'I'm Blushing At The Thought Of Jacob Frye Dressing Me In Pretty Lingerie Or Negligee. It's The Sensation

'I'm blushing at the thought of Jacob Frye dressing me in pretty lingerie or negligee. It's the sensation of his warm rough hands pulling up stockings lined with lace garter up my thighs, and his calloused fingers lightly stroking the bare skin of my exposed inner thighs. It's the expression on his face when he's on his knees in that moment: it is not merely tinged with the promise of sin, but with total devotion. The way that he his shallow breaths fall on my skin and he follows them with gentle kisses that make me shiver. How it all leaves me with a deep, aching need to be consumed by him. It's when he stands up, his hands skimming over my stocking-clad legs as he moves, and towers over me in his own naked glory. He holds me with tenderness, so gently that in his embrace I feel delicate. Cherished.'

'Following up to the Hacker!Jacob confession... Let's imagine that he goes to your house, introduces himself as your new neighbor from two blocks behind, and after meeting in some days and hours, both decide to have sex with no protection, fullfilling all your cream pie fantasies... in front of millions through camera.'

Imagine - Jacob Frye suffering from a werewolf curse.

Frye Cottage, Surrey, October 1873

Softly, you're roused by the ambient sounds of the forest encompassing the house: owls hooting, tree branches rapping on the windows, fierce winds howling into the night.

You couldn't say what time it is. You doubt you could even hazard a guess. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness consuming the room, rendering any attempt to read the clock a fruitless endeavour.

A brief glance at the window confirms that dawn is yet to break.

Perfect.

Sitting upright in bed, you fumble in the dark for a moment until your hands happen upon the knob belonging to the drawer of the nightstand. With only a trickle of moonbeams lending you the faculty of sight, you open the drawer, reach for the only object inside, and strike a match.

You hold it by your face, tilting the matchstick downward and watching as the flame dances and swells. Using the light the match provides, you ignite the oil lamp atop the nightstand, extinguishing the match with a shake of your hand as the room is bathed in a warm, amber glow.

The cottage, for all intents and purposes, is without ornament - and rightly so. The single-storey cabin may be the only building for several miles, as per your intentions. The interior is functional, pragmatic, an open-plan room comprised of a bed tucked away in a corner and a kitchenette. A chimney and burning stove looks across from your sleeping area, supplementary to a table and two chairs.

A Welsh dresser is half-filled with plates and mugs, its cupboards and drawers stowing bits of food and medical goods - bandages, a needle and thread, a bottle of gin, though you're yet to use any of it, thank the Lord.

A wolf howls in the distance, prompting you to take a peek outside from behind the curtains. The full moon is fading, you note, compelling you to rise and begin your preparations for the long day ahead.

After making the bed, you cross the room and burn wood at the stove, boiling herbal tea in a cast-iron kettle. You fix some cold cuts of bread, cheese and meat, managing to eat a little yourself while saving a second portion.

A short time later, a figure comes stumbling in through the door, slamming it shut. You're hesitant to look up, knowing from previous months the heart-wrenching sight that awaits.

A creature paces with convulsing legs, looking ready to collapse at any moment. It bears the form of a man, but the mental state of a wolf. A blanket is draped around its heaving shoulders, its naked, hairy body shivering violently. Brown hair is thoroughly dishevelled, small sticks and leaves clinging to the strands. Sickly pale skin gleams wet with sweat, dirt markings littering its face. Wild, glassy eyes frantically dart around the room.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you rise from your seat as slowly as possible, yearning to draw the weeping man into your bosom.

He's still an animal, you have to remind yourself, though it does little to patch your broken heart.

You avoid prolonged eye contact, letting your eyes look past him instead of lingering on him.

"Jacob," you murmur, your voice soft and quiet so as not to alarm him further.

Taking a miniscule step forward, you approach him gingerly, repeating your internal mantra of stay calm. You shrink your body and repeat his name while observing his body language, keeping an eye out for any signs of injury.

He's panicked, hysterical, gripping his head and yowling, those wide eyes reminiscent of an animal caught in a trap.

You hold your hand out palm down, and croon, "Jacob, it's okay. I'm going to help you."

By now you've crossed the room, though a good distance remains between you. His back stiffens, the air shifting around him, his nose crinkling as he picks up the Scent. He visibly calms somewhat, blinking as his eyes soften to their usual melliferous hazel.

Watching him stagger towards you, you take a few final steps towards him, catching him as he falls into you, the blanket falling from his shoulders as his arms crush you into a tight hug. You remember to hold your breath, to remain perfectly still as he buries his nose in the dip of your shoulder.

He inhales sharply, memories of his human life flashing behind his eyelids. Merry laughter rings in his head like a bell, faces of loved ones appearing and overlaying one another at the speed of lightning.

In verifying the Scent, his arms loosen around you, his breathing heavy against your skin.

The Scent comforts his wolf form, he'd once explained. It's a blend of your smell and his, a product of your... prior carnal union, so to speak, serving as a catalyst that completes the reconstruction of his brain.

You continue to shush him, now free to move your hand and stroke his damp hair, pacifying him until the shaking subsides.

Lifting his head, he meets your gaze and wets his lips in an attempt to speak.

"Hi."

You cup his face, tears forming in your eyes at the humanity present in his face, at the way his eyes gleam in recognising you.

"Hi." Your response comes with lumps in your throat.

He chuckles to break the ice, immediately wincing and breaking out in a fit of coughing. Prying yourself from his embrace, you help him hobble over to the table and take a seat. Working swiftly, you pour a cup of the tea, retrieving the laudanum from a drawer in the dresser and setting it down in front of him.

He tests his coordination for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist and wiggling his fingers before trusting himself with handling a cup of hot liquid. He blows the drink before sipping, swallowing quickly to avoid the bitter taste.

His speech is slow, hesitant. "Is that, the same, same stuff as last time?"

You nod. He grimaces.

"Doesn't work."

"It's the highest dose the doctor will prescribe me." It took little effort convincing the physician that the pills were for you - dramatising your menstrual pain is far preferable to telling the truth. "Please, take it. Something is better than nothing."

Jacob glances up at you, taking in the sight of your eyes glossy with tears, your forehead creased with concern, your brows angled upwards as you plead.

Agreeing silently, he takes the tablet and swallows it down with the bitter brew, spluttering as the taste lingers on his taste buds. You rub his back to help him keep it down, drawing his attention to the plate of food; perhaps it could cover the horrid taste.

He takes stock of the plate's contents, sniffing tentatively. The cuts of meat smells appetising at the very least, and he almost reaches for it before his head swims with intrusive images of sleeping deer, the sound of snarling wolves surrounding him as though they're present in the room. Nausea rises from his stomach, he heaves and retches before pushing the plate away with a forceful shove.

"I need to lie down."

He staggers in standing up, knocking cutlery to the ground with a clatter. He grits his teeth, distributing a little too much of his weight onto you as you help him limp towards the bed.

Every step is pure agony for him; although you haven't experienced his curse, you can imagine the torture he must go through - his skeleton changing shape, his organs moving position, his flesh and muscles being torn to shreds by his own claws.

All that, and probably far more that your imagination simply cannot comprehend, three nights a month.

He doesn't peel the duvet back to clamber into bed, instead laying himself on top of the bedclothes. And judging from the heat radiating from his body, you can understand why.

You get a proper look at his face for the first time: his skin is off-colour and boiling hot to the touch, and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. Sweat trickles down his forehead, red welts marring his skin. You dab his forehead with a cold, wet towel, conscious of the pressure you apply.

He grunts, a fresh wave of throbbing spasms coursing through his jerking body.

"Shhh, Jacob, you're okay. You're alright."

It's silly, but... Despite all of the ways you help him, you feel helpless, wishing you could do more to take his pain away for good. Watching on as he pants and yells, his body convulsing like a seizure, you find yourself singing a lullaby, stroking his cheek in hopes of pacifying him even a little.

"I love you," Jacob manages to wheeze when your song comes to an end.

"I love you too, my darling man."

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @aikeia @yourchepazworld @iceboundstar @the-purple-rook @unprofessional-bard @witch-of-letters @disneymarina @thero0ks @assassins-and-hidden-blades @ass-sass-sin-o @ladye11e @deviousspleen

Happy Birthday to the Frye Twins who fell asleep before they could even blow out the candles… poor kids…

It's November 9 sooooo...