Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13271715.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Fandom:
      Jeffrey_Dahmer_-_Fandom, tcc_-_Fandom
  Character:
      Jeffrey_Dahmer, Lionel_Dahmer, Joyce_Dahmer
  Additional Tags:
      NSFW, Blood, Blood_Kink, Blood_Fetish, Masturbation, Violence, Intrusive
      Thoughts, implied_rape_thoughts
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-05 Words: 1756
****** Like You Never Had Wings ******
by DeborahShay
Summary
     Maybe the man had a wife or a girlfriend, maybe the man had
     children—Jeffrey didn’t know. The only thing that the sixteen-year-
     old knew for certain was the effect that this man had on him; every
     day for the past few months, Jeffrey practically tortured himself
     watching the jogger.
     What happens if the jogger actually ran by the day that Jeffrey
     planned to attack?
Notes
     WARNING: Extremely graphic. If you have a weak stomach, I wouldn't
     suggest reading.
            Huff, crunch, inhale. Huff, crunch, inhale.
           He waited in the dense thicket that separated the highway from the
foliage shrouding him, peeking out from his hiding space.
            Huff, crunch, inhale. Huff, crunch, inhale.
           He could hear the faintest panting from the man on the road, the
jogger’s sneakers crunching the ground beneath him every time his foot hit the
pavement. The stranger was a good twenty feet away from the blond boy, and
continued his exercise as he did daily—like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Jeffrey stayed kneeled and silently still, the only noises within the
environment surrounding them being the jogger and the occasional bird’s
chirping.
            Huff, crunch, inhale. Huff, crunch, inhale.
           As the man grew closer, Jeffrey could hear the blood rushing
throughout his body in his eardrums, his heart kicking against his ribcage like
a jackrabbit. He white-knuckled the wooden baseball bat in his fists, preparing
himself for the atrocity that he was about to commit on this unsuspecting
stranger. Maybe the man had a wife or a girlfriend, maybe the man had
children—Jeffrey didn’t know. The only thing that the sixteen-year-old knew for
certain was the effect that this man had on him; every day for the past few
months, Jeffrey practically tortured himself watching the jogger. The man was
usually shirtless and dripping with sweat, his dark hair sopping and his tanned
chest gleaming. The image never let him think straight and it never left his
mind, especially on the nights that he tossed and turned and needed an outlet
for relaxation. Jeffrey felt a physical needto hear the man’s heartbeat, a need
to brush his fingertips over the man’s tight abdominal muscles. Maybe, just
maybe after he did that, it would quell the suffocating feeling in his chest
and he would sleep better at night.
            Huff, crunch, inhale. Huff, crunch, panting.
           The man was about six feet away from Jeffrey’s position now, and he
had stopped running. Jeffrey held his breath as the brunet kneeled down on one
knee to tie his shoe, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his
hand. Jeffrey had never seen the jogger up close for a longer amount of time
than a few seconds as he ran by, longingly watching as the man’s back muscles
grew pink from the sun and exertion. The man finished tying his shoe and
briefly rested his head on his knee, taking a few deep breaths as a quick way
of rest. It was the middle of July and the air was thick with humidity, even
Jeffrey felt his shirt sticking to his back from sweat. The blond swallowed
hard, feeling the impulse to shift closer churn in his stomach. He would
probably never get the chance again to see the man in close quarters while he
was conscious, and that thought gnawed at him from the inside. Maybe if he was
quiet, maybe if he moved slowly—crunch.
            Jeffrey stilled in panic as a twig broke beneath his shoe, feeling
a nervous sweat pool in the palm of his hands. The man looked up in his
direction, narrowing his eyes in confusion.
            “Hello?” The man stood up slowly, leaning towards Jeffrey’s
hideaway. Jeffrey’s heart pounded so quickly he thought he could pass out; this
wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to see Jeffrey’s face;
he wasn’t supposed to be able to identify him. Turning tail and quickly moving
through the brush, he ran as fast as he could, dropping the bat and ignoring
the other man’s shouts—Hey!—as he dodged the trees in his path. He hurried in
his house’s direction, the highway not being too far from his home. Before he
could make his way into the clearing, the toe of his shoe caught on something
sticking up out of the ground and he found himself face-to-face with the dirt,
a sharp pain thrumming in his right palm.
            Leaning on his palms and standing back up, he picked his glasses up
off of the ground. They weren’t cracked or broken, but covered in dirt. He
lifted the edge of his shirt up to wipe off the lenses, placing them back on
his face and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Stumbling towards the shed
in his backyard, his ankle ached and his hand was throbbing in pain. He walked
through the door of his shed and closed it behind him, shoving the lock in its
place in irritation. He would never be able to watch the man again without some
form of paranoia keeping him on edge, and the man now knew that he was being
watched, so it was unlikely he would take that road again.
            “Fuck,” He shook his head and sat down in the dilapidated chair
next to the small table in the shed, the chair creaking beneath his weight. He
turned his hand and examined his palm, a gash at least an inch and a half long
splitting the flesh. It was caked with dirt and blood and it was still
bleeding, the wound thick and aching. Grabbing a forgotten rag off of the
table, he dipped it in the small pail of water sitting on the surface and began
cleaning the cut, wincing slightly. Once most of the blood and dirt was off of
his palm, he noted just how deep the gash was when it continued to bleed,
streaming lightly over the edges of the split skin. In the back of his mind he
knew that he was probably going to need stitches, but he found himself
mesmerized by the image.
            He flexed his fingers and watched how it gaped—open and closed,
open and closed—quite a few times, the liquid beginning to cover most of his
palm. As the blood trickled down towards his wrist, he found that the aesthetic
pleasure made his cock twitch in the confines of his jeans, forcing a sigh of
wonderment from his lips. He swallowed hard before he slowly brought his left
hand to the front of his jeans and unbuttoned them, sliding the zipper down
after. He shoved them down his hips and let them pool around his ankles before
spreading his legs, making a tight fist with his right hand and feeling a jolt
of pain mix in with the warm liquid between his fingers. He chewed his bottom
lip in anticipation before he wrapped the injured hand around his cock,
stifling back a moan as he watched the red tint his length.
            It was so warm, something like he had never felt before as he
thrusted up into his hand, sliding his thumb through the slit at the head. He
watched as the precome beaded at the top and entwined with the blood, sending a
spark of electricity up his spine at the sight before him. An involuntary growl
reverberated through his throat as he thought of the jogger, panting and sweaty
and lean, stretched out around his dick, a concoction of blood and come leaking
out of him as he laid out on his stomach, taking everything that Jeffrey could
give to him. He thought about what would have happened if he hadn’t have moved,
if the man wouldn’t have stopped to tie his shoe. Jeffrey would have knocked
him unconscious and dragged his body out into the woods, listening to his
heartbeat and licking up the sweat beading down his torso. He would have
smelled the musk from that day’s run, potent and masculine, and threaded his
fingers through the jogger’s dripping wet hair.
            Jeffrey found himself panting and whimpering at the thought,
bringing his left hand up to his mouth and covering it, muffling the noises. He
pumped his hand over his cock faster, feeling slightly raw from remnants of the
blood drying as new life force seeped out of the gash—an odd but arousing
mixture of layer upon layer. His navel was ghastly, blood coating the flesh
beneath his belly button and his inner thighs as a feeling of warmth sifted
throughout his gut. His shirt would have looked like a crime scene if he hadn’t
have thought of hiking it up, keeping it tucked beneath his armpits as he
pushed himself further and further to completion. He felt his stomach tighten
and his orgasm bubbling beneath the surface, feeling disappointed that it was
ending so soon but knowing that he wasn’t going to last.
            With a final cry, he bit into the flesh of his left palm and came,
his ears ringing as he saw spots behind his eyelids at the intensity. Warm
strings of spunk coated the tops of his thighs and his stomach as he panted
heavily, slowly bringing his hand away from his mouth. He stroked himself until
he was jerking from the sensitivity, releasing the grip on his length and
turning his hand over to look at the damage done to the injury. His fingers
were coated in blood and come, some of the seed making an entry into the gash.
He flexed his fingers—open and closed, open and closed—and watched in morbid
curiosity. The cut stung terribly, more than it did when it had originally
happened, but some part of him felt grounded and sated because of it. He
begrudgingly picked up the rag once more and dipped it into the water pail,
wiping away the dried flecks from his thighs and stomach, and then his cock and
hand. After pulling his jeans back up and his shirt over his torso, he opted to
throw the rag away, feeling slightly nauseated at the idea of explaining any of
it to his father.
 
            After he made his way into the house later that evening, he’d
disinfected the cut and wrapped it in gauze, feeling dread after his mother
called him down for dinner. The atmosphere was heavy at the kitchen table and
he knew better than to start a conversation—he knew that they had been fighting
again. The only noise in the kitchen was chewing and silverware clinging
against plates, and he found himself wanting to be outside again where at least
if it was silent, it was peaceful.
            “Jeff, what happened to your hand?” He looked up to see his father
staring at him, stony-faced but concern written in the lines of his forehead.
            He glanced towards his mother where he saw that she was curious, as
well, but guilty for not noticing in the first place. “I tripped.”
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