Your Hunger is His
by time_to_occur
Consent is paramount in real life. I do not condone non-consensual acts.
[A/N: Snickers Jaguar the character belongs to Snickers Jaguar.]
The scent of latex, sweat and musk cuts through the damp must of the abandoned mansion. He—it?—is close now. Your saliva gushes and your lower belly tightens.
You chose this.
Faced with the option to do literally anything else with your talents, your training, that big brain that people were always telling you that you had, you chose… this.
Nobody really knew what this was, exactly. The rumours had started a few years back and you lapped them up from the first time you heard them. It was hard to pin anything down. Was the creature an alien? A cryptid of some kind? An Earth animal that had been transformed through science or magic? It didn't matter to you. Doesn't matter, still.
You're horny for it. That's what it comes down to. You want to meet it and you want whatever comes next. The rumours aren't clear on the specifics of that, either. Just that people don't come back from the experience.
Nobody has ever found a body or anything like that. But, you know that successfully chasing this one down will still be the end of you, in one form or another.
...Maybe you'll become something better.
That's what the art shows. The art isn't part of the rumours—it's...speculation, you think? Fanfiction. About what would happen if you met something like him. About what he'd do to you.
You’ve been fascinated by the urban legends about this creature since you first heard about him. The illustrations (by his many fans) only whetted your appetite. Sometimes, he was a creature of rubber and latex. Sometimes he was a furred, anthropomorphic great cat. Sometimes, he became other things entirely. Suits. Objects. Machinery, even. What these versions of him have in common is...hunger, like yours.
Or maybe it's more of a sense of inevitability or superiority. If you think you might become its next victim, maybe it's already too late. Like some kind of memetic virus — his victory over you is already inevitable.
You taste your need for him at the back of your throat. It's a combination of the coppery tang you get when you push yourself too hard running and a kind of mysterious sweetness. That urges you forward, and you step deeper into the house. It's still furnished. That's where some of that musty smell is coming from—it's stronger when you pass by the great big velvet drapes.
You have been trying to track him for a long time now, at first as just a quirky little hobby, but later with increasing sincerity as you became convinced that he actually exists. You came here tonight because of a Reddit post. It had been on the r/cryptidwatch subreddit. The redditor, furtive_glance, claimed that they had seen something very much like what you're chasing around these grounds but hadn't dared get closer on their own. They had been planning to investigate with a friend that night and share updates. That was last night. No updates so far.
It isn't the first time you've chased a wild goose through one of these groups. You decided to come because you didn't want to miss your chance, in case he really was here and then moved on. But, tonight feels different. The smell... it's just right. It feels right.
As you enter the library, something warm drips onto your cheek. You wipe at it and look at your fingertips. Black ooze. The scent of latex is powerful in your nose. You look up, shining your flashlight at the ceiling. There are empty, shiny sacks there. They look like cocoons.
You hear a low, rumbling purr. Turning towards the sound, you see motion out of the corner of your eye, but then nothing. You search the room from the doorway, your heart pounding in your throat, your cock throbbing in your pants.
The purr reappears and it sounds like it's right next to you. You spin around, and then you see it. Him. It's Him. You sense the way that your own mind capitalizes that letter now in automatic deference. He is sprawled across a velvet couch, the white dust cloth thrown aside. He looks...amused and curious.
At first, he appears to be somewhere between a jaguar and a man, but then the details resolve. His muscular body is covered in short, silken fur, golden with brown rosettes. The tip of his tail terminates in a large, round maw, leaking black goo. There's a sealed, zippered slit down the front of his chest.
Kneeling beside Him at either of His feet are what you know from His fans to be cloned fox boys, both of them identical, both of them coated in thick black latex. They're shiny, like their surfaces are still a little wet. You immediately think of the redditor and his friend, the ones who were supposed to investigate yesterday.
"I, uh—"
He laughs, nodding to you and spreading open the fur at his collar bone. "I can smell you. No need to be demure about it." He finds something beneath the fur and pulls down, opening a slit in his chest that reveals an empty cavity inside, lined with what looks like a comfortable, clean fabric.
Out of all the ways He can take you, this one is the one you've thought about the most. You know about the goo. The tentacles. You've stroked yourself to them. You know that He'll take you inside and never let you go. You'll simply become a part of him. Well, not simply. You don't know the exact process, but you know you'll be drained and absorbed. It ought to horrify you but you find the whole idea fascinating. You find Him fascinating.
"This is what you want, isn't it?"
Even His words seem to ooze black latex goo directly into your ears. You close your eyes and bite your lip.
"It's going to feel good. For me, definitely. But my biocore batteries always seem to enjoy themselves, too. I choose the ones who will get off on it. I can smell it on you."
All you have to do is climb on in.
The worst thing is that you know you're going to fucking do it. You know it. But you want to savour this moment, so you resist. For now. The jaguar-entity's tail-maw opens wide and snaps shut, almost impatiently, like a cat flicking its tail back and forth.
Your eyes slide across the brown rosettes on His fur. The pattern lulls you, mesmerizes you. He is beautiful. He is superior. And you should stop wasting His time.
He seems content to smile at you, tail moving back and forth, tail-maw opening and closing.
He isn't going to fight you because He doesn't have to.
Still, you delay as much as you dare. You unbutton your shirt and fold it neatly. Your pants and underwear are next. After your socks, you even take off your watch. Then, you take a last drink from your water bottle to calm your nerves.
You pad slowly toward Him and you see something under His fur ripple hungrily. A little bit of black ooze squeezes through the "fabric" lining inside of Him.
"Good boy. Slip inside of me and let my tentacles do the rest. I'm nice and empty and you're just the one to fill me."
He rises to his feet and the fox boys look up at him adoringly. He curls his paws open and shut. The tail-maw slips between your legs and gooses you almost affectionately. Your saliva gushes again and you swallow your own spit. He pulls open the cavity in his chest wide, so wide, like a gaping mouth, ready to swallow you up and encase you.
You wish you were more elegant, more poised, but you just lift up your foot as though you were stepping into a pair of pants and slide one leg down inside of him. It feels as though your whole leg is being licked at once by the slick, warm insides of this god-like being. He is purring, and it radiates up through your leg, into your thighs, into your pelvic floor.
You slip your other leg inside the living suit, bent forward at the waist for balance. It isn't as though you can pull Him up your leg. No, you have to shimmy down into Him. Your feet sink down into the warm, silken softness until you can't go any further. You haven't reached the bottom—you aren't standing—but you're held up by the fork of suit and anthro jaguar body between your legs.
The tail-maw moves around you like a snake, poised to strike. As you lift your torso to draw away from it out of instinct, you almost fall backwards. Before you can regain your balance, the tail-maw gives you a solid poke. You fall into the jaguar-god's body and you hear the distinctive noise that must give Him His name. He snickers at you.
The purr surrounds you now, entrancing you despite your fear. Arousal flushes through your body. You willingly push your arms into the sleeves, first one, then the other. The slick warmth grips at you once you've seated them nice and deep, binding you into Him.
Snickers Jaguar looks down at you from above, His hands still holding the slit in His body open wide. They move up, toward His shoulders, and He pulls open one last hole for you to fill before He fills all of yours. "Now for your head. Go on, now. Succumb completely."
You look down at the fox boys and wish you were that kind of pervert instead of the kind that wants to be completely engulfed and absorbed into this godlike creature… and then you take a nice deep breath full of the scent of latex and cummy musk. You can't help yourself. You follow that scent and plunge your head up into the deep darkness of your new, permanent home. Light leaks through for a few more precious moments, and then, as the jaguar releases the edges of the suit from his grasp, your delightful prison tightens up even more. The sound of a zipper seals you inside with Him.
He doesn't even know your name. He won't, either, unless He bothers to check your abandoned ID. You're a biocore for Him. You are good for Him because you are useful. That's how you please Him.
The purring surrounds you now, inescapable and seductive. You feel it in your chest and in your skull, lulling you into a horny, altered state of mind. The gooey tentacles fill every bit of extra space around your naked body, sliding slick and pleasurable across your skin.
Then, they find your holes. Not just your ass and piss slit, no. The tentacles slide into your mouth, nose and ears, into spaces between that you've never even thought of. The goo slides between your toes and fingers, squelching wetly. Not that you can hear very well with your ears filled up with goo. You are filled so completely, so overwhelmingly. The goo slithers down your throat, into your body, filling up all the spaces between your organs, between your cells, until you contain more goo than any of your original tissue. You feel yourself becoming unmoored, your fears melting away into need and hunger as your existence turns to pleasure.
For a time, you lose yourself in sensation. Eventually, the tentacles stop moving through you long enough for you to regain awareness in the deep dark that you've willingly enveloped yourself within. You intuit that the more active your brain and body are, the more energy you produce. That's the trick of how this system works. You are the raw material for an energy cycle made from your own horny feelings about being completely engulfed and fucked inside of this powerful creature.
You wonder if Snickers has spared a single thought for you since you gave yourself to Him and climbed inside. You hope so. You badly want to be special to Him. But you remember the fox boy clones and it is clear to you that you're probably just an anonymous biocore to him.
The lack of movement, combined with the sensory deprivation of the dark and of the skin-temperature goo that hugs your form, brings you to your senses completely. You have willingly trapped yourself inside of a being there are no adequate words to describe. You start to squirm and pull, needing something to focus on.
That's exactly what the cycle demands. Your desperate squirming and fearful, horny thoughts activate the next phase. The tentacles awaken. This time, they're already so deep inside of you that there's nowhere left to infiltrate. So, they pull out before finding a shared rhythm. They pump goo through your body from both ends, packing you tight with it, letting it spill from your mouth and nose before shoving it back in. The goo gives you everything you need to be the best battery that you can be. The tentacles keep you alert and thinking about the fate you've chosen for yourself. It feels so fucking right. This is exactly where you belong. This is purpose.
Eventually, you once again lose track of where you end and the tentacles begin.
---
You lost track of time a long time ago.
At some point, hours, maybe days later, you become alert enough to think you hear someone say, from outside of your new home, something about "...this guy's last post on Tumblr...", maybe, and you feel a sense of pleasure at the thought that your new god will never go without prey or company for very long.
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