands outstretched and reaching towards his mask. Of course he feels Jack slip back into him, thrusting forward with a harsh grunt. Slowly does he begin to unclip it, pulling leather straps from their hinges.
But he feels something - like a cord snapping, almost, as if it had been thrusted so deeply that it forced itself past what should not be entered. What a horror it was, to see the protrusion in his own stomach.
“Tight,” Jack huffs. “I’m not used to feeling the uterus inside of the body. I don’t quite know if I like it this way, but… I suppose you’ll do.”
A tender hand strokes Philippe’s face, which had grown pallid and almost distant in how he gazes at him. “What a nice mother you’d make. Though, in all your postpartums, I feel like you’d drown the damnable thing… you’ve a screw loose or two.”
He laughs. Philippe laughs. Jack laughs. A heartwarming moment! Jovial, even! Quietly does Philippe snicker, before an uproar of something hearty - sheer shock and disbelief. The drugs must be something else, alright. There was not a chance this was actually happening. The drool slicking down his jaw and the ever so slight spin of his gaze was enough to indicate it. Withdrawals.
Ah, Jack must be so funny!
Jack pays it no heed, carelessly pushing himself in and out in pursuit of his own pleasure. Philippe can feel his body grow cold, sheen with sweat and tremor, as if his own mouth were betraying him with the cotton that blooms amidst blood and bile.
He just has to reach out and grab it. Philippe’s so focused, it’s as if Jack could break him in two and Philippe wouldn’t pay it any mind.
“Wouldn’t you like that?” Jack whispers. Philippe feels something wet. Warm, gushing into him, lapping against wall and ridge. “To be filled with me. Knocked up. A miserable thing that can hardly care for himself caring for something smaller.”
The thought of it is almost enough to push him over the edge - to harbor a child, in all his arousal, may just be the most sickening means of achieving a dream of a family.
Jack pulls out with a wet slap. The knot growing in Philippe’s stomach falls loose - and the heat of his clit remains. “Well, I suppose you’re wanting me to ask if you finished?” Jack says. “I’m sorry. I don’t particularly care to as— hmmm…”
Philippe is still reaching. But his vision darkens, and there’s not quite much he can do beyond stare at such an expressionless mask.
“Aah. Dependent on those fun little vials, I see… a good girl who needs her second dose,” Jack gently dances his fingers down his arm, and yet it remains arched in the air. “They do keep you drugged up quite nicely. Is that why you’ve been so nicely compliant with me?”
Philippe can feel his head clouding before he knows it.
As if it’s a mercy, he removes his mask. Half-lidded eyes cannot make out what is beyond it, darkened hues narrowing his vision. As if in a half-forced effort does Philippe attempt to strain himself to see it, simply pushing cum out of his pussy in the process.
“Disgusting,” Jack murmurs, voice distant and echoing. “Well, we’ve both had our end of the bargain. You’ve grown fairly cheap to me now. Keep it tight and I’ll consider this again.”
No. No!
Philippe attempts to speak, but his dry mouth stalls his complaints.
“But it’s never as tight as the first time…” Jack sounds almost upset with himself. “I’ll add a few stitches next time… be good until then.”
Tongue clatters against teeth, and barely does he manage. “No— wait a moment,” Philippe heaves. “I can’t—“
“I won’t kill you. It’ll just get rid of all that hard work in there,” finger pinches the mess mopping from his cunt, sliding a creamy finger against Philippe’s outer lips. “Best to let it grow a little.”
“See your mask—“
[ THE HUNTER HAS SURRENDERED ! ]