#harry styles kinktober 2024

[gucciforasushirestaurant]

Kinktober №1 | Punish Me

summary: harry hasn't been the most attentive boyfriend and asks for a very specific punishment to make it up to you.

word count: 1.6k

read time: 7 min

content warning ⚠️: slight angst, mentions of harry being a neglectful boyfriend, cunnilingus, fingering, face sitting, softdom!harry, d/s undertones, pet names (babe, baby, love, good girl), light spanking (if you squint)

a/n: welcome to kinktober! sorry they are coming out late. hope you enjoy this little festival of kink!

��Kinktober 2024 masterlist👻

It’s felt like it’s been an eternity since you've been this close to Harry. You’ve missed these moments. Being wrapped up in one another, teeth clashing, hands groping, mind on nothing else but the other. You needed this, so you savor every stroke of his tongue, and every nibble on your lip. 

What started as an innocent good night kiss before bed, has turned into this, and now you’ve lost track of time. Completely consumed with one another, Harry rolling his hips into yours, while you moaned, enjoying the weight of him on top of you. 

“I want to try something.” Harry pants, pulling away from your lips, but resting his forehead against yours. 

“Yeah?” you whisper absentmindedly, chasing his lips for another kiss. He pulls away at the last second, caressing your cheek. He looks down  at your lips, before his eyes meet yours. 

“I want you to sit on my face.” he whispers, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

“What-” you stutter. You couldn't have heard him correctly. But he’s staring at you with a hopeful smirk, biting at his bottom lip and you know you didn’t mishear him. “Like sit, sit?” you clarify, and he chuckles with a nod. 

“Yes, baby. Sit, sit.” 

“But…I’m heavy.” 

“No you’re not.” Harry kisses your lips, before kissing along your jaw, with a smirk. “I just…I want to do something for you. I’ve been,” he sucks on your favorite spot along your jaw, just below your ear, “less than attentive lately, which is just not like me. So,” he works his way down your neck, dragging his teeth along your jugular, sucking when he's found where your breath hitches. “I want you to punish me.” he smirks, as he hears your breath hitch. But still you don’t answer, just roll your hips into Harry’s as he works on your neck. After he’s sure he’s left a mark, satisfied with your sounds he raises his lips to the shell of your ear, and whispers, “Come on. Are you going to make me beg?” you whine, and he chuckles, “‘Cuz I will.” 

Harry returns his kissing, down your neck, to down your chest, kissing along as he lowered himself between your legs. He makes sure to give extra kisses to your belly, sucking at the skin on each of your hips. “Please.” he drags his lips across your pantie line, leaving wet spongy kisses just above your mound. “Pretty Please.” He pulls your legs further apart, getting comfortable between them. You shiver as his breath brushes over your clothed pussy. He kisses each of your inner thighs, kissing from the juncture of your knee, to the edge of your panties “Pretty, pretty please.” he smirks. 

“Okay.” you nod with a smile, covering your face in your hands.

“Yeah?” he smiles. 

“Yeah. I’ll try it.” 

“Thank you, baby.” Harry smiles, kissing the front of your panties, before running his fingers along the edge of your panties, “But first ... .Can I have a taste?” he asks, pulling your panties aside.

“Yes, please.”

“Thank you.” he smirks, as he licks a broad stripe up your folds. He moans at the first taste of you on his tongue. He gives you a few more wet big strokes with his tongue, when he begins running a hand through your folds. “You're so wet baby.” he praises, just before wrapping his lips right around your clit, lightly sucking it into his mouth. 

“Oh, god. Harry -” you moan, tossing your head back and flying to Harry’s hair. 

“Good?” 

“So good.”

He continues his work on your pussy, licking, and sucking sloppily, lapping at your folds like it’s his last meal. You can feel yourself getting close, with each swipe of his tongue. 

“You taste so good babe.” he moans into you. 

“Harry -” you gasp, gripping the back of Harry’s head as you push yourself further into his mouth, “Oh, there.” 

He doubled his efforts, messily licking at your clit, and drawing it into his mouth. You feel yourself getting closer, and just as you're about to cry out, and reach your peak you feel  his fingers breach your walls. 

“Fuck!” you moan, releasing his hair, in favor of the sheets. You bring your arm over your mouth, biting into the soft flesh of your forearm as your pussy begins to pulse around his digits. 

“Good girl. Come on.” Harry mumbles against you, curling his fingers up inside you. He begins stroking at your g-spot, applying just enough pressure, and before you have a chance to catch your breath, you come apart on Harry’s tongue and fingers. Harry moans, into you licking you through your orgasm extending it that much longer, sending shivers through your body. 

Eventually he slows to a stop, giving your swollen clit a soft peck, as he begins kissing up your body, to your lips. You moan into the kiss, enjoying the taste of yourself, on his tongue. 

Harry pulls away, looking down at you proudly, as he stroked your side. 

“You ready?” he husks, kissing your nose. 

“Um-yeah.” you sigh, still trying to catch your breath. You quickly look away from Harry, but he draws his fingers under your chin and forces you to look back at him. 

“Hey, if you really are uncomfortable with it, we don’t have to.” he says, with soft eyes. 

“No. I want to-” you rush out, “I’m just scared of hurting you.” 

He smirks, kissing each of your cheeks, “You won’t. I promise.” 

He rolls over onto his back adjusting a pillow behind his head. He turns to you with a warm smile, “Come here.” 

You roll on top of him, straddling his hips, hesitantly plant your hands on his chest, “Hop on, Love.” he encourages. He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together to help you shimmy yourself above his face. You rest your hands, on the headboard, nervously hovering your pussy over Harry’s face. He wraps his arms around your thighs, “Baby. I said sit.” He demands, with a slight huff, as he pulls you down by your thighs, forcing you to sit on his tongue.

“Harry!” you gasp, pulling up slightly, eyes locked on his. 

“I’m fine, love.” he mumbles into you, pulling you closer to  kiss your clit. You bring your hands to his hair, moaning out, “I promise it’s okay. Just relax.” he says as he begins to lap at your pussy. 

With each swipe of his tongue across your folds and each pulse of his lips around the clit, you relaxed more and more on top of him. And with the moans coming from Harry, as he delved deep into you with his tongue, the last thing you were worried about was your weight ‘crushing’ him. 

In fact, your weight on top of him that you worried so much about, seemed to be his biggest motivator. As the more of your weight you leaned on Harry, the more he moaned into you, and the more enthusiastic he got between your legs, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“There you go.” he praises, with a smirk into you, as you moan out a series of curses. You lace your fingers deeper into his hair, pulling lightly at the root. “Oh, good girl.” He groans. 

You moan, looking down at Harry below you. That one look at him had you wondering why it has taken you so long to do this in the first place. At this angle, Harry was a sight. A man crazed, eyes full of lust, and hair wild from you pulling at it. You were mesmerized by Harry. And he was completely consumed by you. You were all he could taste on his tongue. All he could feel was the sting of your hands in his hair pulling at the roots, and the weight of your on top of him. All he could hear was you, and the beautiful whines, and gasps that you make.  

It was only a few moments, making eye contact with Harry, before you could feel your orgasm approaching. Your grip tightens in Harry’s hair as you begin to slowly rock yourself along Harry’s mouth, holding onto his head for leverage. Harry seemed to like that, as his grip tightened around your thighs and a deep groan ripped from his throat. 

“Fuck, like that. Fuck my face, baby. There you go.” He groaned into you, the vibrations sending a shiver through you. 

“Harry -” you cry out, thighs beginning to shake, tightening around his head, “I’m - oh god, there.” you shrek, as you feel that familiar knot in your lower belly begin to pull tighter. 

When it finally snaps you come hard on Harry’s tongue, convulsing, and shaking on top of him. Your body shakes, eyes glued below you on his, as Harry’s head gets  completely (and happily, you're sure), squished between your shaking thighs. He pushes against your resistance, holding  your legs open with a tight grip of his large hands just enough, as he continues to lap at your folds through your orgasm. 

His sucking on your clit comes down to a slow pulse as you come down from your orgasm. You lift up slightly to get away from the stimulation of Harry’s tongue, and lean forward on the headboard. Harry turns his head to the side, kissing each of your inner thighs. 

“Shit.” you giggle, chest heaving. 

“Good girl, baby.” he smiles lightly, spanking your ass with a quick swat, “I told you you’d like it, hm?” 

“That was…I didn’t think… Wow.” you sigh, trying so hard to string together a sentence. 

“Come here.” Harry smiles up at you. You adjust yourself, at Harry’s direction, and shimmy down his body, to curl into his chest. You lay your head on his chest, as Harry begins planting kisses along your hairline, a hand lightly running up and down your back. 

“So, is this something you’d want to do again?” he asks into the dim light of your room. 

You turn looking up at him, a blissful grin plastered on your lips. “Most definitely.” 

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[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ (ꜱᴏꜰᴛ)

ROLL OVER | boyfriend!Harry (couples costumes gone wild)

The dalmatian/fire fighter duo runs a little deeper in the bedroom after the party.

★₁₈₊

ROLL OVER as the final installment to the KINKTOBER projects. Based on this ask.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: couple's costume gone wild. pet play (soft). soft dom. praise. leashing. collars. use of "puppy" as a pet name (pun unintended). oral (f to m). dumbification. dom/sub undertones.

WC: 1.7K

“Yeah,” Harry breathes and shifts his hips with a subtle flex that nudges a little more of him past your lips, cradling you close by the shape of your jaw and petting his palm across your heated cheek. 

You swallow, nostrils flaring, and you let the congealed dust— of this particular disposition— across your lashes lure you under a little harder. Let it crush you under the soporific wave of its gravity. 

But you don’t miss the way he swallows, tugs a little harder on the polypropylene end of the dog leash wrapped taut around the knobs of his naked knuckles, and purrs, “Such a good girl, puppy.”

You blink up at him. At the unstilted paradigm of your insatiable hunger (eating, eating, still so hungry for him); bare stomach flexing, shoulders swelling, jawbone tucked and face ducked to watch you swallow around him. Watch and feel you work your little tongue in crescent shapes against the underside of his cockhead. 

You’re drooling. Slobbering, like a needy, little puppy, and your spit dribbles across between the wedges of your knuckles, where you cup him around the base and squeeze every time he throbs. 

It’s good. It’s really, really good.

He sprawls back against the chair but keeps his chin tipped. Staring down at you— the way your lips suction around him and the way your eyes pool under your fluttery lashes with a dew. Inkpools unwavering. Unrelenting. 

His shirt is discarded, so all his ink is on show. The way it breathes alive under the tension of his musculature, his rippling abdomen when you dip the tip of your tongue into the slit on his head; moving, dancing over his skin. 

It feels dirty. Borderline gaudily pornographic; you, on your knees in that careful nook between his split thighs, with his suspenders dangling across his lap. The big, utility boots on his feet, either side of your haunches. The pried zipper on a set of work trousers, slouching low on his hips, multi-faceted into a costume. 

He’s heavy on your tongue. Takes up too much room in your mouth. Leaking and throbbing when you duck your head to take him just a little deeper, a little more.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs. It sounds a little dark. Hardly over a whisper— you make a wet, ugly sound around him and blink back up. 

From your angle, there’s this pastiche of sovereignty to him. Like blue-collar regalia; half-shed firefighter’s rig, shape of his face chiseled in self-possessed stolidity—

Save for his eyes, the little cinch in his jawbone. The glint in the charcoal vats, the sharp carve your lips make, the way it wobbles when his teeth grind together a little harder. Your tongue seeps out over your lower lip when you take a deep breath through your nose, open wide, and take him nearly to the root. 

The sound that crawls out of Harry is so battered that all you can do is claw into the fabric on the apex of his thighs and let your eyes screw. 

His cockhead bludgeons at the gummy lining on the back of your throat, and you’re sure the phlegm is collapsing in little broken pieces like a mirror shattering under the weight of a hammer. Spuming out over his face in creases and rapture. But you can’t look. 

All you can do is try to swallow around him when the hand that was on the side of your face glues to the back of your crown, his fingers tangling into your hair. His knuckles bleach a little whiter with the strain of the leash, the way he holds you in place. 

(When his palm moves, it smudges one of the little tar-black spots you painted on with a brush, across your temple.)

You can hear that he’s groaning, pressing himself into you and folding praise in with the shape of his fingers scratching at the back of your skull. Things like, “Yeah— fuck— just like that, sweet girl,” in rich husks that simmer across your porous bones and trickle when your shoulders shake. When your toes curl under you. But he holds the leash a little tighter for the angle, and the makeshift collar around your throat gets a little more taut—

Really, it’s all his fault. 

Taunting, Can’t be my proper puppy without— the lead he delicately clipped onto the cheap, old hot topic choker you dug out of the closet to use as a collar. The way that he kept his knuckles wrapped over the handle and his knuckles in his pocket at the party. Toting you around like a pet, keeping you rooted to his side when he settled. Tucked to the swell of his massive shoulder. 

The way he told you to stay like a dog when he went off to refill your drinks, the way he patted your head upon return to find your soles glued to the same spot. Scratching behind your ear derisively, fingertips riling a shudder across your shoulders. 

Such a good girl, you are, saturated in artificial, satirical delight. Corners of his mouth curling, the jeer dripping off the corners of his eyes. 

(Here’s your treat.)

It started as a joke. Mocking for the sake of watching the heat froth under your skin, across your cheekbones, the ruckled bridge of your nose. Faux praises and the condescending gravity of the lead across the base of your neck. The subtle tug into an isolated pigeonhole of a docility that soaked across the crown of your head. 

The mushroomed ridges of his tip bludgeon a splutter out from between your sopping lips, and more saliva oozes out and trickles across your tacky, wet fingers. 

You need to hear it again, need to hear him say it, that itch festering in the noxious tangle of your arousal when you rise on your haunches a touch to duck your chin and press your nose to the wiry smattering of hair bedding around the root of his cock—

“Fuck,” Harry drawls. Guttural, heated—

Varicolored phosphenes fleck behind your lids like constellations in the yawn of a mesmeric, caliginous sky. 

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he grunts, hums, hips tensing and canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like it’s an undiluted reflex to an itch, feeding his cock deeper— “Gonna cum down this pretty, little throat f’you keep sucking my cock like that.”

You rest both palms on his thighs. Twist your fingers into the fabric until it’s soggy with spit. Gag around the swell of him until he wrenches you back with his fingers under the collar, at your nape, and leaves you sputtering for air with your neck craned. When you blink your lashes apart, your eyes are wet. Bleary. Burning like the back of your tongue, the soft lining at the back of your mouth, where the only place left to cram further is down into your esophagus. 

He looks like a hedonistic cover page for a pornographic issue. 

The coarse strip of dark hair from his navel pools in the bed of curls nesting the hilt of his cock, and his thighs are split in this kingly way that makes you dizzy. It’s vertiginous, staring up at him from your knees. Meaty shoulders, one burnt umber curl hanging to eclipse an eyebrow, and his cock is so spit-slick. Wet, and shimmery, and stupidly thick, sealed in his fist. Throbbing. Your spit puddles off onto his heavy sack, the sodden fabric wrenched apart by the zipper, and you watch a little, pearlescent bead drool off the tip when he squeezes and twists his palm up. 

“Want it in your mouth?” Harry muses. It’s a subconscious maneuver; canting forward on the hinges of your joints with your swollen lips parted as he drags the pad of his thumb across the blurting pre-cum and smears it over his frenulum. “Want it bad, don’t you?”

The way he pulls on the end of the lead isn’t sharp. It’s subtle, but it corners you into nestling your mouth against his cock. Against the swollen shaft, cockhead pulsing and leaking out over the sloping bridge of your nose. 

“Beg,” he tells you. It’s soft. The wisp of a breath; a sigh when you smush your cherry mouth to the little vein that rides up the underside and turns baby blue beneath the crown. 

But it’s chock-full of the command given to an animal— beg, and I’ll give you a treat. It makes you sizzle down to your marrow. His lips curl loosely into a lazy grin. So debauched, around the shape of his cock, coated in your own saliva, pressed to your face. 

“Go on,” he smiles, “Let me hear you whine for it. Show me what a needy, little puppy you are.”

The words sink into your underbelly and leave your hands cresting for surface-purchase under the spindrift. They slip to his knees, and tangle into the fabric there as your lashes flutter. 

“Please,” you breathe, mouthing the word along the shape of his cock. Your lashes are still fluttering. Batting. You scootch forward a little, scratching into the firm muscle under the nomex, and let him smear his shaft across the tip of your nose, tarnishing the borders of the snout you painted on.

He hums. His thumb catches on the corner of your mouth, just as you start to paste an open-mouthed, suckling kiss onto the underside of the root. Your tongue smudges out against his sack. 

He’s unconvinced— you watch it in the way his brows notch, hear it in the rumble that stems from his chest when he grips his cock by the hilt and taps it against you. “Come on, baby. I know you can do a little better than that. Really work for it, hm?”

“Please,” you say, rocking your hips. “Want it bad. Wanna keep sucking you. Please, please.”

A hand tucks into your hair. The fingertips there scratch into the spot behind the shell of your ear softly, and the sensation draws a shudder over your shoulders. You feel on fire. Molten, under the weight of his gaze, the unresistant pressure on the lead, the patronization that trickles off his tone.

“Go on, then, puppy,” Harry murmurs, finally, and loosens the white-knuckled, taut grip on the leash enough for you to clamber back, “Take me back into your mouth.”

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TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @lolalovespeaches @flubblubbb

@ivegotthecinema @bxtchboy69 @iloveharrystyles04 @littlenatilda @witch-rry

@watermelonsugarslut @hs1thea @boystepper @carolinaskiwii @kathleengrg

@madstyles3204 @fruity-harry

[littleohs]

wass: beneath his gaze

“don't keep me waiting, harry.” he put on everything he needed, removing his pants and underwear. the handcuff clasps snapped shut and he had to look in the mirror to get his collar on right. he fiddled with the clasps on either side of the leather that served to connect to each other and left the room. or, day four of kinktober: master and slave

main pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson

rating: mature

status: complete

word count: drabble — 1.7k

main tags: omega harry, alpha louis, master and slave, face slapping, kinktober day four

“Don't you dare cry,” Louis murmured disdainfully, leaning forward until his lips almost brushed Harry's. “Slaves don't have the right to cry. Slaves have no right to tears.” Louis pulled on Harry, forcing him to arch his neck painfully as he held his head in that position. Harry's eyes filled with tears, but he held them back, pressing his lips tightly together so as not to show weakness. “That's the way I like it,” the alpha let go of Harry's hair suddenly, letting his head fall heavily to the ground. “A silent, obedient omega. You are nothing more than a toy, an object for my use, and you would do well to remember that. I want you to fetch the ashtray and my pack.”

part of my kinktober this year!

read here

[cheriladycl01]

Kinktober 25/10/2024 Charles Leclerc - Double Penetration

Plot: Charles loved back shots but when he finds your dildo he can’t help but want to see how you cope.

Warnings: Kinktober, SMUT, fingering, p in v, dildo use, anal etc 18+ Minors DNI

You and Charles were insatiable. Your relationship had been built up around your guys sex life. You guys hooked up one night in a club after he won and race in Italy and you were out clubbing with all your uni friends the same night the race concluded.

You both agreed that the night was like no other and kept coming back to each out. Just causal sex, nothing more nothing less.

But the more you saw one another and had that intimacy the more you guys became like a couple.

You went from leaving pretty much straight after you both reach your high, to cuddling with him and falling alseep together.

You went from keeping it private and low-key at his home, to walking around the streets on dates even though for the longest time you both refused to acknowledge them as dates.

And you both were too stubborn to admit that 5 months in and you were definitely not casual anymore.

As your relationship progressed and you guys fell more in love with each other the sex just got better. There was something quite tame and almost vanilla about hooking up with Charles however, with the stability and confidence of a relationship with you backing him he started to get more experimental with things he did.

The latest was anal, something you’d never done before and arguably something Charles had never done before either. But he loved back shots, even before he’d tried your back doors he loved having you in your hands and knees in doggy style and just being able to push and pull you into the desired position. So once he’d pushed his dick in your ass there was a whole new obsession that had started.

However today, you were in a university class having spent the whole day in Italy where you attended at Sanremo University which was only an hour drive from Monaco.

While you were in your classes learning about anatomy Charles was having a spring clean of your shared apartment. It was normally you that did the big cleans as you just seemed to have more time than him naturally.

He was sat on the floor, an old pair of custom sunglasses with his name and the Ferrari logo on, his Alfa Romeo hat on his head and a feather boa of yours from the night he met you at the club, his old Harry Potter cloak as he was looking through stuff under the bed and in the bedside cabinet.

He hadn’t meant to get distracted with all the random junk but he had which led him on to find your box. It was a box he didn’t even know you had but he could tell it was yours from your name and the do not open on top of it.

“Do not open?” He muttered to himself with a smirk.

And with all due respect he only thought he’d find really bad old school pictures of you, not the brightest largest sparkly red dildo he had ever put his eyes on.

He waited for you to come home, excitement bubbling in his chest the whole time. He couldn’t even stay in the bedroom, he was pacing round the house on the balls of his feet.

The minute he heard your keys in the door he was running over to it quicker than him in the car.

“Hey princess” he grins and immediately you look up at him in shock. Usually he’d be on the sofa or in the kitchen pottering about as you came home but he was right on the door this time!

“Erm hi baby?” You chuckle putting your keys on the side and leaving your bag of school bits by the door.

“Come with me” he says grabbing your hand and you follow him, he takes you into the bedroom where you see the absolute state of it and everything from under the bed now on the floor unboxed.

“What on .. Charles I thought you said you were cleaning, not messing the house up more” you groan looking at the clothes all on the floor in the corner and the random keyboard Charles had got for Christmas and the old tea towels from your mum that had never been put to use.

“Mmmm well mon ange I started to clean and then I got distracted by this” he says holding up your dildo that you haven’t used in god knows how long. It’s been tucked away in your ‘first year uni’ box when you were living in student accommodation.

“I- I haven’t seen that in so long” you say taking it in your own hand in shock.

“Mmmm and we’re using it right now, get on the bed mon petite dame” he says, and when you don’t make any moves he lifts you up himself spinning you round and pushing you to the bed.

“Need to get you all wet if you gonna take both” he groans as he pulls your jeans off and then your panties with it. He didn’t take note that they were his favourite lace ones, he just chucked them in one of the various piles of things that have built up in the room.

“Both?” You question unsure of what he means. He traces a fingers along your folds before lightly rubbing your clit.

“Mmmm that” he points to the dildo in your hand “will go in this hole” he says pushing a finger in.

“And then I’ll stuff myself into my favourite hole” he grins lightly pinching the flesh or your ass.

“Oh fuck” you moan at his words and how he’s putting pressure on you clit while two of his fingers move in and out. The minute he can hear the squelching he’s knows there’s enough natural lubrication for him.

“On your knees for me baby, ass up” he says and this time you don’t need him to do it for you as your taking the command in your stride and obeying immediately.

You hold yourself up on your elbows while Charles positions himself behind you. He slips into your vagina with ease, making sure to thrust in and out at an agonisingly slow pace. He always found it better and easier for him to lube himself up with your juices first from the front before he delved into the back.

He held you by your hips, rubbing up and down whispering sweet words about how good your going to feel for him. When he feels like your getting too close and he’s teases you enough. He grabs the flexible dildo, one hand coming round.

He pulls himself out before switching round and pushing the dildo into you. A moan and the cold sensation compared to him warm dick has your moaning into the pillow that’s infront of you.

“C-Charlie fuck” you moan, your hips stuttering forward as he makes the dildo touch the furthest point in your walls and bottoming out.

“You gonna be a good girl and hold it there for me while I get all snug in this tight hole?” He asks, with a small smack to your left cheek making you lurch forward and quickly grab the end of the dildo keeping it in place despite your hole clenching around it.

He spreads your cheeks apart, before slipping in. You’d done this so many times now that it didn’t effect you as much as the first few times did, but it still felt a little uncomfortable and painful for the first few seconds that he pushed himself in.

A little whimpers comes from your mouth, the feeling of being so full as Charles pushes himself all the way in.

“You’re so beautiful. Holy shit. You are everything” he moans into you. One of his hands comes down on the bed grabbing your hand and holding himself up while the other reaches round your body to take over holding the dildo.

And god, you were ever so thankful your boyfriend had the intense brain of an F1 driver in these moments. Being able to push and pull the dildo in and out of one place while thrusting in and out of another.

Your eyes blaze wide at the feeling and your mouth drops open. You feel like you could throw up the feeling is so good, so good that you start rocking back to meet his thrusts.

It’s also over whelming, one hand is gripping the sheets while the other is squeezing your interlocked fingers with Charles.

“Fuck fuck fuck I - what I” you can hardly speak as Charles builds up his momentum making sure your never without some kind of stimulation.

“I-I’m gonna I f-fu-fuck oh my god oh my fuckinh god charlieeeeeee” you cry out with pants as your clench around him and the dildo, a blinding white covering your eyes as your orgasm washes over you. Your soaking the bed with how your squirting and an impressive amount that has Charles shortly following you in suit his hips stuttering as he cums inside you.

“Oh fuck, baby I” he tries to breath but your just as bad, panting shaking and your arms swiftly give out as you faceplant the bed with a soft whimper and groan.

Charles slips out and pulls the dildo out making you gasp at how empty you now feel.

“I” you start but Charles shushes you with a kiss.

“I love you. You did do well for me”

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[srldesigns6277]

The L.O.U.I.S. Inspection System by srldesigns6277

Unexpectedly, Harry finds himself strapped to a table with machines all around him. His pussy was on open display while he lay restrained. The mechanical voice of the L.O.U.I.S. machine begins speaking to him, controlling everything he is and will feel throughout the inspection. The L.O.U.I.S machine makes this an inspection one Harry will never forget. My attempt at a Kinktober 2024 story, Fucking Machines.

Dubious Consent, Boypussy, Boypussy Harry Styles, Metal Restraints, Vibrators, Clit clamps, Nipple Clamps, Gags, Spanking, Disembodied Voice - Freeform Degradation, Praise, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Machine Fucking, Fucking Machines, Butt Plug Kidnapped Harry, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Screaming, Voice Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Machines, Clit Suction, Sub Harry Styles, Pussy Inspection

Thank you to @voulezloux and @wishingforloushair for reading this to help me figure out the tags and for enjoying my first Kinktober fic.

[sunbellylou]

— KINKTOBER 2024

⋆ calendar

✦ face fucking | harry styles x louis tomlinson read here

✦ begging | sirius black x remus lupin read here

✦ degradation & floor sex | draco malfoy x harry potter read here

✦ breeding kink | sirius black x remus lupin read here

✦ cock warming (100 words drabble) | harry styles x louis tomlinson read here

✦ daddy kink & jealousy | harry styles x louis tomlinson read here

✦ threesome | louis tomlinson x pedro pascal x oscar isaac read here

✦ free use | harry styles x louis tomlinson read here

✦ overstimulation | draco malfoy x harry potter read here

i'll be writing for different pairings and fandoms. all pairings will be mlm, and i'll mostly write for louis and harry potter fandom.

feel free to request pairings and dynamics!

[multifandomworldsposts]

ABOUT ME + WHO I WRITE ABOUT + MASTERLIST 🪩🫶🏻

my name is cassy, my pronouns is she/her, i’m a fan of a bunch of humans including fictional humans :))

WHO I WRITE ABOUT

Elvis Presley (& his characters)

Austin Butler (& his characters)

Top Gun Maverick

Teen Wolf

Top Gun

The Vampire Diaries

Outerbanks

The Outsiders

Harry Styles

Shawn Mendes

DC

Marvel

80s/90s actors (ur choice)

Justin Bieber

One Direction

5 Seconds of Summer

Sam & Colby

Big Time Rush

Saved By The Bell

beverly hills, 90210

my life with the walter boys

Harry Potter (characters)

🫶🏻 MASTERLIST 🫶🏻

🎃🕷️ Kinktober 2023 ☠️👻

❄️🧤Kinkmas 2023 ☃️🛷

🧤🧣Kinkmas 2024 ❄️🎄

OuterBanks 🌴🐚

The Night We Met - JJ Maybank

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

That Damn Cadillac - Rafe Cameron

POV: ur dating Pope Hayward

dating jj maybank would include…

taking care of him - JJ Maybank

dating John B would include....

Our Little Secret - JJ Maybank

POV: ur dating JJ Maybank

You're The Love Of My Life - Pope Hayward

At The Beach House - Rafe Cameron

DC & MARVEL 🗡️

Love Story - Aquaman

Austin Butler 😍

Trouble - Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3

We Met In Tampa - Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 5 Pt. 6 Pt. 7

POV: ur dating Austin Butler

fais moi l’amour - Pt. 1

Top Gun/Maverick 🛩️😎🤎

The Pilot I Fell In Love With - Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky

Maverick’s Assistant - Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

POV: ur dating Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

POV: ur dating Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw

Champagne & Sunshine - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

Shawn Mendes 🎸

Confession

because i liked a boy

Teen Wolf 🐺

POV: ur dating Isacc Lahey

POV: ur dating Stiles Stilinski

The Outsiders 🚬

POV: ur dating Ponyboy Curtis

POV: ur dating Dallas Winston

Elvis Presley 🎸🥰

My Manager's Daughter

Youtubers ▶️♥️

POV: ur dating Colby Brock

finally meeting - Colby Brock

Harry Styles 🫶🏻🩷

POV: ur dating Harry Styles

Louis Tomlinson 🖤

POV: ur dating Louis Tomlinson

Football Players 🏈⭐️

Victory Win - Joe Burrow

[starrylanex]

hi angels, welcome to my blog:)

ELENA, 21, SHE/HER,

🕯️requests are currently OPEN!!!!

{i love harry styles, taylor swift, gracie abrams, sam & colby, supernatural, the hunger games, tvdu, teen wolf, twilight, mcu, harry potter and much more:)}

* elle’s kinktober 2024💋

* here is my main library

[mrsprobie]

Accepting requests for Kinktober 2024

It's almost October, and you know what that means! If you'd like an example of my smut style, check out Regularly Scheduled (ao3), a short and minorly kinky Pansy/Hermione fic

For requests, I am taking F/F and M/F in the following fandoms:

Harry Potter (no next gen or Fantastic Beasts characters)

Twilight (no Renesmee)

Criminal Minds (through season 8)

MCU

I will accept reader and OC requests!

I have written for the following kinks already for this year:

Biting

Tentacles

Sexting

If you're interested, just drop an ask with any other kink and a character or pairing and I can get started!

[gucciforasushirestaurant]

Kinktober №2 | Look At Us

summary: you think vampires are sexy, and harry cant keep his eyes off of you or his hands to himself.

or you and harry fuck in the bathroom of a halloween party.

word count: 2.6k

read time: 11 min

content warning ⚠️: nonfamous!harry, boyfriend!harry, vampire!harry (kinda), dom!harry, roleplay, costumes, D/s dynamics, mirror sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, praise kink, degradation, humiliation (if you squint), primal kink, (fake) blood kink, monster fucking (i guess?), pet names (baby, babe, little lamb, pet, honey), fingering, penetration (p in v), cream pie, unprotected sex

a/n: this one might be my favorite of the series i was going to save it for tomorrow but i cant keep sitting on this one lol. enjoy!

👻Kinktober 2024 Masterlist👻

You and Harry were known amongst your friend group for your Halloween looks. The two of you would show out with not one, but several Halloween couples costumes a year, depending on how many parties you had on your calendar. Harry contributed equally to the concepts, but he always gave you the full credit, claiming you were the creative heart of your relationship. Your first costume, for the first party of the weekend was your idea. 

A vampire, and his sexy victim. 

The idea came purely from you rediscovering your love of Twilight, and admiration of  the vampire genre as a whole. Something about it drew you in. To you it was just inherently sexy, so when it came for Halloween, you jumped at the opportunity to dress Harry up as your personal vampire boyfriend fantasy. 

You went all out, buying him hyper-realistic fangs, and giving him a dark vampire look with some makeup magic. You on the other hand had gone with a very glamorous look, complete with a vampire red lip and lashes, with a dribble of  fake flood down your neck, to your cleavage. You had even gone as far as to bejewel a corset adding a blood stained design with rhinestones, and paired it with a flowy skirt with a long slit up the side exposing your thigh. 

You looked hot as hell together, and have been getting compliments all night. And Harry couldn’t keep his eyes, or hands off of you the entire party. 

After having had enough small talk with your girlfriends, doing his best to pay attention to the conversation, nodding and smiling in the right places, he cracks. With a slight lull in the conversation, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer into his side.

“Excuse us.” Harry smiles sharply, clearing his throat.  He takes your hand, pulling you away from the small group, slowly weaving the both of you through the crowded house. 

“Where are we going exactly?” you ask, looking up at him. 

“Just follow me.” He says escorting you through the ocean of people that crowded the small house, until he reaches a half bathroom at the back of the house. He quickly ushers you inside before closing and locking the door behind him. 

“Harry?” you ask, brows knitted together, “You okay?” 

He remains silent, placing his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face the mirror. You lean back against him as he lowers his face into your neck, planting a quick there. 

“Just needed a second away.” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist. You smile at him in the mirror, lacing your fingers in his hair at the base of his neck, for comfort. 

It’s not unusual for him to pull you away at parties. Harry sometimes gets overwhelmed being around your friends. You loved them, but they were a lot of energy sometimes, especially when it was all of them together. So, sometimes he just wanted to decompress with you, for a moment before going back into the chaos. You’d even come up with a code word for when it happens, and he needs a moment. 

But he hadn’t used it, just now. You were worried that something was actually wrong, until you began to feel him go from leaving light pecks on your neck, to sucking on the sensitive skin, pressing you up against him. It was then that you realized it wasn’t anxiety that had him all worked up and needing time away. 

It was you. 

“You look so beautiful tonight baby.” he mumbles into your neck, pressing his hips into your ass.

“Thank you.” you smile, “You look very handsome, too.” 

“I like these costumes,” he whispers, teeth nibbling your earlobe, “I really,” he kisses your jaw, “really,” and again, another kiss to your neck, “like them.” 

“Yeah?” you sigh, body suddenly heating up.

“Mmhm..” he says. His hands begin roaming up your body, from where they sat at your hips, up to your tits, cupping and groping them in his large hands. You toss your head back, eyes closed, as he brings a hand up further, wrapping it around your throat. He lightly presses down, making you look in the mirror. 

“Look at us.” he rasps, “Look how fucking good we look, baby.” 

He dips his head down into your neck, with a devilish smirk, kissing and sucking up your neck. When he allows the faux fangs to graze your neck, you let out a moan, he's quick to quiet with his hand over your mouth. 

“Shhh, shhh ....little lamb,” he smirks, playing into his vampire role, “Don’t want anyone to hear you, do we? Not while I take what’s mine.” 

You whine, biting the inside of your cheek as you shake your head. You make an attempt to turn in his arms, instead he turns your face to the side, capturing your lips with his, swallowing your little whimpers. You savor the feeling of his lips on yours, and the occasional nip from his ‘fangs’, as a hand rests on your throat while the other gropes your chest. 

Soon, too soon, he’s pulling away, turning your head forward to look at the mirror, again. He lightly tightens his grip around your throat for a moment. “Keep your eyes here,” he demands. He tilts your head to the side slightly, further exposing your neck and begins to suck, teeth and fangs grazing your skin. He brings a hand down, gripping the flesh of your hip, as he swivels his hips into your ass. You groan at the feeling of how hard he was getting for you, just from kissing you. Just from having you close. 

You did as you were told, keeping your eyes forward watching every move Harry made, and watching just how hot the two of you looked together. The fake blood dripping down your chest, Harry kissing and nibbling on your neck, marking you up, groping you. Something about it was so…primal. And it was hot as fuck. 

When Harry feels you begin to swivel your hips back into him, begging him for some friction, he finally, though much too slowly for your liking, begins to drag the flowy material of your skirt up your thighs, bunching it at your hips, revealing your bare ass.  

Harry brings a hand down to your ass, giving your right cheek a squeeze, “No panties baby?” 

“The skirt slit is too high,” you whine, moving against his hand as he grips your other cheek in his palm, gently massaging it. 

“You want to know what I think?” You moan as his hand moves to your front cupping your pussy in his large hand. “I think you did this on purpose. I think you knew what this was going to do to me.” He catches your eye in the mirror. “You knew this was going to happen. Didn’t you baby?” 

“I hoped,” you smirked, which quickly melted into a moan, as you felt Harry begin to run his fingers through your folds. 

He chuckles, eyes full of lust looking at you through the mirror. “Well, I’ll give you what you want but I have one rule.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll fuck you. But if  you look elsewhere, or get too loud…I stop. Got it?”

“Yes.” you gasp, as two fingers breach your folds, slowly stretching you.

“Good pet.” He coos. He slowly works his fingers in and out of you, stretching you open with his digits. He’s always been so good with his fingers, always stroking you perfectly, and always bringing you to the edge in minutes.  “That good baby?” he asks, into your neck, you nod frantically, biting your bottom lip trying your best to stay quiet. “Remember to breathe, baby. Breathe through it.” he whispers into your ear. You let out a gasp, feeling your stomach flip, as you inched closer to the edge. 

“Oh god.” you whisper, gripping onto his forearm.

“Good girl.” he praises, “Just give me one, and then I’ll give you my cock. Promise.” After a  few more strokes to your g-spot, you came in a bright white light, biting down on your lips to keep from yelling out. You lean back against Harry, as your legs begin to shake under you. He holds you close, moaning into your temple as he feels you pulse around his fingers. 

 “There you go.” Harry groans, turning your face to kiss you, allowing you to let out some moans into his mouth, “Good girl, baby.” He fucks you through it, pumping his fingers slowly,  eventually coming to a stop. He withdraws them from your pussy, turning your head back to the mirror, forcing you to look at yourselves. He brings his come covered fingers to your lips, eyes glued to yours. You whine, rolling your hips into his begging him for more. 

“Shh…Open.” he demands. 

You do as you're told, offering Harry your tongue, welcoming the weight of his fingers on your tongue. You wrap your lips around them, sucking off your juices, and moaning at the taste.

“Look at you.” Harry says proudly. You whimper around his fingers, pushing back against Harry’s hardening cock, while admiring how fucked out you looked, and how in control Harry looked. In addition to the costumes, your head was spinning.

“Look at us, baby.” he repeats, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth. “Fuck.” he growls, “Look how pretty you look all needy.” 

“Harry.” you pout, impatiently. “You promised.” You reach behind you, gripping onto the bulge that’s been pressed against your ass. He groans into your ear, body tensing around you, before pulling your hand away and holding it down by your side. 

“No. No touching.” he coos, biting your earlobe. “And stay quiet. I’m not going to warn  you again.” He growls, leaning more and more into his role. “Understood?”  You nod your head slowly, biting your lip.  

He rolls his hips into your ass roughly, reveling in watching you struggle to stay quiet. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” he teases. 

You nod your head feverishly, chest heaving. He lowers his pants just enough to free himself. He removes his hand from your neck briefly, to guide the head of his cock through your folds. You moan slightly before covering your mouth quickly with your hand. 

“Shhh….” he coos into your ear, before a moan rips through his own throat as the head of his cock, hits your clit. “You’re so wet, honey. My god.” 

He teases your entrance with his cock, eyes glued to yours, “Look at me.” he demands, hand back on your neck, as he whispers in your ear.

You let out a little whimper as you feel the head of his cock push past your entrance. No matter how long you’ve been together or how many times you’ve been in this exact position, there was always a stretch with Harry. A good stretch but a stretch nonetheless, and it always took your breath away.  

“Shhh....I'll go slow.” he whispers. “Just breathe.” 

You let out little huffs through your nose. Trying to breath through the stretch as your stomach flipped with each shallow thrust, as he slowly worked himself into you. 

When he's fully sheathed inside of you, he stays still for a moment, letting out a deep sigh as he kisses the side temple. He was just as wrapped up in the feeling of you wrapped around him, as you were at the feeling of the tip of his cock, kissing your cervix. If you weren’t in the middle of a Halloween party, you’d be more than okay staying as you were, reveling in the stretch and fullness of Harry. 

Slowly, he begins to draw his hips back before diving back into you deeply, forcing your jaw to go slack. “There you go. See, you can take it.” he praises, as he continues his achingly slow pace, “Look at you. Fuck. Look at you being a good girl for me.” he kisses the side of your face messily, “So fucking pretty.” 

He keeps his pace slow for a bit, fantasizing that you had all the time in the world. Trying to savor the feeling of your wet pussy, tightly gripping him. When he does begin to speed up, he adds a roll of his hips as well. Fucking you hard, and deep. He groaned into your neck, as he pounded into you. You watch him in the mirror, and are beyond turned on at the sight of Harry. He was so wrapped up in you, so focused on your pleasure, on making it difficult for you to stay quiet, you didn’t know how much longer you’d be able to take it. You were so sensitive, everything just felt so good. Harry sees it when he looks up at you in the mirror. How cock drunk you were, how hard you were trying to stay quiet, and it ignited something primal in him. 

“Look at you baby. See how fucked out you look, hmm?” you nod, and he smiles, “You a little cock drunk, baby?” he teases as you struggle to maintain eye contact with him in the mirror. Your eyes roll back for a moment before they are able to refocus on your reflection in the mirror.  

“I know, it’s so much isn't it.” he coos, “But you wanted it, so you can take it. And you’re going to.” He huffs. “Fuck you’re so tight baby.” He brings a hand down your front to where you two connect, fingers going straight to your clit. Harry coos at you kissing the side of your head, fingers tapping at your clit. 

You let out the tiniest whimper, and as if it were a reflex Harry's hand went from framing your neck to covering your mouth. The swift simple move only had you moaning into his hand even more. “Shh….quiet baby.” he groans into your ear.

You feel your legs grow weaker and weaker as he continues to pound into you. You lean forward, against the countertop, as Harry brings the hand on your hip, around your waist, allowing him to hold most of your weight up. He leans forward, kissing the back of your shoulder, your neck anywhere he could reach. The tenderness of his kisses mixed with the fierceness of his strokes had your head swimming, and he could feel you start to tighten around him. 

“That’s it, baby just relax. Let go baby.” 

You feel yourself tightening even more around his cock, squeezing him with a vice grip. You moan into his hand, as you feel your orgasm approaching. “There you go. Come on. I feel you right there.” he praises, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “Cum with me, honey. Come on.” 

Your hand flies down, hitting the sink, as you feel your legs completely give out, coming hard around Harry’s cock. 

“Thata girl. Fuck! Come just like that.” he encourages, kissing at your neck and face. 

He fucks you through it, only for moments later for his own orgasm to follow, painting your walls and throbbing inside of you.

He removes his hand from your mouth, but turns your face to kiss him. You moan into the sloppy kiss, trying your best to catch your breath. Harry turns you around, lifting you up to sit on the counter. He opens your thighs sliding between them wrapping his arms around your waist pulling you close. You wrap your arms around his neck, tucking yourself into his neck. 

“Wow.” you sigh. 

“You okay?” he asks softly, kissing along your hairline. You chuckle, nodding into his hold. “I wasn’t too rough?” 

You pull away, caressing his face, “No.” you smile lazily, “Not at all. What got into you?” 

“I don’t know…these costumes.” He said looking down at your tits that had been on display all night. “Something about them.” He chuckles.

“Well if it's costumes you like…I have plenty of ideas.” you giggle leaning forward kissing him. 

“I’m all ears.” Harry smirks. 

✨masterlist✨ ∣ ✨yap & req✨

[gucciforasushirestaurant]

✨Gucci's Kinktober 2024👻✨

Smut🔥| Kink❤️‍🔥| Fluff💕| Angst🥺 | Dark Themes🖤|🤓 author picks| 🌟fan faves

№1 - punish me ❤️‍🔥💕🥺

№2 - look at us ❤️‍🔥🤓

✨masterlist✨ | ✨yap & request box✨

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ

KNEELING LAMIA | Witch hunter!Harry x Witch!reader

There's too much tension in this cat-and-mouse. Inevitably, it stretches too taut and snaps.

★18+

This is ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍɪᴀ for the KINKTOBER projects. Witch x Witch hunter au.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: enemies. p-in-v. degradation. praise. pussy slapping (light). dom/sub undertones. rough sex. bro is simply kind of an asshole, but it's in an attractive way imo.

WC: 3.7K

You hate him. 

You hate him, you hate the grease in his derisory, lopsided smile, the one, two-tick at the corners of his mouth, like an omen on the hollow barrel of a cocked gun. The stupid white straightness of them, slick with spit and glimmering off the glowing oil lantern. 

The soft humanness in his unchiseled eyes. When they’re narrowed into slits, the color is so soft, so delicate, that they don’t feel nearly as sharp as he intends. The preternatural juxtaposition of a human having eyes that are so mesmerizing is absurd— the pink-rimmed oil painting of his irises, mounted in white, under the tarp of his lashes (they’re long, dark, and cast shadows across the green sfumato). You can nearly find sunstones flecking like gold flakes wading the surface of a pool, if you look close enough.

But the bands are eroded now. Lacking. You always thought his eyes were like the moss speckling the grove in your back garden. Now, the vibrancy of it, crawling up the trunks, feels like a distant memory.

Smeared, pupils bleeding wide like spilled ink. 

(You loathe the way his green reminds you of the malachite scattered across your window sill.)

You hate his hands, too. His fingers. The way they notch on reins, and the steel hilt of a gun. The way his pointer stretches across the metal trigger— click— and the way the aim is off. Misses. A bole eats the bullet, and you think, after so many tries, he has to not miss.

He has to not miss.

But he misses, and misses, and misses— the cat and mouse is an old, familiar game, but a fractured part of you thinks he misses on purpose. And you wonder who’s really the cat; when he’ll finally admit you’ve been filling his shoes out in the hunt, long before his time. 

But you hate his hands most because of the way they touch you. The way they feel good. Pinching your bones in place, thumbprints carving into your skin. 

Pressure points— he’s no good with a gun, but he’s good at finding pressure points, scoping them with his fingertips. Squeezing in. 

You hate his teeth, because you hate him, and he hates you, and you want to sweep them off the floor when you fracture every little bone in the composite of his skull with your palms and shatter them out with your fingers. The way they chew into your nipples and stab a crushed squeak out of you. 

(It’s the nature of the game— a double helix. Taijitu. Water and oil. You’re meant to despise each other, because dark has to exist to balance light. There has to be a villain in every story, otherwise the narrative collapses—)

You can’t stand the way his stupidly fat cock splits you on him, around him. The way when he groans, the way it starts as a hum between his ribs, and metastasizes into that yawning pry of his mouth, his soft lips. 

(Conflict. Resolution. Recycle.)

His hand pawing at a handful of your breast, like kneading dough. Testing the heft when it shakes under the pressure of his hips slamming in wet squelches, sack slapping to your sticky cunt. The blunt of his nails scraping down your sides, prying in where your waist tapers, and wrapping the barbs of his fingers around, where the rungs sit at your back, to lug you against him in filthy, wet smacks. Again— again. 

(Fuck, fuck, fuck—)

“—Fuck,” you mewl, scratching out at his temple, fingertips curling into the burnt umber tufts they can reach, pulling, tangling. Scraping. Your thumb grazes his cheekbone. He bites down on your nipple, instead, where he’s been rolling it between his teeth with his tongue, and grunts. It makes you squirm on the table and arch.

When he unlatches and lurches up to loom over you, he looks wild. Like an untamed beast— reminds you of the wolf that lingers by your doorstep— that you’ve lugged along into your kitchen. Let him splay you across the big, oak table that squeals and rattles under the punishing pace he’s set with his hips. 

“Fuck— no,” Harry grunts, and slams your wrist down onto the table, beside your head, your stuttering pulse. Cuffed in his grip. Your fingers twitch. His throat bobs when he swallows.

The tip of his tongue flicks out, drags across his lips, and you think of a scenting serpent. He huffs.

“Ought to declaw you,” he muses, hunching over you, narrowed eyes oscillating from your nails to your face. Voice a husk that oozes condescension. As if you’re an animal— a feral cat that needs its talons extracted. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, and the words— the petulant tone, the way your chest rattles when his cock throbs inside of you— are enough to crook the corners of his pink mouth. Wry. Acid across his lips, in the ridges between his teeth. 

He sticks his thumb in your mouth, but not really; presses in against the flat of your front tooth when you bare your canines, squeezing at your cheeks. Pressure points— under the side of your mandible, beneath your cheekbone.

“Better watch that mouth,” he taunts. When his eyebrows climb, three ruckles seep across his forehead. Maybe evidence of how he means it, how firm his resolve is, but the way he tips his head down at you, it's goading—

Your chest rolls. “Fuck— you.”

And you get it. You do. Coexisting is an absurd, incompatible fantasy. Deluded, when you cup your teeth around the world and still feel hungry. It only stretches so wide before he’s under your teeth, too, and nobody wants to live in a hungry, sharp mouth. It’s a means of resource. Sanctum; I want sanctum, and you my friend, are preventing that like gum jammed into a lock on a gate. 

This slow dance is called perfect, incongruous symbiosis, like a winter coat and the hot sun. You don’t fit together. You’ll never work— not in tandem. 

It’s just that he doesn’t get that it’s the circle of life.

A snake and a mouse. That works. It’s unpleasant, but it doesn’t have to be watched. 

But it’s ugly. You get the angry men with the pitchforks. You get him— vigilante, here to stab the head off the python with a wooden stick and wring his hands out after, like the hero he’ll be if he manages to tame the beast (glorified pest control— snub the snake in the backyard). You accepted a long time ago that all the little people would get mad that you were eating their little people. 

Nasty, vicious thing in the back garden— get rid of it.  

But hey— that’s life. The ugly, vicious wasp nest dangling off a poplar tree deserves to exist, too, because that’s the anomalous, hideous shape mother nature’s hand squeezed it into. And that’s, you think, the disconnect. The electrical cord spitting white-hot, fizzing sparks from where it’s been gnawed down the middle.

You swallow. His eyes are blade-sharp. So unco. Contemplating, calculating.

You get all that. What you can’t wrap your mind around is the untethered snap between you, like a bungee cord lugging you into a collision. It makes you feel feverish. The fracture in the foundation below you, every atom bred from this, predestined narrative. The sizzle beneath your skin— a charred brand in the shape of his kiss under the layers of your dermis— (a lowly mimicry of what lovemaking is, all teeth). It’s brutal. Sharp. A skirt of canines across your collarbone. A notch across the bone. A means to satiate, a compound of loathing, and pining, and the cozening haze of desire. The yearning curdled in the spiral of the communal pool of your animosity.   

Because he smells like the rain rapping across your roof when you stand out with the door propped, sticking to the fireweed in rivulets under your porch steps. Like suede. Musk. The wilting coriander sprig on your altar. Your resolve is wicker snapping under his thumb. A melting glacier under the heavy heat dripping from his eyes. You don’t like it. You can’t get enough.

You tip your chin up and his thumb snags on the blunt edges, smushes into your lower lip. When his heavy cock slips out of you and slaps up against his belly, a whine prickles at the back of your mouth. You encase it with your throat like a dirty secret left to write on paper. You won’t whine for him. But he’s thick. His cock is stupidly fat, and it throbs like he can feel the encroaching emptiness between your legs for himself. 

You won’t whine, but you feel hollow, and it makes your hips cant up involuntarily. Forward. To him— you hate that— but the stamp of his palm to your cunt makes your thought process crumble apart like notes plummeting off their bars on a sheet of music. A smack of skin on skin is the aria of your twisted affection stretching and collapsing. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. There’s a dull pang that blooms there, under his touch, but it feels smothered under the white-hot lightning streak of shock that jolts your shoulders and sculpts your face. The mortified, blistering heat that spumes your cheeks when the whites of your eyes pool a little wider. You flounder up at him wordlessly. 

Harry hums. It’s haughty, and mocking, and it makes something ripple in your underbelly. “Say that again, little girl?”

You swallow. Squirm. The pseudonym has something bristling in your chest. You’re not a little girl. This thicket has belonged to you for hundreds of years. 

But the warm prickle between your thighs is an ugly, ugly paradox. 

And you hate the way his hand is this humongous thing between your thighs, across your sex, swallowing your smarting cunt in the cup of his palm. The way he leaves it where it landed. His thumb stretched out and lingering in the crease between your mons and your tucked up thigh. You hate the way you drool slick against his fingers, the way your clit pulses under the heel of his hand. Your chest rolls. 

His amusement is acidic. Patronization sloshes off his eyes and burns a hole right through the layer of your mettle when he cocks his head down at you, the way your hips hitch. His lips twist. “Oh you liked that, did you?”

Your face pinches. The corners of your lips curl down despite the way your empty pussy flutters under his skin.

“No."

He makes a sound. A hum that granulates into a rich chuckle, and his eyes flicker off your face, to his hand, and back, and back. Something brews in the depths under his lashes, you think— a sinkhole cratering into the ground beneath the canopy of the woods, driving the forest ground out into a void— watching the breadth of his hand envelop between your thighs. Maybe at the molten heat, or the way he can undeniably feel you clenching up. Throbbing. Against him. For him. 

“Is that right? Look at that, mm— drippy, little pussy,” Harry tells you, voice hardly over a whisper. The words are a livewire zigzagging up your spine, riding the arches of the knobs, spilling something noxious and cloudy along your cerebrospinal fluid. 

It goes straight to your head. 

“Needy, little cunt. Bet you could cum just from me slapping it.”

His middle finger grazes your asshole. Your toes curl, you can’t even argue, despite the vitriol puddling on the back of your tongue like stagnant water. He tips his head. Smiles. The flash of teeth carves an ache into you that makes your bones ring.

“Aren’t you… just the sweetest thing when you’re put in your place,” Harry murmurs down at you, eyebrows climbing, and he’s— unctuous. A headache. The kind that clusters around the arch of your skull and squeezes taut like a bundle of rubber bands. Talking down to you like you’re a wily thing for him to put into a corner, once and for all. Like your demesne isn’t stamped in his soggy footprints, layer after layer, year after year.

You bare your teeth and jut your chin defiantly, but then he drags his thumb down along your pebbled clit, and it makes your shoulders wobble. 

You used to cut hunters down like the loggers muscling in on your timber. Hatred was a pearl folded into your heart. A bead tucked into the soft, fleshy tissue between the little pockets of your ventricles, and it stung like a splinter in your gums. 

You wear it in your chest like his name shaved into a rib. The perfect harmony of dysfunction. You don’t know why being under him kindles a flame. Just that it does. He’s live coal, and you crackle over what he gives you.

The moment of reticence between you has that shattering weight of your little truce, and you’re reminded of the plunge from the hillscape of your dignity. 

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t mind. 

His shoulders swell. You like the spit-slick rim of his mouth, the way the color is an insignia of your teeth making landfall. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

When he plants his hand beside your ear and stretches forward a little more, his cockhead slips across your clit. Hot, like a firebrand coated in sateen. You curl your fingers and realize your wrist is still pinned down. His eyes sway to it like he knows what you’re thinking, and his mouth twitches.

“Gonna keep your hands to yourself?” Harry purrs, grunting when you roll your chin away in scorn. 

“Because—“ His finger prods onto your cheek. Then, two. Under your jaw, enough pressure to turn your head. “You know I love that wild shit. But, can’t have you fucking up my pretty face—“

The humor coagulating his tone tastes bitter when you breathe it from the air. Swallowing it down into your lungs where it ghosts with the subatomic heaviness of want. Your eyes flit. You hate him— you hate—

He grins down at you. Not quite. Close-lipped, eyes vats that shelter his dogma. The intensity of his seriousness. “Can’t do that,” he muses, but his tone is softer than his countenance. 

You look away. And you don’t watch it, but he huffs, like he’s losing patience for your still-not-quite-subservience and lack of zeal. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Hums. 

“Mm. Come on, doll. You know I don’t want you if you don’t want me,” he tells you, but his mouth crooks because he knows— he knows. 

You blink up at him. His eyes burn down at you from the bridge of his nose, and it feels like you’ve been swaddled into a sudden, wet heatwave. The words would nearly be considerate if it wasn’t for the condescending undertow that spills under the vowels like an oil slick. 

His pointer traces the corner of your mouth, brows furrowing as he tails the motion with his gaze. “Just you say the word.”

And despite the way you blister, something itching under your skin, you won’t. Your teeth are clenched, but you couldn’t pry them apart with pliers to turn him down, not with the fever spilling its way across you. You settle for contempt— let it set your face like a cast congealing, but he doesn’t chase the tail of your indignation with anything beyond mockery. 

He stares back at you. Doesn’t let it wither, drowns in the deluge of your inkpools, mouth curling but-not-quite. 

“No,” he sighs, after a beat of your lull— bereft of your protest— drawing his forefinger away and slinking it down the naked space of your sternum, then around your swollen nipple. You gnaw into your cheek. “You know what I think?”

“—I don’t care,” you pick your head up to hiss. 

You expect to face something crumbling at the retort. Discipline. Retribution— to watch something clot inside of him the way it wads in your chest, caking gravity across his features because— need to be taught a lesson in respect. What did I say about watching that mouth? 

But it flickers over him without a hitch. Slides off. 

Instead, he doubles down, hunching back over you. “I think you love this cock too much. Don’t you? Got you wrapped around it, by now.”

The flame from your core licks up to flare at the apples of your cheeks. He breathes when he straightens out. Deep. Like the prelude to a sigh, and you wonder if the same burning kisses along the nooks of his lungs. You don’t say anything, and he pulls his hand back.

“That’s right,” Harry coos, cocking his head down at you, “Just a sweet, cockdrunk, little whore, by now.”

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. Dagger splits. The wobble in your voice is a swordblade. “Shut— up.”

He laughs. Laughs. This muted, soundless thing that manifests more in his shoulders, the jolt across their breadth. The crater beside a smile line. He shakes his head, and cups the root of his cock with his fist. Your eyes follow it. You swallow.

“Mm, no,” he muses, gaze pooling where the mushroomed ridges of his tip slide along your sopping rim, your puffy lips, your clit, “I think you like it. Gushing all over the table.”

Embarrassment ties its tendrils along the base of your throat. Cogon grass germinating and feathering out across your esophagus, until you’re choking on your spit. You grit your teeth. Your hips nudge up. Forward. He underscores the presumption by pulling the head of his cock back, and sundering the string of tacky slick that’d stretched between him and your seam.

“Makin’ a fucking mess with your messy, desperate pussy,” Harry tells you, pressing his index to his thumb and prying them apart for emphasis. Your slick shimmers in the light. “Look at you. There’s a fuckin’ puddle.”

Your face creases. Cheeks buzzing, white-hot. You feel yourself leaking down along the cleft of your ass, and your fingers itch. A thunderbolt streaks across when you recognize that your hand is still flat against the table. Just where he left it. 

He aims his cock back against you, so thick in his palm, and murmurs, “You want it?”

You don’t know how you ended up here.

You do, but the motions between point A and B feel like a nebulous smear. Hands in motion. Fabric tangling across the floor. Teeth, and tongues, and bones, and claws.

(“Always liked an older woman,” you remember he told you, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. The hubris of a boy sewn into the shoulders of a man. The irony of your preternatural youth folded into his proposition as his eyes roamed across your face.)

(“So let’s put …this,” a motion between with a jutted finger, a murmur drizzled in allure, tucked like a secret into the shape of the night, “aside for a time-out, you and me.”)

You don’t know why you said yes. How. Why your body reacts like he’s a breath you need, whispering along your lungs. Why you let him unspool you over his fingers, his tongue, fucking into you like he was starving. 

But you nod.

You nod, and he presses his weepy tip against your cunt, and it only takes a nudge for him to pry you open around him again. Enveloping him. Sloppy, little pussy pulsing over the tip like a frenetic heartbeat. 

You turn your chin and bite into your own shoulder to stifle the mewl spiraling between your tonsils, and he groans. The sting is better the second-go, but the pressure of having your rim stretched taut anew doesn’t lose its edge. The ache settles in your underbelly. Flourishes in the molten geyser of your arousal. 

“Oh, shit,” Harry hums, pasting his palm flat to your tummy, right over your navel. Like this, you can feel his fingertips under your heartbeat. Across it. Thrumming. His eyes glued to where you swallow up his cock.

He feeds his cock into you slow, but it feels incongruous. The pastiche of what you’re feeling is already enough to cloud your head into delirium— you want teeth. Tongues, bones, claws. 

“Harder,” you grit, catching his eye when he stalls, hand braced across your waist. You resolve paints your words firm, “I can take it.” 

For a moment, Harry stares down at you. The whiplash of pause morphing to taunt, like a seamless rebound, has your rim fluttering over his girth. “My, my. Aren’t we eager.”

“Just—“

Your cosm ripples around you when he drives his hips forward, and lugs you back, hips colliding with your skin in a smack. A horrible, wet sound when he crams his way in, wedging your fuss back into the depth of your stomach. It flings you off your rationale. 

He shivers. “God, you’re slutty. Slutty pussy on a slutty witch.”

The pace he sets is brutal. Merciless. It caters to your complaint, and squashes it out under his thumb. Under the kiss of his tip to your womb. Deliriously, you think he’s going to spill his hot, thick load inside of you, and then what? Then, what?

It feels like he’s wringing you out between his hands, until all that’s left is a pool of want. 

You hate the way he’s chiseled in a place for himself. A tern across your branches, nested in twine and spare filaments of organs that belong to you. A little sinew peeled off of your liver. A sliver off your lung. Maybe that’s why—

You suck in a tight breath and let it rattle the nest he’s built, when he hits something unfathomably deep inside of you. Plugged on his cock, there’s no way for you to smother your moans out. He batters in to the hilt, cupping you by the waist, and rocking you back onto him, over, and over, and over. 

“I want this sweet pussy to cum around my cock,” he pants over you. A curl has flopped across his eye, and your ire is eclipsed by your yearning. The ball inside of you unspooling as if he’s peeling the layers of muscle on your heart back like an onion to temporarily pluck out the undiluted loathing. “Do you hear me?”

It’s a mindless motion— your fingers creeping to land over where you connect, where he’s splitting your gummy walls to what feels like their ceiling. But he bats your hands away, and rams into you until your mons is kissing the wiry bed of hair that’s smattered over his shaft.

“It’s gonna cum around my cock,” he grunts, “or it’s not gonna cum at all.”

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[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ

KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au

You left him with a taste of you lingering between his teeth, after the first time. With his appetite, it’s only fair he comes back for seconds.

★18+

I don't know what possesses me to write a psycho sicko every time the pumpkins start rolling out onto the doorsteps (see Hitchhikerry) but there is simply something in the air, I fear. This is ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ for the KINKTOBER projects.

PLEASE read the warnings, and please put yourself and your comfort first and foremost. Consume only what you’re comfortable consuming. This one is not intended to be read as a love story, and has sensitive topics, dark themes, and *dubious consent.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: dubcon. stalking. sexual assault. coping with sexual assault. under negotiated kink. unsafe sex (no use of condom, no negotiation prior). manipulation. mask kink. leather kink. daddy kink. breeding kink. p-in-v. oral (m to f). general manhandling.

WC: 12.3K

As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. 

Gold and liserian and bluebonnet. Midnight and cherry-red massacre, seeping into the gutter grate with the sky glowing like a peachring. 

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. It’s unstilted, and smells like rust, and kerosene, and Summer feels a hundred miles away. A thousand, like sunrise on the twenty-second, milliseconds seeping like sand through a clogged hourglass. Like someone wedged their sticky fingers in through the top and stuck a piece of gum to the narrowed opening.

The miasma, even days later, when waste management hordes the lily-white cadavers into semi’s and street sweepers come out to pressure wash the asphalt, burns your nose like you’re huffing acid. 

And it feels like God cupping his hands around the continent and squeezing every ugly, brutish thing out. You wonder if the blood seeping between the asphalt slates sticks to the grooves of his palms. His fingerprints, casting massacre into the pitch sky, smudging asterisms together. You’re supposed to feel the holy spirit. 

(Feel it— don’t you feel it?) 

At the back of your tongue, in every empty room, like a nebulous haze of goodwill and unconditional love. When you were a kid, you wondered why feeling God didn’t make your skin itchy. It would, right? If the body of Christ stalled at your nape, looming over your shoulder. You were raised catholic, so it still lingers and sticks to the nook of your periphery like an oilslick, no matter how hard you knuckle at your eyes. 

You wonder if it’s that same holy spirit they’re tasting in the heme when they cough, supine on the sidewalk. If it’s God’s liquid love, righteous across every capillary, with the swing of a sword. A forefinger on a trigger. 

That’s what they say, anyways. Last Tuesday the blonde lady on Fox news said it was always God in our veins on the night of the holy purge— feel God (transubstantiation like a distant, muffled folklore ringing in your ears) cleanse your soul. Fox news always starts to lean on epistemic justification in Spring, and you wonder if people believe God is scrubbing them from the inside with a bathbrush. You wonder if they really even believe in God, anyways, when it’s all just a mangled apparatus for population control. 

(But God wants them to kill the poor people, right?)

Last spring, a man broke into your apartment. 

Charcoal bulk. Tapered obsidian. Wide shoulders, wide arms, wide, herculean thighs, in all black. Slate denim. Battered leather jacket. Those massive hands, coated in pure-nightfall leather. You remember them well, because you thought they resembled the thick, sheepskin gloves your grandfather would wear out in the snow—

Nothing besides black on him, besides the cruel arsenic white of a plastic doll mask stretched over his balaclava. Like those ugly, inexpressive porcelain things you’d find stacked up in antique stores. Your gaze lingered on the delirious scripture across the forehead. Kiss me.

He slunk in while you were in the bathroom. Cracked in your front door. You discovered a crater in the shape of his kneecap, days later, when you replaced the broken locks.

You found him on your couch like a stygian king, thighs split, like he belonged in your tiny living room in all his ominous, leathery heft, and for a second, you just stalled at the threshold with your heart at the base of your throat. Eyes wide. In stagnant impasse with this absurdly nonchalant intruder. Between a beleaguered rock and a hard place. He’d cocked his head at you. Dead silent, and your hindbrain prickled with parity of a slasher film clip— the kind you’d peep over your blanket, folded up to your nose with shaking hands, after bedtime. You weren’t allowed to watch the movie, at the time. But you always remembered that scene where the indifference rolled off the killer in lapping, tidal waves before he’d strike and carve a character open. 

Something scratched at your hindbrain. Some hysterical thread, clinging to the falsehood that this was a rancid illusion. A nightmare, limned in butter-yellow off the lamp on the side table. His dirty boots kicked up on your coffee table. Inkblots in the plastic cut-outs of the eye sockets, glimmering like hungry nightfall. Because it was the purge, sure, but it wasn’t you. 

Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.

Hindsight humbles the untouchable, crooked complex you wore on your shoulders. Your head, with your chin held high, behind the glowing string-lights tucked across your blinds and the bleeding street under your balcony.

(You remember you thought God prickled at your nape that night. May God be with you— that’s what they say.)

(God was cold, and it made your skin itch. Maybe he would have been warm, and kind, and you would’ve felt the goodwill and unconditional love if you didn’t ask so many stupid questions in kidhood during bible camp. If you didn’t bury your bible into the bottom of your nightstand when you realized they were justifying their gnarled agenda with the pages.)

You felt sick—

And he told you he didn’t have any interest in killing you. A purr, muffled by layers of stitched cotton and plastic. No interest in all that. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a pretty thing like you. 

Like a sarky paradox to all the formidable space he was taking up, in all his horrifying gear. 

Kiss me.

An irony to the ichor thumb-smudge across his forehead. An irony, you thought, to God with a bathbrush, and the date, and the time, and the uncomfortable, imperfect squeeze of you into the bracket of wrong-place-wrong-time. In your own apartment.

Aren’t you gonna thank me, he hummed, on his feet now, from across the room. Stalemate. Rotten stasis. Deadlock, at his discretion, with you, shaking like a leaf under the archway. 

For protecting you? That’s what he said. 

(If you weren’t frozen in place with the leftovers you had for dinner curdling in your belly— eye to eye with a facsimile of the reaper— you would have snorted. It was just so absurdly ironic that it nearly made your ribs ache.) 

He was so big, you thought, when his shoulders climbed and his chest swelled, under the animal skin. So rigid. You wondered if he was all bulk like that, under the layers, or if the loose coat, and the gloves, and the daunting mien of a predator just made him seem that much larger. You’re not a small thing, but he made you feel as much. Like a dolly. A maquette— a perfect marionette to toss around between his hands on the perfect night, the perfect date on the calendar. 

Lotta bad men around, tonight.

The floorboard creaked under his weight. One step forward. The carpet bristled under your heel. 

Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you? 

(Kiss me.)

You remember how you went along. Easy. Didn’t say no.

And you could chalk it up to survival— pure, self-preservational instinct— and the gunfire looming outside your window. No. You remember the swell of panic, the riptide of adrenaline tearing you into a deluge of auto-pilot. Something seeped into the hairline fracture across the line between saving yourself— and your dignity, your pride. 

(Something ugly, and wrong, and so out of place. So warm in a room so bone-chilling.)

You thought you were broken. The two choices, unequivocally, were always fight or flight. 

(So which synapse misfired, that night, that kicked your gears into neither?)

You remember ugly things from that night. It felt like your ribs were being pried open, and he was picking you apart, pinching some raw and deep to pluck it out between leather fingers, until you were squirming in a pool of your own spilled volition. Like milk knocked over on the counter. Left to rot. Curdle.  

Because it didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt you. 

And maybe that was worse. Because you were supposed to kick, and fight, and scream, and you— 

Didn’t. 

And maybe at first, it was a form of endurance. Survival sense— shutdown, like a generator on its last limb, preserving its own continuance. Just go along, just survive, just—

It’s easier, you think, in retrospect, to justify that. 

What’s harder is that you remember you thought you were broken because part of you, eventually, didn’t want to kick, or fight, or scream. 

(Go for the eyes— that’s what they say— and where would you go, in those inky craters, under the shadows? Like polynyas brimful of tar. You’d drown.) 

You remember the way he called himself daddy— come sit on Daddy’s cock, tell Daddy how good he feels— and you remember the visceral burgeon of disgust swelling in your belly. 

The way it made you revolted, and shuddery, and white-hot. 

Wanting. Slick. 

Because he’s not your daddy. Wasn’t. Isn’t.

You knew it for what it was. A gross game. Meant to debase your conation. This scary man in his scary mask on this, scary night, in your home, here to take something for himself. A flinder of your rib— a cracked piece of bone, here to tuck it into the inside of his coat. To watch your face crease with the juxtaposing blend of repulsion and want, rolling down your spine like rainwater off a downspout, as your cunt fluttered. 

He fucked you stupid on his cock again, and again, and again, until the sun was scraping at the land with its hot fingers, and the corners of your room were white and blue. Took what he wanted, because he decided he could. 

And that’s the game. The brutal nature of humanity crumbling under the weight of anarchy, and unrestricted autonomy, even if only for a night. Bereft morals. Selfish whims.

(And you took it. Just took it. Didn’t put up a fight, not when terror started lagging behind pleasure.)

He ate your cunt, too, just the way you liked. For hours, with the plastic mask tucked up like the balaclava, to the tip of his nose. The hard edge, and the cotton, pressing into your mons when he rolled your clit with his tongue, pressed the flats of his white teeth against it. You remember that. 

His nice, clean white teeth, and his pink lips. 

He must’ve been a pretty man under all the unnerving guise.

By the time the siren screeched at seven, you were strewn on your sheets like puddy across the sidewalk. All worn, and tired, and malleable, which he seemed to like. Panting, sweaty, tacky. Covered in him. The sticky, pearlescent mimesis, like memorabilia. Your pink underwear dangling out of his pocket like a perverted token to pin up onto his wall like a poster, after. His hard, leather fingerprints, blooming across your soft love handles, where he held your bones in place (but you didn’t need him to— not when you were so willing to placate and assuage and give). The chiaroscuro made your ribs rattle when you breathed deep. 

You stared at the popcorn ceiling when his belt buckle clinked. Slotted himself back together, into unobtainable nightfall against the backdrop of daytime. 

There’s a lot of things that stuck with you from that night. He didn’t hurt you, and your skin stayed sealed, but according to everyone, a part of you maybe-died, or that’s how you should feel, anyway. So, you wondered if that gangrenous part of you was severed off, bleeding out onto the carpet. Between the floorboards, staining the ceiling of the apartment on the floor under yours. A nebula of rust red across plaster.

(You thought it was severed, because at first you didn’t feel it. Anything. Nothing. Numb. Pinpricks across your psyche like your hand when you slept on it the wrong way. Maybe he cut it loose when you weren’t looking— when your lashes fluttered, smogged in the haze of yellow string lights, when your cheek kissed the mattress, and sex.)

You remember a lot of things that make your chest feel tight, like cotton unspooling in the crevices of your lungs, and your head feel waterlogged, and your knees brittle. But you remember he told you, before he left, that he’ll see you next year. 

I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.

Like a portent. It should’ve been. In a way, it felt like a reassurance, and you hate that pulpy part of yourself. 

And what can you do? 

You’re a statistic. 

The label feels wrong. Permanent. Like a bumper sticker stamped onto your forehead with gorilla glue. You’re lucky, they tell you, after. What a close call, when you swallow preventive abortion pills and shiver at your own reflection passing in the mirror. You think, maybe, your guardian angel blinked, somnolence searing at the backs of its eyes. Because, maybe, angels sleep, too. You don’t know. They didn’t teach that in church. 

You go to therapy. The woman in the big, sable chair gives you this look. Crinkled countenance pinched in pity. How pitiful, you’re reminded, and how lucky you are to only be scratched by a freight train. You’re not smattered pulp on the railroad tracks, but in the cruel cosm, you feel like jam dripping down God’s hands. 

You ask her if it’s fucked up that it felt good. 

She tells you it’s not. 

But then, you ask if it’s fucked up that a crackled fragment of you, maybe-sort-of-in-a-way, wouldn’t mind if it happened again.  

That’s a different question. 

Because you’ve been mulling that thought over between your teeth, in the hollow gaps between mortified, pale-faced solaces, I’m sorry’s, I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s. It’s been festering, and feels like a chunk of you rotting under the sun. But maybe, if someone tells you that it’s okay—

If you had to do it over— you put it that way, like emphasizing a crease in a sheet of paper, and she gives you another, long, reticent look this time, instead of a response. 

(Because, maybe, putting it that way makes the insatiable itch in your arteries more relatable. Easier to swallow. Easier to tolerate. Maybe you sound like less of a freak, with the tumult.) 

Guilt for feeling pleasure is, apparently, very common, as indicated by the PDF she emails you that night to look over. Rape Victims and the False Sense of Guilt. 

Rape. The word rape, across the screen, makes you flinch. It’s such a small word in the sea of the text, only four Lilliputian letters. Teeny-tiny. But it feels big. Like a big deal— rape, that’s a big word. It’s razor sharp when it echoes behind your skull. It’s ugly, and it ends on a blunt, hard sound. No elasticity. No give. This unyielding, little word that shatters around you in its hideous, mangled phonetics— is that what happened to you?

You’re lucky. What a close call. I’m sorry that happened to you.

Pleasure is a natural, physical reaction. A bodily reaction. That’s what it says.

You can cope with that. Comprehend that. The rest is— loaded. Like an assault rifle, in spring. You don’t know how to peel the pieces apart. You never learned how to take apart a gun.

You know what a bodily reaction is. 

But nothing explains the chimera you chase after— the fantasy, when you’re plugged around two of your own fingers, weeks, months later, chasing the phantom ache. 

Liking masks is okay, but liking masks is only okay if there’s something preliminary about them. Liking to feel small and scared is okay, but only if there’s a safety net, and safewords, and you trust the other person, and know them like the pores across the back of your hand. A stranger isn’t allowed to make you feel this way. 

But liking this— thinking about this, with your head fuzzy and your skin simmering— is wrong. Bad. 

It’s okay, but you need to heal. Something bad happened to you, and you need to sweep your pieces into the dustpan before you start to put them back together. That’s what you read between the lines. It feels accusatory.

(Only, you don’t think you could mold them into the same form, if you tried. Stick them back into their rifted crevasses, when they’re jagged and misshapen.)

The things you feel are, by all definitions— according to the internet, and everyone around you— wrong. Ugly. Sick. You shouldn’t feel anything but nausea scraping at the back of your throat, pooling briny under your tongue, when you think about that night. About him. That’s what you find in the vats of their eyes when you tell people what happened, the stricken shape of their faces. Like you’re broken. Because you are broken. 

Some part of you has a big indigo bruise stretched across it, smarting something awful. Some part of you is fractured ceramic. 

You’re a statistic. A number. A sliver on a bar graph. It feels like throwing yourself headfirst over a rock face. Into a yawning abyss. You splinter upon contact with the water, but it doesn’t ripple around you. Just lets your dissevered pieces wade and buoy.

You don’t go back to therapy after the third time, and you spend all summer burying your esoteric predilections at the back of the shelf. Let them gather dust, because they’re shattered anyways, and you don’t know how to make any sense of the smashed fragmentations. They’re so jagged, they’ll cut the soft skin on your palms up if you cup them too close.

You move when your lease ends in the summer. Not really by choice, but the decision has the weight of all those ruckled, condolatory looks. Those I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s, like flour-sacks across your shoulders. Your apartment still reeks like him. It’s a phantom musk, whispering along your lungs. Cigarettes, and leather, and tangy sweat (it almost feels like it belongs— not unpleasant, like the brine across Poseidon’s abdomen). It’s uncomfortable. You long for it. You’re imagining it, you know that. 

Your new apartment is clean. It smells like bleach, and it has all different locks, and the promise spills in cobwebs behind your skull. You try not to get tangled in them.

And everything tells you it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong— everything. A churning, gut feeling, when you sign the new lease, when you roll around your sheets in the middle of the night with your hand between your tacky thighs. 

You feel like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You’re supposed to heal. This isn’t healing.

You consider booking that out-of-country trip in March. Week-long, just to stifle the premonition under the heel of your palm. The omen, that was still dripping heady, clotting the air alongside the stifling sound of the zipper closing its teeth together. Crinkling leather when he buckled his belt.

Your mom gives you a call. Tells you to come out to Maine for the weekend. You shrug the invitation off with your phone cradled between your cheek and your shoulder, and your laundry between your fingers. I’m fine, mom. I’m—

Fine. Cataclysmically. Okay. Bleeding out onto the tarmac with every step, like the incipient springtide. 

You cup a posy of daffodils between your hands with wistfulness speckling across your chest. 

You used to love spring. In kidhood, before the heavy, inordinate burden of purge-nights spanned across your shoulders, spring had the delicacy of a flower. The warmth of sunshine beading across your skin. The naivety of pastels. A callow touch of rose-tint.

You always knew living alone had its risks. In an apartment, no less, flimsy and unsheltered by security shutters and the bulwarks of a standalone. A danger, like a yellow warning sign. It’s the same precarious footing that warrants your mother’s calls back to your hometown every spring. 

(The same reason she called you last year. And you— stupid, stupid— didn’t go.)

You don’t know how to excuse yourself this year. Lack of self-preservation? Stupid, callow hope? You don’t know what you’re hoping for. 

(What you’re feeding.)

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been dusting the shattered shards on the shelf. 

Anybody else in your position would be halfway across the continent, and you’re shutting down your flower shop and turning in for the night. Pretending (that you’re pretending) you’re inviolable, like that headspace didn’t get crushed under his thumb last year. The clock ticks on the wall. 

The man who comes up to the register has a bouquet in his hand. A sprig of carmine carnations that crinkles when he lays it flat onto the countertop. He’s tall. Broad. Pretty— the first thing you think of, upon impression, mapping out the ridges of his face, the even slope of his nose, the burnt umber curl that spills over his forehead. Wordless. He stares at you. 

Just stares. Not quite boring into you, but lingering, inkpools fixed. Indescribably. Unremitting.

There’s a familiarity in his gaze. Something that weaves across you in unspooling, crepuscular cobwebs, something that prickles. And eye-contact feels like a stalemate. A competition; who will give first? Your mettle splinters in hairline fractures. 

“Is this,” your smile is flimsy. Brittle. Eyes dipping to the flowers he’s laid out. “…all for you today?” 

He smells expensive. Like amber musk, but something sticks to his scent like an afterthought. A note, in undertow. 

Smoke.

Like he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, but couldn’t kick the odor off his clothes, lingering in the stitches.  

Emotions dredge up from the pit of your psyche like his presence is the metal head of a shovel. Cold leather. A hot touch. Things you’ve left numb for too long, oozing, electric, alive. Your fingers flex on the stems, and the plastic clicks under your hand when you stare down at it. You can’t look. 

“Mm.”

You feel flayed. Raw. Like you’re going to come apart into tatters in the middle of the store. In front of a customer. You cast your gaze up. He isn’t looking at you anymore. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes listing across the melange of flower assortments you’ve got on display behind the counter. And you feel—

Embarrassed. Silly. Your cheeks heat, your heart thundering at your throat. It’s silly. 

“Oh,” you breathe as you roll the bouquet between your hands. Key in the numerical series to the system, “I like these. They’re very pretty. …Looks like today, it’s going to be… twenty-six.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all, doesn’t make any motion towards procuring a payment method, and that nagging sense of worry spirals between your brows when you cast your inkpools up to find him staring again. Under your hands. There’s a judder to them. You watch his hand reach into the front-pocket of his jeans, and cull a cashfold. He licks his fingers before he separates the cash, and hands it to you. 

Your fingers brush. You swallow. 

You hand his change over with your fingers twitching. 

“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.

Your smile wobbles. Creases. Curls back up into a proxy of a cheery mien you have the resolve to upkeep. “Happy purge.”

His fingertips drum across the counter. “And may our souls be cleansed.”

It sounds droll. Wry. Like he’s making a mockery of every piece of propaganda the news channel paints across your screen, a week-long affair in snippets before commencement. You swallow. 

“Up for anything tonight?”

The question shouldn’t nick between your ribs. Scrape into the soft place— you’ll get loads of customers that ask. That participate, affluent folk. Young people, with grease smeared across their smiles when they tell you that they’re excited to exercise their God-given right. 

You shake your head. “No— no. I don’t… partake.”

The silence that congeals between you is suffocating. Heavy. You feel your poise withering. Shrinking back into you, under the weight of his gaze. It’s an eerie stagnancy, and you feel like you’re sinking to the depths. 

“You’re,” you tell him, trying to smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes this time, “…all set.”

His eyes roam. Openly. Lash across you in bounds, slow, detail-oriented. It’s odd. Makes you feel strange. Finally, they fix on your face. No doubt, creased with discomfort. 

“Stay safe tonight,” he tells you, before he turns, bouquet in hand. 

“Right. You— stay safe,” you rock forward on your heels. The bell over the door jingles. 

You’re broken, but you’re not stupid. You twist the locks when you get home. Double-check every window. Turn off every light that you aren’t using. 

The announcement comes across the TV when you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out, the emergency broadcast has morphed off into a rerun of Friends. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Tuck your knees to your chest and stare at the clock? Roll into the fetal position and pray? 

May God be with you. 

The gunfire outside begins during the credits. You can’t stomach the harrowing scream that seeps across from the street below, so you plug your ears with your headphones, and you blast music until you feel like your ears are bleeding. Hole up in your bedroom.

You can’t discern the feeling that clots in your chest when you come out to your living room, eventually, to find him on your couch. In eerie stillness. Terror? Relief? 

He notices you. Swells when he breathes, all heft, just like you remember. The burgeon of fear that prickles at your nape, making your hair stand on end, you find, clots beside something you’re unable to dissect. For a long second, the both of you just breathe. Observe. 

He breaks the silence. 

“…Come tell Daddy hello.”

Daddy. Daddy— the titular moniker makes you bristle, startling you out of your stupor like whiplash. What are you doing? What are you doing?

You stall by the bathroom door. This game of cat and mouse is precarious. You’ll lose— that fact is brassbound. Undeniable. You don’t know what you were expecting. Why you stayed. You’ve got the short end of the stick, always. And still, you contemplate, lingering with your hand on the doorknob. The stagnancy in biding your time feels like staring at a snake coiling beside your feet. Waiting for it to lash forward. 

You take a slow step forward. Another. He doesn’t make any moves towards you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s keen to sit up. Content with the view of your dread snowballing. Mushrooming. Hands resting across his lap, his tree-trunk thighs split apart. 

Waiting. Watching. 

You don’t expect it when he sits up, grunting, to wrap his hand across your forearm. Lug you forward, into the alcove between his thighs. The brush of leather across your bare skin makes chills erupt across your skin. Manhandling you, like puddy between his hands. You’re supposed to fight, you’re supposed to kick, you’re supposed to—

Scream. You exhale when he twists you and forces you to sit on his knee. You’re stupid. What you’re chasing isn’t healthy.

You think he’s going to ask why you moved. Silly girl. Didn’t think I’d find you?

He doesn’t. 

“Been a good girl?” he drawls, instead, chest swelling in your periphery. It feels mocking, despite the casualness of his tone— unsanded around the edges. The irony of the position has your teeth set, like you’re a child on Santa’s lap, and not a grown woman on his. A petrifying— 

Half-stranger. Almost.

The revelation is uncanny to the way you’re searing under your skin. And there’s a thin line, you think, between coercion, and the way your heart batters a little faster, the way you clench your fingers together to avoid squeezing your thighs.

You don’t say anything. It’s rhetoric, because he isn't finished. He cups your knee under his palm, the dark leather, and says, “Kept your pussy to yourself, mm?”

Not your hands. Not your hands. 

Your pussy. 

The undiluted vulgarity trickles down your nape, makes you flinch, and you fist your hands a little harder, until the crescents dig into your palms. It’s still just as nonchalant, even-toned. But it’s crude, and it makes your face hot. 

Like he owns that. Like you belong to him, in some way.

(And maybe, in some way, some part of you does. That piece of your rib he still has tucked into his pocket from last spring.)

Your heart is in your throat. You turn your cheek. Away. Just enough, but the hand that was on your knee presses against the side of your face. Two fingers, gloved, that pry your attention back onto him. It’s almost effortless. Feels like he’s using hardly any strength at all, has your chin snapping back, and the weight of two fingers, against that groove under your cheekbone, has an ache radiating up into your temple. He’s feeling the ridges of your teeth through your soft flesh. Wrenching his fingertips into the hollow rift between the two rows, and your breath ebs your lungs in soft pants, free falling the gap between your lips. The slick, gummy inside of your cheek twinges under the pressure.

You stare back, and—

You don’t know what you find. What you’re looking for. There’s a hunger in the plastic cut outs, glimmering in the tenebrose, like a predator shimmering in the distance of the thicket. One that’s spent all winter hibernating.

He digs his fingers in a little harder. Makes your head tilt with an ease that makes your head spin. The sound that leaks out of you is embarrassing. So unlike you. So small, and vulnerable, and raw. 

It reminds you of feeling like you were being carved open, like you were having those pieces pulled out of you. Those fragments that you’ve buried deep behind your ribs, all yours. Delicate chattels between his fingers like a thread that he’ll tug to unspool you to the core.

His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth. Your lower lip. Rests there, all leather. It smells like charred tobacco. Tar. 

“Yes,” you breathe. Appease. The word comes out tangled with a frantic note, an exhale, and sounds garbled off your liquified, molasses-heavy tongue. 

Maintaining eye contact is difficult. Intense. Feels like wading a knee-deep morass with how treacly it makes your head feel, but it’s impossible to look away. With the angle he has your head, you feel snared into an unspoken standoff. Feels like you’re caught in a springe he’s laid out. You, with your rabbiting heart, and your ankle caught in a noose. And him—

Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush. 

“Is that right?”

It’s like a car crash, you think, stuck in limbo. A beatific maelstrom of metal scraping on metal. The beautiful, horrifying view, in the split-second of collision. Time in stasis. Slow motion.

You can’t look away.

He stops pressing to rap the pads against your cheekbone, instead, and the thump that echoes in your skull almost sounds hollow. Loud in your ears. The pang lingers in your jaw, like a dull ache, across your upper teeth, the inside of your cheek. 

There’s a split second there, where that bilious feeling slinks into your stomach and coils up, stretching between your lungs. That sick you find, buried under the galvanized cobwebs spooling your sense of self-preservation, like a haze of little, electric gossamers across your synapses. The incipience of a wave of nausea, softly lapping, at the thought that all of this, everything, is premeditated, and the gnarled root of it all sinks so much deeper than you’d ever expect. 

That he’ll know— knows— that you brought another man home last fall. 

It was stupid. A one off, scraped off a bar stool on a Saturday night after one too many whiskey sours, and the sex wasn’t even any good. You don’t remember it. 

But your head feels syrupy. You don’t know what’s worse: this burgeoning fear that you’ve disappointed him with— what? Free will? Autonomy? 

Or the slick ooze of the bone-juddering revelation that settles; he’s probably been watching you. Keeping tabs. 

(How else did he know where you moved? How to pin you under the pad of his thumb with such startling ease? You’re a thumbtack on a paper map, and a petrified part of you wonders if he’s got it— a chart of your whereabouts, your existence snared into a creased sheet— dangling next to the panties from last spring.)

If he knows about your liaison, he doesn’t indicate it. Opting to, instead, graze the shape of your lips with his thumb again, and push in to scrape the flats of your teeth with the leather. It’s gross. Feels strange— leather against the smooth inside of your lips, and when you breathe around it, you feel like you’re spinning out, headfirst, hurtling toward the ground. Something you don’t want to acknowledge rolls over, white-hot, in the pit of your tummy. 

“That’s good,” he settles on, and palms your breast so abruptly that it makes your lungs squeeze. Your throat clicks when you swallow. 

It feels so mechanical. Calculating. Collected. Nonchalantly purposeful— nothing gradual, no build up— like he’s here to reap and take, intent on what he’s looking for. But it’s all a startling, unnatural paradox, considering you were left so overly-satiated last spring, that you almost felt like a mindless shell of yourself. Entirely sapped. The enigma left your head clogged up and heavy for days. Weeks. Months. Your lashes flutter, dusting unfitting bliss across your cheeks like the speckling heat. Like pleasure is bulky, and rounded, and doesn’t fit into the jagged slot your anticipation has chiseled. 

He squeezes the doughy flesh in his hand, and scuffs your pebbling nipple with a side-swipe of his thumb. Then, the other. Long, thick fingers spanning, and coasting across your diaphragm, climbing your waist, the chiseled, swelling rungs of your ribcage, cupping under one of your tits again. He only stops at the soft sound that crawls out of your windpipe. Eyes flickering at the reedy, wanton whine that gushes through the seal of your teeth. The self-awareness makes you wither into yourself. Shrinking. Ecstasy feels like an agrestal parasite, mushrooming between your nerves. Budding in that slope under your navel.

(Wrong, wrong, wrong— a broken mechanism, misfiring. Grinding. Your eroded mettle squealing under the pressure.)

You can hear him breathing. He sounds like an animal. A panting beast. Feral. Untamed, wild, huffs stifled by ribbed cotton and matte plastic. He notches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches it. Tugs. A gust of your desperate breath escapes through that barren dearth between your teeth when he palms you by the front of your neck and pushes you against the back of the couch. 

It’s sloppy. Clumsy, an awkward angle from where you were on his lap— your limbs flail before you topple, and it requires more core strength on your part than you anticipate to sink back, but it isn’t violent. Aggressive. The coarse denim on his thigh abrades your naked skin when he twists to hover over you. Cushion denting under the weight of his knee. Your neck cranes back as he pins you to the back of the couch by the column of your throat. Head tipped back, nearly dangling over, neck straining. He looms over you.

Just—

Staring. Staring. You stare back and wonder if he feels your pulse hammering with the layer of the leather barricade between skin kissing skin. Like this, the mask is limned in shadows from the slant, and the crepuscular orifices under the plastic are even harder to make out. Harder to gauge. You want to gauge. You want to see—

You won’t have the upper hand. You know that, but prying for the threadbare margin of a hint, a motive, a reaction, feels like digging your fingers in for a last-ditch lifeline. 

His eyes are half-mast. Dark lashes spanned over the glint in pitch, mounted in white. You can’t see what he’s thinking. Can’t—

He reels forward, back hunched, leather jacket crinkling, and you feel the plastic mask tucked to your cheekbone. Your temple. Your hair. He reeks like santalum. Petrichor— the first rain spilling onto the pavement, scrubbing the bloodshed off into the grates— and the overwhelming scent of leather that clots in your nose. His mask scrapes your ear. He sniffs.

And you think, a little hysterically, that he’s smelling you. The recognition prickles in your skull, and climbs up your nape in a shiver. And it feels so— 

Animalistic. Primal. Indelicate. Like any sense of decorum flaking off and shedding like desquamate feathers, and it makes you feel so small. A frisson rides the ledges of your spine. Something shudders across his shoulders. Rattles them— you clock it in your periphery, stunned into subservience with your fingers twisting into the couch cushion. 

He sighs. Hums. Like he’s vibrating over you, buzzing, and the thought has that skein across your lungs tightening. The sound that seeps out of him is brassy. Low. Hungry. And the likeness that scrapes at your hindbrain, through the plume of reluctance and crushing desire, nearly makes you feel delirious— it almost sounds like a dog whining. Like he’s been holding himself back, and your scent is too much, chips an integral shard out of his flinty resolve. 

You don’t know why, but it makes you squirm. Makes your chest roll under him, hips shifting. Your eyes oscillate. Stutter from the ceiling fan to the corner of the room, because he’s smelling you and sounds like he’s falling apart. 

Your throat jumps under his hand. He drums his fingertip under your jaw, and it feels like the tick of a clock. He reels back. Slowly. Tipped over you, huffing with his head cocked. Almost panting. This harrowing monster, quivering in his skin, in all his heft, like he wants to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. His eyes slip. The feather-dust of his lashes kisses the pink-rimmed seam of his lower lashline, and he takes a deep breath, intumescent across the breadth of his shoulders. 

You swallow again, your throat still under his hand. The heel of his palm glued to your trachea. Your jaw arched back, under the press of his fingers. His eyes list. Stall across the apex of your denuded thighs, and the brief blip of pressure across your jaw, your throat, the fleeting restriction on your airway when he levels his weight and resituates, has your irises lolling and tainted gossamers stretching in sticky netting behind your skull. His freehand skates your abdomen. Prods your diaphragm, leather fingers grazing your belly button, the hem of your sleep shirt. Rucking it up. 

The boundary between arm-twisting and downright craving is negligible. It’s a foundation, under you— a poor excuse of a half-wall— crackled in fissures. When your hips hitch at the way he circles your navel, in a way, it feels like crumbled free will. Your own autonomy worn down and corroded by the chemistry spuming your veins (you tell yourself it’s artificial. A lethal injection of dopamine and melanocortin), because it feels like the hunger is pried out of you. Pulled out, tangled on his crooking fingertips. 

(And what do you have to say for yourself, when you need him like you need to eat.)

Your hips cant when he strokes his fingers over your waistband, across the sensitive, soft stretch of skin over your mons. You can still hear him breathing over the bloodrush, like spindrift, across the little, vibrating bones, deep in your ear. He sniffs, gaze pinned to the shape of your quivering thighs (juddering knees, swelling tummy)—

He knocks your legs apart with his thigh, until the plush of them spills around the shape of him. All broad, all muscle, all denim against your smooth skin, and he wrenches one of your thighs up with his fingers under your knee. Presses you back by the shin, with your sole planted on the couch cushion, and—

Like this, he has the perfect view. The perfect shape of your cunt, through your panties. They’re white this year. So unassuming, just a plain bikini-cut in ivory, but you wonder if he’s weighing the way they’ll look beside the other pair, like a sordid tchotchke. 

His eyes linger on it. You can’t see his inkpools, but they feel molten. Heady. Predatorial, and the shockwave riding the slanting arches of your ribcage makes it harder to take in a full breath. Lagoons spilling heat. They surge the soft shapes of your body like lavascapes, melting across your skin. 

You’re wet. You know that— feel the damp heat like you feel the want droning across your bones, lacing your muscles. And the sloppy, saturated shape of your dribbling pussy, behind the thin veil of a gusset, is no exception. You curl your toes. Dig them into the couch cushion. The carpet. Dangling onto the fragility of your self-possession (unraveling), and then he probes, with the tip of his index, right where your clit sits. A meager tap.

Your arousal is a tangible wad in your gut, and he plays with it between his fingers.

Desperation climbs to the base of your throat at an alarming rate. Echoes in your jugular as a thrum when his eyes sway between your face and the shape of your cunt. The shape of it under the entirety of his palm, swallowing you whole, between your legs, when he pastes his hand there. And he can’t feel the way it’s soaking, can’t feel how slick you are, but you wonder if the sheer heat leaches through the layers. 

If he can feel how hot and wanting you are, through the glove. 

He purrs like he can. Trails two fingers along the splitting fjord, your puffy lips. His thumb crooks into one end of your gusset just to let it snap back and watch the shiver roll up through your shoulders, huffing around a thick, rumbly noise that sounds amused. Drenched in humiliating mirth. A crater forms around his knee cap when he presses it onto the cushion. Between your split legs, thigh pressed flush to your cunt. Tight. 

“Gonna be a good girl,” he murmurs, face dangling over yours, and the words sound masticated. Starved. “—and let me eat that slutty cunt?”

There’s a fine line, you remind yourself, between being forced, and whatever the— you don’t want to admit it, won’t admit it, stuff it down— rapacious froth inside of you means.

He splits your lips with his fingers. Pries them apart like a butterfly to pin up and frame.  

Mental snapshots to encase on a shelf, mounted beside your underwear and a pushpin map with your face smattered in uneven, sawtooth cut-outs. All raw, and sloppy, and wet. Gushing down to the cleft of your ass— he can see everything, and his eyes rove like he’s mapping every bit of you to memory, your underwear balled and tucked into the pocket of his coat. Drinking in every delicate detail, your pebbled clit twitching under his thumb scuffing, and it’s so—

Humiliating. 

Embarrassing— shame clots in that interstice between your battering heart and your ribs, that soft spot it’s been dribbling into since he perched you on his lap like a little girl begging for a present. You screw your eyes, cup the heels of your palms over them. You can’t look— can’t—

He moans again. Gives you a heady hum, nearly as slick with want as you are between your thighs. Only, his is oil to your honey. Motor fluid to your syrup— a slippery smear of grease to sap. Rotten. Thick and coal-dark, like tar. Something gritty that catches like sand between his teeth when you try to close your knees. It’s a faulty maneuver, with your feet pried apart on his elbows, and you can only latch your knees, and—

It’s the wrong thing to do. 

A slipshod attempt to preserve your dignity, but what’s the use, when it’s porous enough for him to spew the virulent pollutant of longing for him? Noxious. Infectious. Enough to mill your pride from the inside into a powdered dust. Instead, he pries the folds of your cunt apart with one hand, on two fingers— an index and a thumb— and slaps the back of your thigh with the other. 

Your thighs quake. Plush flesh shaking upon impact, the searing heat wave that robs you of your ephemeral resistance— rolling the thought that this is gross, not what you want— and scorches it through to the core, until all that’s left for you to face is the overwhelming desire.

“Eyes on me,” he grunts. Dour. Unrelenting, until you peer through the spaces in your fingers like you’re watching a nightmare unfold, and let him wrest your knees back apart. “Yeah,” he tells you, hardly over the feather-light weight of a whisper, despite the way it feels like it’s crushing your skull from the inside when it swims your ears. “Just like that. On me, pretty girl.”

You can’t look away, so you chew on your fingers instead. Tuck them between your teeth, toes curling into the cushions. Your sleep shirt is in a discarded puddle of fabric on the floor, beside him. There’s something so uncomfortably potent in nakedness when he hasn’t even discarded his gloves. 

He won’t.

But an element of intrigue gets dredged up into the mist of your yearning when he sticks the pad of his thumb under the plastic chin of the mask to pry it to the bridge of his nose. Speckling the nebula, that clouds you, like stardust. Worse, yet, when he pries the balaclava to the same, angular slope, to show his bare chin, his full, pink mouth, his cupid’s bow. 

His nice, clean white teeth. 

His tongue, slinking out to smear across his lips. Like this, the cut outs aren’t over his eyes, and the pools of hunger are shrouded behind the plasticated layer. He feels with his fingers. Spreads your pussy apart, grazes his thumb pad across your throbbing clit, slick with your own sticky wetness, and you watch him purse his lips before a tacky, wet glob lands across your hood. Drool, dripping down, coagulating at your drenched hole. 

You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—

Gross. It’s wet, and it’s rancid, and the feeling of it being smeared across your cunt, the feeling of a finger prodding at your rim, uselessly clenching at the air, makes your face crease. Brows pinching. 

(So why, then, do you feel so dizzy from the spiraling wave of your own lust fizzing across your veins?) 

You mewl. He tucks his fingers into his mouth. The same ones that have been smudging the amalgam of your slick and his own saliva, still tucked in that leather glove, and the sound he makes at the taste— pure hedonism, dripping around the plug of his own fingers— has your thighs hinging apart wider. Straining. 

It sounds so— shattered. So desperate. Frenzied. A sound like that, out of him, feels so unco that it nearly wrenches your head back. He groans around his fingers, sloppy, and grunts when he takes them out to feel for your hole, tease a breach with the middle digit, not quite bursting the threshold— 

And God, when he eats, it’s like he’s a man starved. Famished. All animal between your thighs, suckling on your clit, dragging his tongue across your hole, like it’s pure sustenance and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Slurping around you, bullying your clit between his teeth like he wants to chew you up to spit you out. Rinse and repeat. 

He drags his tongue across you, so obscenely, seam to hood, like he wants you to see. Wants you to watch— wants you to know that you’ve got this horrifying brute on his knees between your legs, kissing on your cunt. Wants that ugly revelation to stick to the inside of your skull like knotgrass spilling across your bones— a twisted thought you’ll never be able to tame out of fruition. You let this happen; let him take. 

(And worse yet, you liked it.)

“Sloppy, little pussy,” he grunts, the words muzzled against your sopping cunt, spilling against his mouth, dripping. Sticking in strings to his lower lip, the corner of his mouth— and he crooks his finger. Notches it against your rim. 

It feels wrong. Strange. Leather against your cunt, instead of skin, when he prods and—

Pops the tip in. Stretches your gummy walls to the first, gloved knuckle. The soft, wet heat of you pulsing around him like a heartbeat is lost on the leather, the barrier between your skin, but he’ll make up for it. He’ll make up for it, he’ll—

“God,” you mewl when he crooks the finger and stuffs it to the hilt, stroking the wet squeeze of your walls enveloping it. 

The brutal ugliness in the concept of this man prying you open, stretching you taut when he wedges his ring finger in beside the first, with a glove on, douses you in shame. Has a white-hot heat spewing, geyser-like, at your underbelly. 

The sounds, though, the wet-squelch of those leather-coated fingers fucking into you, spilling slick and shoving it back in, makes your eyes screw. Has a heat nipping at the apples of your cheeks the way it nips at your cunt when he grinds harsh circles around your clit. It’s too much. Nearly too much when he nicks the razor-sharp mantel of your nerve-endings and hones there upon the horrid, wheezing sound you make, the way your leg flexes out beside his head in jarred reflex. Like he’s punishing it. You. For congealing up in his teeth like an insatiable sweet-tooth he’ll never scrape off his enamel. 

You cry out. Knock the heel of your palm into his forehead. Into the edge of that eerie mask, the kiss me, unsmudged, but he’s unperturbed. Unruffled. Unyielding, the same way the brutal crash of pleasure spooling tight behind your navel, your burning, flexed core. 

He catches your wrists in his hand. Like two limbs of a lamb, ensnared. The most perfect, decadent feast to carry out on a charcuterie board, and the sound he makes against your cunt nearly sounds inhuman. Like a rabid, territorial animal at its mealtime, mouthing off at a hand that tries to intrude. Encroach. Take. The vibrations make your head spin. Dizzy— you’re so dizzy, and you don’t recognize that you’ve been holding your breath until the shuddery cry that tears its way out of your mouth is silent. A hiss of a breath that melts into a long, wet gasp. 

He tucks your hands to your tummy, and takes. And takes, and takes. It belongs to him, right? The garbled slur that slips through the negligible gaps between your teeth sounds fucked stupid, and he hasn’t even split you apart on his cock. 

Your fingers twitch, pressed to your mons. Try to reach— to pry— hips canting back, forward, away, into. Against his slippery chin, and his tongue, and his unrelenting mouth. 

And oh, how you unravel, under his jaw, like you belong there. Under his hands, and the tip of his nose tucked to your mons, and the flats of his teeth, grazing—

He doubles down when he feels the pop— the release— your pretty, little cunt fluttering around his fingers, sucking them back in on every twist out, like a vice.

It starts on a long, wilting mewl. A desperate note that laces across your vocal cords and seeps out, not by your own volition, and ends on a gasp. The cord snaps. Too taut. Too much. The ripples of the aftershocks, lapping at your core, red-hot, sloppy, and spent, and overly sensitive, crescendo into a horrible ache when he suckles over your clit. Draws a searing stripe across your nerve endings with the tip, stifling groans into your puffy sex. 

You squeak. Tremble, toes tensing. Flexing. Hips arching back, trying to scoot away. Off. 

“I— came,” you bluster, but it sounds hoarse. Distant, in the thundering thrum of your vertiginous headrush. “I—“ you try again, hips canting, and he swipes out with his tongue, catches something raw and smarting on the fleshy edge. 

You jolt. Spine twisting, distorting pleas between your teeth you’re swishing them across your gums. You wriggle your foot, wheedling it under the space where his mouth is flush with your cunt. “I— please—“

He wrenches your foot back into place so aggressively that all you can do is make a pitiful, helpless squeak. Lashes fluttering, writhing, gnawing into your lower lip when he rolls his tongue across your pulsing clit. The sound that rumbles across your core rattles you down to the marrow. It feels like he wants to chew you to the bone. 

And when he pops off, finally— finally— panting like he’s had his fill, sucking at one of your lips until it’s tender and kiss-bruised— satiated this quenchless thirst that riles in the apertures of his skeleton, humming in his musculature— you breathe. Just breathe. Catch it— snag it. A soft repose in recompense for the throb in your guts, between your legs. Crystalline beads hover, sprouted from the corners of your eyes, streaking across your lash line. Your gaze is lachrymal. Pools of an unspooled bliss, mottled overwhelming, shimmery and red-rimmed. 

And the breath you’ve been catching—

Is forced out from between your lips when his hand lurches. Pins you, supine, to the couch, fingers spanning your nape. Heel of his palm at your jugular. The abruptness of the motion has your heart lurching to your throat. It nearly kisses the shape of his hand.

(But you suppose, if that cracked bit of your rib belongs to him, then maybe a sliver of your lung does, too.)

Somewhere between the dazed stupor of you, panting like you’ve run a marathon, and laying you out on the couch, he’s fixed the mask back on. The balaclava. And the crass, dirty thought that his chin is still slick under the cotton, making it sodden, and hot, and tacky to his skin, seeps across you and cakes like cement. 

He stares down at you through the cut-outs. Your heart is a hummingbird behind the rungs, trying to break free, and you feel it in your pulse, where his thumb strokes. You wonder if he can feel it. You’re still in that balmy, soggy headspace with your muscles pliable, your head heavy. A pastiche of heaven in a come-down, roping its way across your bones and smogging your hypervigilance. 

You’re less unnerved to be stared down at like that— like you’re a meal for him to chew apart between his teeth, like he’s contemplating every possible scenario and picking through to find the prettiest position to put you in, how to grind out the prettiest sounds— with your head feeling like it’s liquified.

Your lashes flutter. You trace the seams on the ceiling, where it’s been repaired for water damage. Maybe someone bled out on the floor above, you think. 

But the warmth of the evanescent fog doesn’t curb the note of nervousness that paints its way into your respiration— like bleeding watercolor— when you hear his hands on his belt buckle. See the way he hovers over you, so large, and indomitable, eyes potent and intoxicant. Hungry. 

(He’s sated his appetite enough to hold him over, bar him from tearing you apart, but he’s still hungry.)

“Think it’s about time you start to give back, sweetheart,” he tells you. Dripping ichor-thick with want. Like blood melded with syrup. 

Even with apprehension dancing across your mind, you want him to fuck you. You want him to stretch you fucking dumb around his cock, just the way you remember he did—

But his next words make that reluctance buzz a little louder in your hindbrain. Alarms. The blood-curdling croon of the siren.

“What do you think, mm?” he mulls aloud, tracing the pad of his finger across one of your pebbled nipples, then the smooth, unmarred skin of your tummy, pausing over your belly button. “Should Daddy make you a mommy this time? Make it stick?”

Your gasp sticks to your throat. Tangles between your tonsils. Your nostrils flare when you try to take a deep breath as indemnification, and you blink up at him, you find nothing but firm resolve in those voids. Abysmal, and unrelenting. 

“I— can’t… have a baby,” you croak, a touch incredulous, but you sound alien in your own ears. Like you’re drowning. 

He cocks his head, tipped down at you, with that ugly, ivory mask. “Sure you can. That’s what you’re built for, isn’t it?”

And the degradation, being stripped down to the metal cogs, the tender technicalities of your biology, makes your cheeks blister. It’s demeaning. You hate it. Hate him, you hate him— something molten rolls in your underbelly. 

(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)

You feel your legs dipping when under the weight of his crowding closer, between your split thighs. Bent at the knee, feet planted. The couch creaks. And when the coarse brush of denim kisses your naked skin, you feel the heat from it like a furnace. 

“No,” you tell him, eyes carved into narrowed slits, and the demand in your own voice makes your bones tremble when you hear. You suck in a breath. 

He blinks. Something flickers, congeals, in his eyes, almost like you’ve stunned him with your gall. Your unrestrained defiance. And there’s something uncomfortably stifling in his gaze, searing down at you, when he tips his head. Almost like he’s contemplating your response. Rolling it between his fingers. His thumb draws a feather-light line over your mons, across the stretch of skin where your womb is buried under the soft layers of muscle and fatty tissue. 

“How do you think,” he kisses his teeth behind the layers— a muffled sound, but one you pick up on with your heartbeat in your ears, “it works out if I take you now, and they find you later? Keep you all to myself. Cancels out, doesn’t it?”

The indirect threat, framed as a hypothetical happenstance, makes something curdle in your blood like sour milk. The bile rolls in the pit of your tummy, and you feel your throat squeeze. Your exhale is a weak hiss. A wheeze, because you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you, alongside the foolish temerity.

The finger that’d traced a line across morphs into a hand, and he presses the breadth of it to your underbelly. Big. All leather, broad, your belly button peeking from the wedge between his digits. 

He sighs, and takes the hand away. Works it back over his belt buckle, until the tails are free-standing, bifurcated, and his fingers work over his zipper. It’s a huff that swells his shoulders, and you’re reminded just how big he is, over you. How massive. How staunch to his ideas— you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“But maybe,” his head bows to watch where he’s working, and his tone is thoughtful. Menacing. Saturated with condescension, the same way you’re drenched with the remnants of your gushing slick, between your thighs. He meets your eye. “They wouldn’t look at all. Awful lotta people go missin’ altogether, tonight.”

You blink. Squirm. Thoughts of you, swollen and pregnant with his baby— chain-linked to his wrist, to a dreary, foreign bedroom like a dog to a doghouse in a backyard— makes you vitriolic. Angry. 

Horrified. 

(So why, then, does it make your head fuzzy? Kindles crackle at your underbelly, where he pressed his enormous palm.)

“No— no. I’ll be. You can—“ you shake your head. Try again. Placate. This is a gun, broken china on a back shelf. You can’t dissect it for what it means. Your ribcage shakes. “You can do— anything. Please.”

You imagine he’s sneering at you from behind the mask. Under the balaclava, lips crooked, when he tucks a thumb into his waistband and frees his cock. One hand squeezing at the root, stroking up. The motion has a slimy glob of precum blurting from the tip. It’s thick in his fist. Heavy. Mushroomed ridges vivid pink, long, fat. A little lopsided, skewed slightly to the left in his hold, arching towards you. 

He didn’t make you suck it last time, but you wonder if he will, tonight. Gag the bold subversion out with the subtle flex of his hips, your insolence— you, stupid, little thing, telling him no— with his cockhead spewing against the gummy wall at the back of your throat. 

The view makes you dizzy. Like you’re staring up to the summit of a mountainside with him looming over you. The peak that crawls over you, so tall, and makes you feel so insignificant. 

Those liquid gemstones have shed across your temples, but you don’t recognize it until his thumb swipes at the corner of your eye. A pillow-soft caress. It’s almost tender. Almost. Deliriously, you watch him smudge the same thumb, brandished in your tear, along his cockhead. The wet thumbprint coagulates with the slick there, weeping from his slit. 

“‘Course I can,” he tells you. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he manhandles you, then. Wrangling you, by the scruff of your neck, into a hover across his lap. Positioning you how he sees fit, with him seated back on the couch, and you dangling over his cock, angled up in the seal of his palm. Your knees split across either side of his lap. 

“But mum and dad,” he grunts, and when his cockhead prods against your seam, you gasp, flinching up. “should stick together. Don’t you think?” 

He drags it forward, smudging it against your spent core, and it catches on your clit, the overstimulated nerve endings there, enough to make you shiver. It wracks up your spine. 

There’s nothing romantic about the way he holds you. He doesn’t cradle you close with this sense of softhearted adoration— despite your vulnerability— only pulling you close by the nape when his slick cockhead slaps your clit, your mons, with a wet smack. You gnaw into your lower lip, muscles clenching. Seeking. He smears the tip back to your pulsating rim. 

“What’s’a’matter?” he coos, probably at the rucks between your brows, creasing across your forehead. Your eyes flicker up. “You don’t wanna be my sweet, little wife?”

(You do, you do— you—)

“Oh—“ 

The press of his tip wrenching you open, taut around him, knocks your head back. Makes your shoulders rigid, spine arching over him, and his chuckle to the gasp that clots in your trachea is dark. Rich. It fizzles into a husking growl, though, when he presses down on the tops of your thighs and sinks you over him. Against him. Stretching the wet, sopping heat around him that throbs like a heartbeat with every tight breath you take, every inch lower. Your knuckles scrabble. Notch into his leather jacket, crinkling, burrowing, balling. 

“There you go,” he hisses. Groans. You’re not looking, but you know he is. Feel the molten pools of his gaze fixed where he’s feeding his cock, unwavering. He nearly sounds awed— splintering apart— when he tells you, “Such a pretty pussy. Look at this slutty, little cunt. Swallowing me right up.”

It’s raw. Bare— skin on skin— as close as you can get, and the pang that smarts at your rim permeates all the way up to your head, until that too, feels plugged. Foggy. 

It’s too much. Too—

He flexes his hips up sharply when you stall, just enough to wedge in to the hilt, and it wrests a high sound of surprise out of you. Nearly pained. Liked a kicked animal. It snags on something deep with the motion, something you haven’t been able to reach with your own measly fingers, and you mewl. 

He gruffs a slur behind the mask, tethers it with a groan, a breath that sounds caught in his mouth, but you can’t make out what it is. Not over the thrum in your ears. The assault on your senses, the unstilted stretch that feels like it’s prying you apart. Splitting you down the middle. Your thighs tremble. A sting. A dull throb that spills in your underbelly, lapping at your sex in sweltering, warm waves. Your clit twitches. 

There is something so cataclysmic in the way he hollows you out. Carves himself deep, scoring you in a way that’ll leave you begging for a piece of him, after, when you’re empty. A piece of his rib in return. It’s wrong— you shouldn’t want this man, crave him like you crave sanctum and stability. Your frenzied desperation, panting over him, seated to the throbbing root, feels chock-full of a festering longing you’ve been burrowing down since last spring. Spilling over. It sprouts— and spring, you think, bitterly, is all about revival. Rebirth. Flowering— the yearning you’ve been hiding behind your teeth germinates across your shuddering shoulders. 

He makes you ride him. Grunting, spitting how he wants you to bounce on his cock like the good girl you are. Soft, sloppy, half-hearted grinds you can manage over him, until he takes over, hitched on a huff that sounds nearly exasperated, and ruts up into you with the leverage of his feet on the carpet. 

He fucks you like he’s sedulous to make good on his words. Hard, fast, bludgeoning your rationale until it feels like you need the tang of cigarettes and santalum in every wheezing breath you take, writhing over the shape of him. His thumbs on your nipples. His fingers under the weight of your bouncing tits. 

Every pummel up into you feels like it kisses the seal of your womb. Feels like it’s battering a little closer to fruitions, to threats, and omens, and promises. 

And you like it. Love it. Can’t get away, can’t get enough, pawing at his chest, and then his collarbones, and then his chin, fingers knocking the border of the plastic mask. Kiss me— you think it’s cruel. So cruel, that you can’t kiss him. Can’t make out the shape of his bared teeth, the glint of them with his lips snarling. You want to lick across them. Bite. Taste blood for doing this to you. For making you feel this way. You want to tear him apart. Catch his tongue against your incisors. 

The thought is a distant chimera. A daydream you can’t chase, snared in a limbo— just take, take, take. But over the crests of your cheekbones, your dewy gaze watches him. Watches him, the way he’s watched you. Unrelenting. It’s hazy at the borders. Your sight flecked with wetness, shuddering, like a camera in hands that can’t stay still, but you’re unremitting. 

“Spit on me,” he growls. It’s an abrupt request— command, brimful of authority. Perverse. Then again, when you don’t oblige, it spills as a rasping grunt, “Spit on me.”

It wheedles into your threadbare sense of logic, registers. Your brows weave. Pinch, face creasing when he delivers a sharp plunge up, into you, tip to root. It’s gross. Disgusting. Lecherous. You think about your saliva blooming across his face, the way his heavy balls will throb. 

You want to spit on him. You want to bite him, claw at him, hit him— you pucker your lips. 

It lands as a tacky glob stretching across the bridge of the nose on the mask. Seeping into the inner-corner of the eye cut-out. Glistening, slick. The sight is revolting. Nasty. Your lips curl down, your brows crinkle—

He groans. It’s loud. Suffocated on desire, hunger, want, akin to the noise he made sniffing at your hair like a monstrous hound. A fucking creep. 

One of his hands leaves your chest, his thumb wriggles under the plastic white mask. It gets discarded, tossed off onto the couch. 

The view of him in, only in a balaclava, is new. 

No less unnerving, but it’s different, and it makes your inhale tangle in your throat. Something clicks in your lungs. You hover over him, with his neck craned up at you, and his eyes are green. Two pools of epidote, eroding under the swell of his pupils. Hornblende inkblots. A long, winding wild forest. You could get lost in it. 

(And pitifully, part of you already has. Melting apart like gum under the sun, between his stupid, thick fingers.)

“Fuck. Again. Give me another,” he tells you. It rumbles, but it sounds like a plea. You feel it vibrating in his chest, under your fingers, first, then watch the divot of the balaclava wavering into his mouth when he takes in a breath between his teeth. The way the cotton is stretched, tucked, across the bridge of his nose. 

You spit where he breathes. Where he’s huffing with every brutal thrust of his hips. It speckles the ribbed cotton with shimmer, then melts into the black where his lips lay. You can’t see how it saturates the mask, but you watch the way it affects him. Watch him unravel— the way he breathes through his nose, long, deep, lashes fluttering and dusting along his cheeks as his irises loll, and you’re faced with the view of their pure ivory frames. The pink rim across his lower lash line. 

He hammers into you, mercilessly, with his leather fingertips against your clit. It’s too much. Too harsh. Pleasure and pain coagulate into a lagoon that sloshes your head, pulses between your thighs, under his incessant fingers. 

And when he comes apart, under you, you nearly tip over the precipice at the experience alone. He makes a ragged sound, a groan, hips stuttering, and spurts ribbon after ribbon of his cum against the spongy walls flexing around him. Into you. Against the seal of your womb— oh, God— you burrow your hot face into his shoulder, hips canting, and bite at the leather. 

“Fuck,” he slurs. Heaves— and you feel him melting under you. Thawing. 

Your spine ripples. The molten heat of his cum, sticking to you, plugged up by his throbbing cock, makes you feel feverish. Aching. Charred all over, from the inside. You take a deep breathe and taste his musk at the back of your throat. Lingering along your tongue.

It’s almost comforting. But the reminder of who this man is, and what he does (has done to you, is doing), crawls along the serenity of your haze like a poisonous treacle. You muster the strength in your core to rock up onto your knees, make to clamber off. 

“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“

The thought of repose is a bittersweet mirage, though, sparkling in the distance, when he nudges his hips back up from beneath you. 

It knocks into something that makes your lungs seize. You feel his tacky spend coated across the undersides of your ass cheeks, spilling against the inside of your thighs. Pooling in the thicket of dark, wiry hair that nests around the root of his cock, dusting his balls. He grunts, and when he jostles you over his lap again, you have to catch your balance with your hands against his pecs. 

His eyes are shimmery when you blink up at them. Expressive enough for you to clock the derisive mirth that curdles, in shavings, along the chrysoberyl flecks in the tumultuous seas, when he hums. “You didn’t think I was done, did you?”   

He’s not done. Not for a good, long while. But you suppose, that a year of self-denial, precipitous self-restraint, is bound to spill over, eventually.

(It’s just too bad for you that you ended up in the path of the hurricane, front and center.)

He fucks you again over the arm of the couch, with your ribs smushed to the ledge and your knees on the cushion. Arms behind your back, head dangling, tits aching with the press of his weight, every drag against the fabric. Fingers in your mouth, straining the corners wide, riding the grooves of your clamped, slick teeth. Pawing at your ass, squeezing the flesh, prying your cheeks apart humiliatingly wide.

He makes you cum again. And again, until you’re sobbing. Legs hitched over his shoulders, chin twisted, gnawing into your own shoulder to stifle your mewls. 

“Tell me your name,” you slur under him. With his chin over tucked your shoulder, his hum ripples across your eardrum like a humid gust. Rolls between your shoulder blades. 

“Tell me your name,” you beg, again, mottled with frenzied desperation that climbs your throat. You know those eyes. You know that face— the one that lies underneath. The misty contours of it scratch across your skull in the smog of a memory. You know—

Your lower lip wobbles when he cups over your sternum, takes your breast in a doughy handful, squeezing around it, drowning you in every wet squelch, every slap of his hips against your ass. 

“Daddy.”

When you wake up, he’s not there. Ephemeral. The night nearly feels temporal, if not for the slick between your thighs, dewy at your cunt, where your seam is still aching. Crusting along the insides of your thighs. 

You feel like every bone is out of place. Like everything needs to crackle and slot back. Worn, tired, when you kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and stand. It pangs between your legs, first. And then across your chest. 

Your underwear is gone. You know you won’t find it. 

When you check the clock it’s midday. Late, too late to even be considered sleeping in. You’ve wasted the twenty-second off into somnolence. There’s still a haze across your head. This balmy, misty thing that keeps you sluggish. Tired. You’d chalk it up to oversleeping, but. 

It’s short-lived. Hollowed by the vacancy. Something stirs in the back of your head— you should probably send a life signal out to your family. Let them know you’re not splattered across the sidewalk, somewhere, or worse yet—

You think about his words. Keeping you all to himself. The thought makes your shoulders shudder. 

On the way to the bathroom, you find carmine carnations in your kitchen. Mounted in a vase that belongs to you, plucked out of the cabinet over your fridge. Beautiful, beautiful carnations.

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TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @flubblubbb @ivegotthecinema

@bxtchboy69 @iloveharrystyles04 @littlenatilda @witch-rry @watermelonsugarslut

[1800titz]

KINKTOBER 2024 ★₁₈₊

...the titz take

★₁₈₊

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ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ. ᴏᴄᴛ 5. > MASK KINK > purge au > stalker!harry/dubcon/praise/rough sex/spit kink/leather kink

ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍɪᴀ. ᴏᴄᴛ 22. > DEGRADATION & PRAISE > witch x witch hunter au > enemies/rough sex/dom-sub undertones/pussy slapping (light)

ʀᴏʟʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ. ᴏᴄᴛ 31. > PET PLAY (soft) > couple’s costume gone wild > soft dom/dumbification/praise/dom-sub undertones

[1800titz]

ROLL OVER for the final installment of the kinktober projects — later today

It feels dirty. Borderline gaudily pornographic; you, on your knees in that careful nook between his split thighs, with his suspenders dangling across his lap. The big, utility boots on his feet, either side of your haunches. The pried zipper on a set of work trousers, slouching low on his hips, multi-faceted into a costume.

He’s heavy on your tongue. Takes up too much room in your mouth. Leaking and throbbing when you duck your head to take him just a little deeper, a little more.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs. It sounds a little dark. Hardly over a whisper— you make a wet, ugly sound around him and blink back up.

From your angle, there’s this pastiche of sovereignty to him. Like blue collar regalia; half-shed firefighter’s rig, shape of his face chiseled in self-possessed stolidity—

Save for his eyes, the little clinch in his jawbone. The glint in the charcoal vats, the sharp carve your lips make. Your tongue seeping out over your lower lip when you take a deep breath through your nose, open wide, and take him nearly to the root.

The sound that crawls out of Harry is so battered that all you can do is claw into the fabric on the apex of his thighs and let your eyes screw.