#splatbox

Hey so I graduated :]

“To clean what out?” Jasper interrupted, his voice edged with frustration. “We’re not just talking about antiseptic here; we need antibiotics. And those aren’t exactly growing on trees.”

You frown softly, watching Jasper as he walked about, “Whatever— Whatever! I’m going out,” You don’t bother asking where he’d be going as he heads out, the dogs following suit and effectively leaving you alone.

You hope it’s a successful hunt, you’re not sure how much longer you can deal with him fucking with the gash before you die of a infection simply because he needed an outlet for his frustration.

The door creaked shut behind Jasper, leaving you in the oppressive stillness that enveloped the small cabin. You let out a shaky breath and shifted your weight, trying to find a position that didn’t send sharp pains radiating through your arm. The light from the window filtered through the grime, casting muted shadows over the cluttered space—you wonder when was the last time he actually cleaned the place.

With a sigh, you glanced around for something to occupy your mind. The small table was littered with remnants of meals long gone— hunting knives taken better care of than you were. If you could still walk, or at the very least crawl, you’d grab one and bleed yourself out all it’d take was a swift slice across the neck.

Just one quick movement and you’d be free of this waking nightmare.

Instead, you rested your head against the splintered wood of the wall, closing your eyes in an attempt to find comfort in the oppressive silence.

You’re attacked by a different putrid smell when you wake up for once— Unlike the usual odor of sweat and grime that fills the cabin, the overpowering stench of copper and metal fills your nostrils, making you gag.

Your fingers grasp at the broken wood beneath you, feeling the rough splinters dig into your skin as you try to push yourself upright. Heart racing as you scan the dim room for the source.

“Jasper?” you call out, attempting to mask the tremor in your voice. Silence greets you, thick and suffocating. A sense of dread pools in your stomach as you strain to listen for any sound—any sign that could explain the sudden shift in air.

The door swings open moments later, and Jasper strides in, his hands slick with grime and ichor. His face is a mask of triumph, eyes alight with a manic gleam that makes you sick. “What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He wipes his hands on his pants, really only succeeding in spreading the mess further.

Your mouth feels dry as you force yourself to speak. “What did you do?”

He steps closer, the scent of blood now overwhelming. “Just gutting something,” he says with a casualness that makes your skin crawl. “It’s pretty... interesting.” He pauses, pouting when you didn’t share his enthusiasm, but it’s quickly replaced by that familiar smile “Well, more interesting that pathetic excuse for meat we’ve been gnawing on.”

You don’t call him out on the fact that the ‘pathetic excuse for meat’ was literally your blood and other scraps he’d occasionally feed you.

“Jasper, please, just tell me what it is.”

“Why spoil the surprise?” He grins widely, the look reminding you of how a dog would bare its teeth. “It’s fresh. Didn’t even have to chase it down this time.”

You swallow hard, nausea twisting your stomach as visions of horror play in your mind. Instinctively, you recoil a bit, pressing your back against the wall as he approaches closer, you can smell his own sweat through the scent of blood, its familiarity only serving to worsen your pani . “You didn’t—”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone you’d miss.”

You can barely focus on his words, heart pounding as dread envelops you like a shroud. “You’re insane,” you whisper.

"Probably," he replied easily, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, clearly unfazed by your response. ”But let's not forget who's been keeping you fed and alive all this time. A little gratitude wouldn't hurt." You can tell he’s challenging you, daring you to argue or deny the truth in his words. Truthfully the only argument that comes to mind was that you’d rather he kill you now than prolong your suffering.

Content with your silence he crouches down to eye level, “Hows your arm? Didn’t magically heal when I was gone?”

You shake your head slowly, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s worse. I think... I think it’s festering.”

His eyes narrow, that manic gleam flickering momentarily before it settles into something darker, more menacing. “Festering? That sounds rather dramatic, don’t you think?” He tilts his head, contemplating you as if you were an odd specimen under a microscope. “Maybe I should take a look at it.”

“No,” you say quickly, instinctively pulling your arm closer to your chest, cradling it like a fragile bird. “I don’t need you to touch it again.” The memory of his hands digging into the wound is fresh in your mind, each probing finger like a knife twisting deeper into the flesh.

His grin falters, just a fraction, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine. “Oh, come on! Don’t be such a baby. We wouldn’t want that little infection getting too comfortable now, would we?” Being near him is enough to get an infection, you think, wondering how it’s only now that the things gotten filthy when nobody in this fucked up cabin has had a shower in weeks— With the exception of the dogs, they’re the cleanest living thing here.

Jasper inches closer, his eyes gleaming with a curiosity that makes your skin crawl. You shift against the wall, trying to create some space between you, but it’s futile—he’s already too close for comfort, nothing but blood and sweat, it takes genuine effort to not gag.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks mockingly, arching an eyebrow. “I’m only trying to help you. After all, what’s a little pain compared to the sweet relief of not being infected anymore?”

“You’re the reason it’s infected in the first place.”

His expression shifts, a flicker of something cold crossing his features. “That’s a rather unfair accusation,” he replies, feigning hurt. “I’m just trying to keep you alive and well-fed. Remember? It’s a two-way street.”

You shudder at his words, the implications dripping with sarcasm as if he takes genuine pleasure in your suffering. “You’re not helping.”

“Not helping?” He stands abruptly, his sudden frustration making you tense up for a moment “I’m the only one keeping you alive! You think that infection is going to magically vanish while you cower back there? It needs attention—my attention.” He gestures wildly, hands moving through the air as if trying to physically grab your resolve and shake it loose.

You'd rather he kill you, but instead you bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the sharp sting of your teeth against the tender flesh. Your gaze remains lowered to the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice surprisingly calm despite his earlier frustration. There's an undercurrent of excitement in his tone that sends shivers down your spine. Reluctantly, you raise your head and meet his gaze, “I’m the one who decides whether you live or die, remember?” He takes a step closer, invading your personal space again, the sharp scent of blood heavy in the air.

“I could’ve killed you— I should’ve killed you honestly, but I didn’t. I chose to keep you here, to keep you alive.” His boot, filthy and covered in a disgusting mixture of dried blood and dirt and what other vile grime is pressing heavily onto your chest.

“You’re a dog to me.”

You feel your heart drop at his words, the metaphor settling over you like a suffocating blanket. A dog—a mere possession to him, a plaything to be tossed aside when he grew tired of it. You swallow hard, pushing against the wall to regain some semblance of distance from the boot pressing against your chest.

His boot presses harder, the weight of it forcing the air from your lungs. You gasp, clawing at his leg, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes are locked on yours, that cold, calculating gleam still there. “A dog,” he repeats, his voice low and deliberate. “You bark when I tell you to bark. You eat what I give you. You don’t get to question me.”

Your vision blurs as the pressure on your chest intensifies. The pain in your arm flares, sharp and burning, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight of his boot. You try to speak, to plead, but all that comes out is a strangled wheeze.

"Good," he says with a satisfied tone, the sound dripping like thick honey from his voice as he finally lifts his foot. You collapse against the wall, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

"Okay... Right, got distracted there-" He sighs, running a hand through his greasy hair. You cringe internally as you watch the mats of blood get stuck in the fluffy-ish strands, making it resemble a tangled mess of brown and red.

Jasper crouches down again, his knees popping as he settles into a squat. His eyes are locked on your arm, now clutched tightly to your chest. You can see the way his gaze lingers, not with concern, but with something far more unsettling—curiosity, maybe even hunger.

“Let me see it,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. He extends a hand toward you, fingers twitching slightly as if they’re itching to grab hold. “I’m not asking.”

You shake your head again, pressing your arm closer to your body. “No. I don’t want you touching it, you’re just gonna make the infection worse.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might snap. But then he smiles, that awful, toothy grin that makes your skin crawl. “Oh, come on,” he croons, leaning in unbearably closer.

“You’re acting like I’m some kind of disease.” You want to tell him that he is. “But I’m not the one letting an infection fester. That’s all you, sweetheart.” His hand darts out, faster than you can react, and his fingers clamp around your wrist. You gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip is iron.

“Let go!” you snap, your voice cracking under the strain of fear and pain.

He doesn’t. Instead, he yanks your arm forward, ignoring your cry as the movement jostles the infected wound. His eyes light up as he examines it, tilting his head like a predator sizing up its prey. “Oh, that’s nasty,” he says with a chuckle that makes you want to vomit. “Look at that—red, swollen, oozing… That gauze really isn’t doing much for you, huh?”

His fingers tighten around your wrist, his grip cold and unyielding as he pulls the bandage away from the wound. The fabric sticks to the raw, inflamed skin, and you hiss through clenched teeth, trying not to scream as it tears free, ripping away dead skin in thick wet, chunks. Jasper clicks his tongue like a disapproving parent, though the amusement in his eyes betrays him.

“See? This is what happens when you don’t let me take care of you,” he says, leaning in closer to inspect the mess of pus and blood. He wrinkles his nose slightly but doesn’t pull away. “You’re lucky I’m such a patient man. Most people would’ve left you to rot by now.”

You grit your teeth, biting back the retort that bubbles up in your throat. Arguing with him is pointless—he thrives on it, feeds off the fear and frustration he can coax out of you. Instead, you focus on breathing, trying to ignore the way his fingers probe the edges of the wound, sending sharp jolts of pain radiating up your arm. You bite down on your tongue, trying to keep quiet, but a small whimper escapes anyway.

Jasper’s grin widens at the sound, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Aw, does it hurt?” he coos, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make it all better.”

Before you can react, he leans in and licks a stripe up the length of your arm, his tongue warm and wet against your inflamed flesh. You gagged at the sight, twisting hard enough that the pain snapped white behind your eyes.

Jasper laughed, pulling back to study your face, that sick excitement radiating in the way his mouth twitched at the corners. “That’s the stuff,” he murmured, licking his lips. “See? You barely even screamed.”

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, bile burning at the back of your throat. It was all you could do not to be sick, though you knew if you vomited, Jasper would only delight in it—maybe even force you to eat it again, like the last time he’d decided to “train” you.

"Fuck, you taste disgusting," Jasper mused, not unkindly somehow, his tongue lolling a little between his teeth, “like brine and rotting mushrooms. We gotta get you on a better diet, you know that?”

He peeled away the rest of the gauze, hoisting your arm up at an awkward angle as if showing off a prized catch. The wound looked even worse than it felt—flesh a sick glossy pink, the center womanly and wet, a ring of yellow pus weeping from the edge. Fuck. You wanted to close your eyes against the sight, but you didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.

“God, look at that… We may actually have to chop this one off if it doesn't get better soon.” Jasper let the arm dangle in his grip, rotating it for a better look. “You know… from this angle it kind of…” He trails off, but you can practically see the thought develop in his head— Breathing growing more erratic with each exhale.

“Hey sweetie,” He drawled, letting your arm drop but only to hook his thumb through his pants belt loop, “—Not that your opinion matters to me, but… I've been working hard. Right? Keeping your ungrateful ass alive, hunting, y'know, doing shit. But you haven't really been… pulling your weight, lately.” Jasper took a half-step closer, swinging your arm lightly for emphasis, fingers pressed hard into the bone above the wound. “I mean. If you’re just going to sit here and rot, I could always—” the rest of his words faded into hungry silence, but his gaze flicked to your face, then to your neck, and then to your arm again.

The message was clear enough.

"But I don't—”

“Buh-buh but I don't wanna,” He mocked in a shrill voice, “You don't have to shit, just sit there and look pretty while I do everything like usual.”

“You're gonna get it infected—”

Jasper only offered a scoff, already undoing his pants “Like it isn't that bad already, do you seriously think I could make it worse?” The pop of his zipper was humiliatingly loud in the hush of the little cabin. “Just… sit there and let me use you, unless you'd rather I fuck that hole between your legs?”

You hated that you genuinely didn't know which one you prefer less. Everything was agony already. You settled on the emptier option, squeezing your eyes shut, shrinking inside your own skin as Jasper maneuvered your arm, his thumb pressing into the bend of your elbow, fingers digging so hard at your bicep you thought they might snap through the bone.

Something cold and wet pressed against your wrist. You peeked, nauseated, to see the head of his cock mashed up against the open wound, his knuckles white on your arm. The pain was electric—beyond anything you’d known, worse than the break itself, worse than the time he stitched the slits in your stomach with no sedative except his own saliva. You bit down on your lip, tasting blood.

It's weird how pain receptors work when you aren't looking— Just a moment ago, the gash in your arm only throbbed dully, the cool yet somehow warm sensation of him pressing up against it was almost refreshing if anything. But it's like the second your brain registered the sight, the nerve endings surged into life, raw and blinding. The pain burned up your arm and into your jaw, the entire limb metamorphosing into one single hideous nerve.

Jasper wedged his hips closer, the rigid head of his cock poking into the weeping wound and slipping just inside with a sick, wet pop. He groaned, loud and obscene, as your arm convulsed helplessly in his grip. That was the worst part—the way the fresh agony sent your hand spasming open and shut, the muscle memory of a limb that used to belong to a whole person.

You could hear him breathing, uneven and hot, the way he sometimes did when watching you struggle with a mouthful of skin gristle or while stitching a fresh bite out of your calf. His breath stank of iron and old onions, sweet and putrid at the same time.

You could hear yourself too, you think it's you at least, the high pitched, shrill shrieking and shredded meat in a garbage disposal, high and animal and muted by his own hand clamped over your jaw. The taste of his palm registered in your mouth, old pennies and pilfered salt. You clawed at the floor, at the seams of his pants, anything, but the torque in his grip wouldn't let you wriggle even an inch away.

“Fuck,” Jasper moaned, rhythm picking up, each thrust shaking your fucking teeth loose. “God, you feel it? Tell me you feel it.” He mashed your wound wider with every movement, pistoning into the ruined flesh, infection sluicing down his shaft and pooling in the cup of his palm.

You wanted to black out. You wanted to float up above your body and never come back. But the pain kept you tethered and present, every nerve alive with static and heat, the memory of what you once were rewiring itself into a single loop: don’t pass out, don’t piss yourself, stop crying, please god just put me out my misery.

You think you hear yourself begging, something along the lines of “Stop, stop, please just—” but even your own cries sounded shallow, chewed-up by the splintering ache and the pressure at your jaw. The pain blurred everything else: the way time dilated between thrusts, the blinding spots that shaved the world down to a dull clamor somewhere inside your teeth. The hot pulse of his cock shoved into your wound over and over. You tried counting each time, lost track after a dozen, couldn’t tell if he went any deeper or if your brain just finally let go of keeping score.

Your arm was numb after the next barrage, or maybe it just left pain behind altogether, a negative where something used to be. Jasper rode that absence with ugly, animal pleasure, making hoarse noises into your hair as he pressed your face into the crook of his arm. Eventually, his hand let go of your mouth, and you hiccuped in a lungful of bloody, oxygen-starved air. He didn’t miss the opportunity to smash his lips against yours, the awkward angle forcing your neck to bend up.

He's gonna kill you, he's actually going to fucking kill you like this. There was no other explanation for the way his body weighed you down, for the black-and-white pinpricks fizzing at the corners of your vision like TV static after midnight. You could taste blood and saliva and your own dirty skin, feel your arm rip apart with each ragged, obsessive rut, but nothing else in the world existed except for the hot, swollen ache and Jasper’s hot breath in your ear.

“Almost, almost, come on, keep it open for me,” and there was a dense sound like walking through puddles, and heat flushed all the way up to the socket of your shoulder, and all you could do was let out a stringy kind of moan that wasn’t even a real word.

He made a sound at that, a kind of hungry, greedy whine, mouthed sloppily at your jaw, then finally released a shuddering gasp and stilled himself, cock jammed so deep into the ragged wound it felt like he’d hooked your entire arm from the inside out. You could feel wet heat leaking into the infected tissue, seeping into muscle and searing up the bone, and the idea—the fucking idea—of carrying part of him inside your infection was almost enough to finally tip you into unconsciousness.

He shuddered again, panting softly, he didn't pull out, seemingly content to wring out every last drop of pleasure he can from your mangled arm. Finally, fucking finally, he finally loosened his grip, sliding out with a sick slurp. For a moment, you watched his cock—shiny with pus and blood—dangle between his legs, a thin trail of your infection stretching from the torn meat of your arm to the pulsating tip. Jasper grinned at you, some mixture of delight and disgust flickering in his eyes.

You wanted to retch. Instead you pulled your arm back, clutching it against yourself, the feel of hot, sticky fluid now seeping deep into every exposed layer of flesh. Nausea swept through you, clattering in your stomach, your mouth so dry you couldn’t even spit the taste of him out.

“You’re a mess,” he said, voice shaky with satisfaction. He stared at your arm, then at the drool and snot leaking down your chin. He thumbed your cheek, surprisingly gentle, and for a moment you thought he’d say something soft, like a real apology. Instead: “You made me finish too fast. See? That’s what happens when you don’t behave.”

You only whimper at that, this sad, pathetic animalistic whine that makes his eyes widen with glee. “Almost—” He swallowed thickly, the hand previously on your cheek sliding to the top of your head “ Almost done, ‘kay? Fucking… just clean me off and don’t bite,” he said, giving your scalp a warning squeeze.

You could hardly move your jaw, let alone work up the energy to disobey. He fisted your hair at the root and dragged your head down, his cock still tacky with gore and grayish ooze. The hot, sharp tang of infection punched the back of your throat before the salty smear of come made your stomach churn in earnest. Jasper painted your tongue with a few lazy strokes, humming with pleasure as you sucked the pus off his shaft, your lips closing on autopilot because anything else would just get you hit.

“I knew you could be a good pet,” he said, exhaling through his teeth. “That’s the spirit. Even with one foot in the fucking grave, you’re still useful, aren’t you?”

He's lucky you don't puke all over his dick, your mind too fogged up from the pain still seizing your arm to make any real conscious decisions other than to whimper. The tang of pus and sweat and your own blood was overwhelming, coating your tongue in a disgustingly thick coating that made you want to scrub your mouth out with bleach.

You made sure to do it carefully and slowly, not wanting to give him another reason to play with you longer. The taste of him was going to live in your mouth until the day you died. No matter what happened next, you knew that.

Jasper wiped his cock on your shirt, the wet trail left behind ghosting cold against your mangled skin. He gave your head a final push, then pulled back, zipping up with a satisfied little huff. The wound gaped obscenely open now, milky with pus and streaked with pink. You pressed your palm over it, unsure if you were holding the infection in or trying to keep yourself from falling apart altogether.

“Well,” Jasper said, stretching arms theatrically over his head. “I think that’s enough medical attention for one night, don't you?” He laughed, then stepped over you, picked up a half-empty flask, and took a long pull, grinning wide enough to split his stupid face in half. “God, you drooled everywhere.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright with the afterglow of violence and appetite. “Spoils all over the floor. Dogs are gonna be jealous.” His boot nudged at your foot, gently, like you were really his dog, like you might roll over and wag your ruined little stump for another treat.