#purge au!harry

[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.

kinktober masterlist here. | general masterlist here. | patreon here.

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

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

[nottsangel]

ARI’S NAUGHTY LIST ‘24 ੈ✩‧₊˚

welcome to nottsangel’s kinkmas special ! i regretted not doing a kinktober so i am super excited to be participating in kinkmas this year ! to be honest, none of these are christmas related, i just needed an excuse to write a lot of filthy smut … so i really hope you guys will like these !!!! any feedback (reblogs, comments, asks) is highly appreciated and helps keep me motivated to write ! ♡˶

as always, please read the warnings carefully and avoid anything that might be triggering for you. you are responsible for your own media consumption. every single drabble is 18+ only so no minors allowed !

just a heads up— although very unlikely, this list is subject to change. (e.g. order or kinks)

if you want to be added to the taglist for my kinkmas, let me know in the comments !

currently taking a break

nav. more content. // masterlist under cut

ONE .

↳ ♡˶ [10.12] cockwarming — dealer!theodore nott

TWO .

↳ ♡˶ [11.12] handjob — harry potter

THREE .

↳ ♡˶ [12.12] choking — draco malfoy

FOUR .

↳ ♡˶ [13.12] face slapping — brothers bsf!theodore nott

FIVE .

↳ ♡˶ [14.12] scissoring — pansy parkinson

SIX .

↳ ♡˶ [15.12] anal — mattheo riddle

SEVEN .

↳ ♡˶ [16.12] just the tip — bsf!theodore nott

currently taking a break

EIGHT .

↳ ♡˶ [17.12] mirror sex — george weasley

NINE .

↳ ♡˶ [18.12] knifeplay — tom riddle

TEN .

↳ ♡˶ [19.12] forced breeding — toxic!theodore nott

ELEVEN .

↳ ♡˶ [20.12] belly bulge — lorenzo berkshire

TWELVE .

↳ ♡˶ [21.12] double penetration — dragonott

THIRTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [22.12] lap dance — love island au theodore nott

FOURTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [23.12] face sitting — hermione granger

FIFTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [24.12] gunplay — the purge au mattheo riddle

SIXTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [25.12] drugging — stalker!theodore nott

SEVENTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [26.12] spit kink — fred weasley

EIGHTEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [27.12] oral threesome — mattheodore

NINETEEN .

↳ ♡˶ [28.12] phone sex — ghostface!theodore nott

TWENTY .

↳ ♡˶ [29.12] thigh riding — blaise zabini

TWENTY-ONE .

↳ ♡˶ [30.12] overstimulation — ron weasley

TWENTY-TWO .

↳ ♡˶ [31.12] voyeurism — new girl au (theodore, mattheo, lorenzo)

© nottsangel 2024. do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[mins-fins]

HELL iN HEAVEN .. 𝒍ee donghyuck

𝒔ynopsis : it's crucial to not misunderstand infatuation with love, as the resounding consequences that follow will remain a prick at your side for as long as you live. in your current circumstances.. survival seems much more important than the man who wishes to be one with you, with your heart, with the blood in your veins, with your soul, but for some reason, you don't stay away.

𝒑 ─ lee donghyuck x male!reader. 𝒈 ─ alternative universe, purge au, somewhat dystopian fashion, exes to lovers(?). 𝒘 ─ swearing, explicit language, violence, death, not exactly love and more co-dependency, morally dubious characters, blood.. a lot, warnings will be in individual chapters.

𝒔oundtrack . . . ♥ hell in heaven . twice ପ strange ways . mf doom ※ faith . hyde ❀ this hell . rina sawayama ✦ dirty harry . gorrilaz

𝑻able of contents . . .

❀ i. angels and demons come and go … ❞

ପ ii. heavens door is closing … ❞

✦ iii. kiss me in the blue moonlight … ❞

𝒕otal word count is pending..

[childotkw]

okay but imagine the grindelwald! harry au mixed with that ybtm(ibty) au where it's actually harry that goes to nathan's world. i would assume that dumbledore wouldn't allow those rumors to spread if harry came to him first, but if harry had built up a reputation beforehand... it's technically not allowed/ taboo to discuss the rumor (not like the school can place a ban on it), but the whole student body knows it by the time harry is there and assisting dumbledore. dumbledore can't even claim harry as his son or relative at this point because it would just end in even more disaster. harry is super adverse to the rumor but his refusal just kinda stokes the flames higher and at this point even grindelwald is aware that his supposed son is hanging out with dumbledore at hogwarts. and wouldn't that be rejection of the highest order again? or perhaps he wouldn't really even believe the rumor but that power that harry effortlessly wields, that's something to see. i feel like nathan would believe harry when he said that he wasn't grindelwald's son, but orion would do the real plotting when he connects nathan's attackers to grindelwald, like, the amount of drama orion lives for is RIGHT THERE orion would prob be disappointed when he doesn't see results tho lol, but he has plenty of other entertainment. like harry and his everything. and tom too, but he sees tom more than harry, and tom likes to hide everything, so. anyways this idea has consumed me so i'm sorry about the word vomit lmao your aus are very plot-bunny inducing

A spin off of Dark Side of the Moon where Harry side-stepped Dumbledore and Hogwarts completely, and became some vigilante-esque figure in the Wizarding underworld because his saving people thing was alive and well even if he's a grumpy boy.

His actions - stepping in and defending others regardless of status or species, breaking up the more destructive and illegal rings in Knockturn and making things a little safer for those living there, dodging the aurors with all the skill of a career criminal, etc. - drew attention.

Because of course they did.

And people loved to gossip about him.

Because of course they did.

Harry was focussed on trying to get home (he has yet to chat with Death), and unintentionally kicked off some of those rumours himself. Rumours that, for some reason, had people thinking he was Grindelwald’s son?

(It was absolutely because of the Deathly Hallows tattoo on his hip - don’t ask how it got there, don’t ask how the group of hags spotted it, Harry purged that memory from his brain, it did not happen).

Anyway.

Harry was strolling around Knockturn on Halloween and stepped in to chase off the men attacking Nathan, safely whisked the boy back to his family and let them know that Grindelwald’s men were on the prowl. Benedict took that warning seriously, and Cynthia proposed Harry stop by one afternoon for tea as a thank you.

And one gossipy vampire who witnessed Harry curb-stomp Grindelwald’s men spread the word that the Dark Lord’s apparent son was ‘on the outs’ with his father because why else would he attack a group of Acolytes unless there was trouble in paradise?

Long, long story short - Harry eventually ended up at Hogwarts as some weird teacher assistant / in protective custody / a God (people are too scared to ask at this point). He just chilled in the school, occasionally disappearing without a word to dismantle an illegal poaching organisation or bulldoze through some of Grindelwald’s men.

It was only after a few months that Harry even heard the rumour that people think he’s Grindelwald’s disgruntled, long-lost son. He tried denying it at first but by this point the rumour is so pervasive and wide-spread that he couldn’t change it. So Harry just rolled with it.

“Why yes, I am Gellert’s son. Yes, I think his political agenda is stupid. No, he’s not all powerful, he’s actually a moron and I’m going to break his nose when I next see him.”

People are lowkey terrified. Nathan has his pseudo-older brother who is training him to be a badass. Orion is frothing at the mouth and Tom is vibrating at a frequency that could propel himself into the sun.

Gellert just wants to know why anyone would look at him and think he’d ever sleep with a woman. Then he claims the magically-powerful-possible-god-man-thing as his son because why not?

[mvnvgedmischief]

unremarkable days: Sirius black is trying to be a good man, a good brother, a good person. Sirius has a steady job designing book covers for a publishing house, a flat he never leaves, and a traumatized brother who was just removed from the custody of his parents. All in all, it's wildly unremarkable.

archive tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Regulus Black, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Modern Marauders (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), ok so this is mostly just sirius trying to take care of a traumatized regulus, Modern AU, Sirius trying to be a father figure, to his brother who was just removed from his home, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Sirius Black, Writer Remus Lupin, Young Regulus Black, Past Child Abuse, Trauma, everyone is sad, Custody Battle, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Past Domestic Violence, Child Abuse, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Domestic Violence

words: 103,104 chapters: 27/?

this is kind of my baby in terms of fics i’ve written, i love it so much. it will probably end up around 30 chapters, but lord knows. artist!sirius x writer!remus in a modern take on a high society young adult recovering from his fall from grace while trying to hide his sexuality, take care of his brother, and fall in love. will his secret self destruction be the only thing that stands between him and the future he wants?

read it on ao3 here!

It was stressful to figure out what he needed, in the way of treatment. He had finally gotten things sorted today after several hours of meeting with Vincent Square and then following up with Orri. He would be spending the next weeks in the Orri PHP program, while he was working through supervised visitation with his parents, as well as the holidays. If, during that process, he needed a higher level of care, he had to take a bed at Vincent Square. If they decided, upon the completion of the holidays and the scheduled return to his life, January 15th, that he needed a higher level of care, he needed to take a bed at Vincent Square. None of this was binding or anything, but it was something he agreed to, so it wasn’t like he would be comfortable backing out. He wished he would, somewhere in the back of his mind, because he was just so much more comfortable at home, making the same disordered decisions he was making right now. He wanted to keep avoiding meals, expelling his demons with his purges, and destroying himself. But he couldn’t. No, if he wanted to continue to be Reggie’s guardian. 

It was a long fucking year.

Sirius had crashed on the couch. If he was honest, he crashed on the couch more often than he slept in his bed. He was sure that it was overwhelming to Reggie upon his arrival here, but they were coming up on a milestone soon. Almost a year of the two of them living together, almost a year of his parents trying to ruin him. He almost wondered when they would start trying to laud him with money, considering nothing else had worked in strong-arming Sirius into giving them what they wanted. The worst part, if you asked Sirius, was that he would consider it. He would be a liar if he said that the amount of money he could surely get out of his parents could really change his life. He could buy his flat, and instead of worrying about rent each month, he could take the time off he needed to make sure that he got his head on straight, he could finally maybe stop feeling like he was a ghost haunting his own life. That would be nice. 

Going through the motions was becoming exhausting for the artist. He was struggling desperately to be an active participant in his life, too bogged down by the static in his brain. His tether to reality had been fraying for a long time, and it had become dangerously worn. How easy things would be if he could give up. Sure, Reggie would be left in the lurch, which was why he didn’t. But giving up had a level of appeal to him that nothing else could. An end to his exhaustion, to his fear, was so far out of his reach. The only way out he could see from where he was right now was his end. As of now, he was staring down what felt like an unending torment of visits with his parents, meetings in court, stacks of work, appointments with therapists, and answering to Severus somewhere in the middle he would have to find time for maintaining his relationship with James, even though he was still resentful, trying to be supportive to Pete in the absence of his father, hopefully building a relationship with Remus– fuck he was overwhelmed. To die felt so much easier, but so completely unattainable. 

The loud buzzing of his phone vibrating on the hardwood floor pulled him out of his restless sleep, and he answered without taking a moment to check the caller ID. He would regret that he was sure. 

“Why did you answer, it’s four am?” No greeting. Typical Severus. 

“Most people start with something like alright, mate? Greetings are a part of a civilized society.” 

“Are you not sleeping again?” 

“I cannot imagine you called me at four am to confirm I wasn’t sleeping, Sev. And for your information, I was sleeping.” 

“And you’ve never heard of the do not disturb function?” 

“What do you want, Sev?” 

“I wanted to leave a voicemail.” 

“Why can’t you just tell me?” 

A pregnant pause met Sirius from the other side of the phone call. Sirius didn’t want to think about what it meant that Sev wasn’t answering the question. He wanted to let his brain keep blurring out of his understanding. He wanted to go back to living in his isolated, foggy brain. He didn’t want any of the struggle of actual interaction. “Please don’t make me humiliate myself by actually telling you to your face.” 

“This is a phone call.” 

“Close enough.” 

“Why are you calling me, Severus?” Sirius was sure that the other man could hear the way his silver eyes were rolling back in his head. He wanted to go back to sleep. It felt as though Sirius was constantly in sleep debt, even when he had hours of sleep. Any number of hours greater than one felt like a win to Sirius. He was so exhausted, his eyes permanently half-lidded and glassy with his deprivation. 

“Please,” Severus responded, and Sirius felt like he could taste the other man’s desperation. Maybe that was why the universe never let him sleep. Maybe his vigilance was some kind of superpower he unlocked when he didn’t sleep. He found his mind wandering back to the past, whirring on his time believing in something. He was never one for faith, never a true believer in god. He remembered the way his family forced him into itchy, uncomfortable dress clothes to sit on a pew that was far too uncomfortable. He remembered being eight, and the way that it would hurt to sit on that pew. He remembered the way he would shift, and be smacked by his mother for moving too often. 

“Would you prefer I hang up and let you call back?” Sirius responded, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I somehow find that would be more humiliating.” 

“Whatever,” Severus mumbled, and it was then that Sirius tasted the saltiness that was the tightness in the other man’s voice. 

“Shit,” Sirius mumbled, sitting up on the couch. He was sure Severus could hear the crinkling of the couch around him. If he wasn’t full of a toxic mixture of existential dread and sleep deprivation, he would be confronted with how awful it felt to make such a noise. God, it was so stupid when he thought about it all honestly. How pathetic, to know that the way a couch moved would be enough to send him reeling. “ Areyoualright ?” The words stumbled out of his mouth all as one, for fear of leaving too much space in between them for the acrid taste of even more emotions. If he were on the other end of the phone, he may have heard it the way Severus did. He would’ve heard the way his voice was heightened and the way anxiety seeped into his voice. But he couldn’t hear that, it was drowned out by the ringing in his ears, and the way his blood was rushing up to flood his vision with stars. If he were like Remus, if he were a poet, he would say that the stars couldn’t wait to meet him, and he couldn’t wait to meet them. That all of his issues were an outward expression of his soul’s desire to take his rightful place amongst Canis Major. If he were a scientist, like Severus, he would say that he was starving his body of necessary nutrients and that these were the standard consequences of that. But he wasn’t a poet, and he wasn’t a scientist. He wasn’t even sure he was an artist anymore. Artist implied some level of care, compassion, and vision. He didn’t have any of that anymore. All he had was a hollowed-out gnawing in his stomach, a desire to be swallowed up by the earth, and the pathetic rocking back and forth of his anxiety. 

Whatever Severus said in response fell on deaf ears because Sirius couldn’t anything over the loud sounds of his stars falling all around him. It felt like they were careening into the leather around him, burning up on entry to his atmosphere and crashing to the tune of his heart hammering in his ears. 

“– about you. I care about you a lot alright? I know I’m not Remus and I know you love him, but I just–” 

“Severus?” Sirius interrupted, “You called me about this at four in the morning?”

“Couldn’t stomach the idea of you dying without knowing....” Severus mumbled in response, “Couldn’t stomach the idea of you dying at all.” 

“I’m not going to die, Sev,” Sirius sighed, as shaky footfalls carried him out to the fire safety window. 

“Could’ve fooled me, Siri,” Severus sighed, voice tight on the other end of the line, “are you seriously going out for a smoke right now?” 

“You have a problem with smokers now?” 

“Christ,” He mumbled, “I hate you.” 

“Oi,” Sirius chuckled, “I thought you were calling because you didn’t want me to die thinking you didn’t care about me.” 

“Fuck off.” 

 This was off-limits, and they both knew it. The easy banter between them wasn’t something they could have, and they both knew it. It was too much history, too complicated, and involved far too much of their shared trauma. Even if Sirius had wanted it, which he didn’t, it required sacrifices Severus could never make. He was too close to his mother to distance himself, and Sirius was too far from him to reintegrate. Severus had a tight, bitter, and stiff relationship with the Black family. Sirius couldn’t remember anymore how, but he was sure Severus’s mother knew his mother somehow. He knew that the Snapes were also very close with the Rosiers, and if he thought back on it enough, Sirius had fuzzy memories of Eileen, sitting in on the book club, or whatever it was, that his mother ran on Sundays after church. 

“Sev,” Sirius mumbled, “Do you ever wonder....” 

“What if?” Severus responded, his voice tight with desperation and disappointment, “What if it was all different? What if we met at school instead of at your mum’s house?” 

“What if they didn’t hurt us?” 

“Maybe, in that world, we would’ve ended up together.” Came Severus’s watery whisper, like he was afraid to even say it out loud. It wasn’t like Sirius never thought about it. Of course, he thought about it. He had thought about it when he was younger, more naive, trapped in both the literal and figurative closet with Severus. He had even thought about it before he met Remus when he first gained custody of Reggie because maybe it could’ve made everything make sense. But he never took it seriously, especially because back then, they were still hate fucking, as far as Sirius was concerned. He knew, sure, that Severus was all over him, and would get jealous about him, but he thought that they both viewed each other as a prize to be won, a conquest to be made, a dance they did before they fell into a familiar pattern. It was easier for Sirius that way. Finding a new partner, someone who he viewed as more than a sexual conquest, was something had long since given up on until he met Remus. Love had gone out the window a long time ago, and new sexual conquests had been abandoned since he welcomed Regulus into his home. It made everything easier, especially when he thought about the idea of someone new seeing his body under the soft, warm lighting of his bedroom, or the harsh overhead lighting of someone else’s. The thought of someone new seeing the twists and turns, hills and valleys of his body had made Sirius feel physically ill, and it was only when Remus came careening into his life that he considered welcoming someone new in.

“Don’t cry, Sev.” Sirius replied, his own voice sounding tight, “Maybe someday, it won’t hurt to think about it anymore.” He mumbled, “You’ll find someone who can love you the way you deserve. I could never do that for you, no matter how much I wanted to in the past.” 

“I know, I see your family too often,” Severus mumbled back, with a tight chuckle. Sirius felt a tension in the pause between them before Severus’s voice came through the phone again. “You’ve wanted to?” The question hurt in a way he wished it didn’t. He had wanted to when they were younger. He wanted to, but he wasn’t brave enough to ask. He wanted to ask Sev to put distance between himself and Sirius’s family, he wanted to stop the game they played of irritating each other in front of their respective friends so they could storm off and meet in a broom closet, but Sirius was so insecure. He had been so scared of asking for something he couldn’t have, so he settled into their routine and never said anything. Eventually, he grieved what he knew he couldn’t have, and found his way into his life now.

“Sixth form...” Sirius mumbled in response, feeling his chest bloom with shame and his cheeks break into a blush. 

“You never said...”

“Of course not. You hated me.” Sirius chuckled, his own eyes welling up with tears at the thought of their youth, a youth that was so broken and marred with problems. “Even if you didn’t really, I couldn’t fathom that.” 

“But you should’ve –” Severus began before Sirius was quick to cut him off. 

“Oi, I’m pretty sure you didn’t say anything until three months ago. Glass houses and all that.” 

“I don’t know, Siri. Thinkin’ it’s probably time for me to give up on love.” 

“Sev, we’re way too young for that,” Sirius responded, taking a long pull of his cigarette. “I think it’s probably time you give up on me.”  That pulled a broken sob out of Severus, which the former aristocrat hadn’t anticipated. 

Why was Sev crying? He couldn’t understand that, even if an outsider would have to be blind to miss it. There was so much subtext in that kind of statement. Everyone knew that Sirius wanted them to give up on him, to let him starve himself off and die in peace. You’d have to be an idiot to miss that the statement twisted the knife in Severus’s chest, making him yearn just that much more for the world where he could have exactly what he wanted. Too bad Sirius was an idiot, and he couldn’t read his own subtext, let alone someone else’s. 

“Why do you insist on saying that?” Severus snapped. Once again, Severus was beyond his understanding. “Why do you insist that everyone should just let you destroy yourself?” His voice was tight with his tears, but his tone was harsh. “The people in your life care about you, you fucking dickhead. I love you for fucks sake, and I keep tearing myself apart to be here for you even though you’re an arsehole, and your brother because you’re losing your shit. I let your tosser of a best mate run around saying I’m into his girlfriend, just so that nobody asks you a godforsaken question you don’t want to answer. Why do you have to beg me to give up on you all the time? Don’t you know how that feels?” A broken sob ripped out of Severus amid his rant, and Sirius couldn’t help the way he felt guilty. 

“Severus, hey–” He tried to interrupt, but it was fruitless. Severus was going to keep saying his piece until he got everything off of his chest, and it seemed like he really needed to get the rant out, despite however much it hurt Sirius to hear. “Sev, it’s okay...” Sirius whispered into the phone, “I’m okay. ‘S not what I meant, mate.” He would be a liar if he said that none of that was new information. He knew Severus was into him, and always had been decently intro him enough to sleep with him, but he had been under the impression that Severus was in love with Lily, as was the widely held belief in his friend group. It never occurred to him that Severus would be trying to protect him. It never occurred to him that everything he said sounded like a veiled plea for everyone to just let him go. 

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Siri,” Sev whispered. Sirius could practically feel the earnestness in his bones, the whole conversation had grown bitter and sad. 

“I wish you could see you deserve more than endless pining,” Sirius responded in kind, prompting them to sit silently. It was an unfair response because even though they both meant exactly what they said, they were subtle digs at each other. Severus knew Sirius couldn’t fathom anything but his own bitter hatred for himself, just like Sirius knew his endless chaos kept Severus’s wrapt attention.

He heard his door buzzing inside, which was his cue to wrap this up. “Thanks for calling, mate. I’ve gotta jump somebody’s buzzing and I dunno who could possibly be here at this ungodly hour.” 

“Cheers, mate” Sev responded, although Sirius could tell he wasn’t happy about it. Granted, Sirius wasn’t exactly shocked by that. 

He collected himself and made his way back into his home. It wasn’t the most comfortable for his tired joints, but he ignored their loud protests and climbed back into his living room, taking notice of the clock on the wall, when had it become 5 AM? 

“Oi, do you know what time it is?” Sirius mumbled into the buzzer’s microphone.

“Can I come up?” Remus’s voice garbled through the speaker, and immediately Sirius was buzzing in the other man. God, he was glad Remus was here. He didn’t remember asking Remus to come over, but if Remus was here then he was sure he must have. Either way, he was glad Remus was here. He wanted to be held, to be loved, to be touched. He just wanted to feel okay again, even if he knew he wouldn’t any time soon. He unlocked his front door in preparation for Remus arriving at his flat. Sirius was overtired and he knew it, he was practically buzzing, and as he looked around his home, it struck him that his living room made him look like a slob. There were cups everywhere, his couch cushions were all kinds of fucked up, and his blanket was crumpled up in a ball. Bleary, wide eyes remained unfocused as he collected the dishes around the room, hoping to make his home look slightly less like a pigsty and more like a legitimate home. 

Remus walked into Sirius’s home, his rambling steps ringing loudly in his ears, and the man felt ashamed. His voice cut through the white noise in Sirius’s mind, and he felt himself sinking deeper into himself. 

“Shit, Siri,” Remus mumbled, “You alright, love?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius mumbled, silver eyes cast down on his hands. God, he should’ve cleaned up more. He should’ve kept his home nicer, he should’ve kept himself together, he needed to be better. The subtext in his mind was always that better was thinner.   “I’m fine,” He shrugged, “just tired.” It took him a moment, to step outside of his own selfish mind and notice what was going on. Remus’s eyes were rimmed with red, his skin had adopted a pallor, and his frail body was shivering. 

“Re–” Sirius said, eyes trained on the other man. God, he wished this was easy, He desperately wished he could keep himself from spiraling or getting too worried. “Are you alright?” 

“‘M fine,” Remus responds, grey eyes trained on the tile.

“I’m fine...” Sirius trails off, his eyes blown wide with a desire for the floor to swallow him up

The two of them were both sitting there, across from each other, trying to distract the other from just how out of it, and how fucked they felt. Neither was going to be able to shake this discomfort or fear. Sirius didn’t realize that Remus didn’t ask again, his mind too busy elsewhere. 

Maybe he was distracted by his fears, his stress, or the ever-looming holidays. Maybe it was everything, maybe it was nothing. Either way, in an instant Remus was clamoring into his lap, pressing a hungry kiss to his lips. Sirius responded in kind, scabbed and angry fingers tangling in Remus’s golden hair. If he was just a bit more with it, just a little bit more aware of the world around him, maybe he would have noticed the way Remus’s hands shook as they tangled into the hair behind his neck or the fact that he only had a jumper on and it was freezing outside. It took Remus’s cold hands on the back of his neck to snap him back into the dark reality of the moment. “Moony, you’re freezing.” And my heat was off was a silent understanding between them.

“Then warm me up,” Remus responded, pulling on Sirius’s hoodie to bring them closer together. He was daring Sirius not to take exactly what he wanted, and god, was it hard. But Sirius could taste some kind of desperate fear in his overtired hypervigilant state, and he cared too much for Remus to wholly ignore it. “How did you get here?” He whispered, before pressing his lips to the hollow beneath Remus’s ear. In between leaving hickies in his wake, maybe he could get some information out of the smaller man. 

“Ran,” Remus responded, a small gasp escaping him as he leaned into Sirius’s attention. However, the response prompted Sirius to pull away and stare blankly at the other man. “You ran over here? In this weather? With no jacket? From your flat?” He asked, voice blown with shock, “Fuck, do you need a cup of tea or something, love?”  

“No,” Remus responded, his voice still dripping with a desperation that was starting to feel like one Sirius didn’t recognize. The fear that he could previously taste at the back of his throat was starting to creep further and further to his awareness, and he was starting to pay more attention to what was happening around him. Remus’s cold hands met the waistband of Sirius’s boxers, where it stuck out from his pajama pants, and whined, “I want to blow you.” 

“Re–” Sirius mumbled, trying not to let his resolve to figure out what was going on crumble because of his desire for the older man. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you?” He asked, steely eyes looking over the smaller man.  

“What’s with the twenty questions, Sirius? Don’t you want me?” His voice was sharp with his insecurity. Sirius felt like he was watching in slow motion as Remus’s golden brown eyes welled with tears, and he whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” This time it was for once Sirius’s turn to hush him and press a gentle kiss to his forehead like Remus had for Sirius so many times before. 

“What happened, love?” 

“Nothing.”

“Moony, something must have happened...” He replied, his arms wrapping tighter around Remus. 

“It’s fine, Siri...” He responded, “Just leave it.” Once again, he was closing the distance between them with a crushing speed. He let his hands wander down to Sirius’s waistband once again and pulled Sirius’s lower lip between his teeth. 

Sirius pulled away, which elicited a high-pitched whine from Remus. “I’m serious, Moony. Something’s wrong.” It tasted like metal.

“If I wanted to talk about it I wouldn’t have run over here unannounced.” Remus snapped back, “I don’t want to talk.” He mumbled, “Did you get bored of me?” He whispered, golden brown eyes cash down and brimming once again with tears. 

“No,” Sirius replied, a sad chuckle pulling from somewhere deep within him. “No, Moonshine, I’m not bored of you. I just want to know what made you so upset you ran several miles in freezing weather with no jacket.” 

“I can’t have just wanted to see you?” Remus replied, pulling a smug smile. 

“Not without a jacket, you can’t,” Sirius replied, “Let me get you a cup of tea, love.” He replied, scooping up the smaller man and carrying him to the kitchen. He knew he was pushing it with his body. He knew that this was a bad choice for him, as far as risking passing out again, but Remus was so cold he could feel it radiating off of him. He sat Remus down on the counter walked over to the thermostat and turned the heat on. When he returned to the counter, Remus pulled Sirius into another kiss. “Turning on the heat for me? How romantic,” Remus chuckles. 

“Of course,” Sirius responded, leaning into Remus once more, “Moons, please talk to me.” 

“Fen called me,” Remus replied, his eyes drifting off behind Sirius. He couldn’t look the other man in the eyes while he talked about this. Those three words made Sirius’s heart drop into his stomach. He immediately pulled the smaller man into his arms.  “I didn’t know it was gonna be him. It was a Bangor number.” Remus mumbled, burying his face in Sirius’s chest and tightening his arms around Sirius’s waist. 

Sirius wished he wasn’t reminded of how awful he felt about himself, about his insecurities about his body. He didn’t have time to dwell on his thoughts, about what was going on. So instead he focused on pressing kisses to the crown of Remus’s head and whispering sweet affirmations. “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you here. He can’t find you here.” 

“I just feel so awful.” Remus whimpered, “and weak.” 

“You’re one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met,” Sirius responded.

“I’m so scared, Siri.” Remus replied, “What if he finds my flat?”

“Why don’t you stay with me until you go up north?” 

“What about the PI?” 

“They called off the PI when they won visitation. Now it’s up to if Reggie wants to keep seeing them and how Social Services feels.” 

“O-okay...” Remus whimpered in response, “I don’t wanna put you out... I just– he knows Lily and I moved in together. I know he knows.” 

“Baby, you should stay here.” Sirius responded, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It felt like the conversation was stretching on in a way that Remus hated. Sirius saw him bristle every time he asked a question, and every statement sounded like a whimper from a beaten dog. He knew that in Remus’s position, he wouldn’t want to talk about it anymore. He would want to talk about anything else. But he and Remus were different. While Sirius would run in this position, Remus had always been touch-motivated. Maybe that was something that happened before Fenrir, maybe it happened in the touch-starved years since, but Sirius noticed the way his brain stopped whirring at spiraling out of control when Sirius’s hands met the smooth expanses of his pale skin. Sirius put a finger under Remus’s chin, lifting it to pull him into a kiss. He didn’t mind that Remus’s eyes were rimmed red, or the tear tracks staining his cheeks. He found an overwhelming love for the other man, and all he wanted was to fix things. 

“Let me take care of you,” Sirius mumbled, met with a hungry and desperate response from Remus. “Please, Siri. Please .”

It was explosive and beautiful and wild, and when the sun rose on that late December day when Remus’s thighs were covered in hickeys and his mind was fuzzy from pleasure, Sirius felt like things were finally unremarkable.

[sona-nona]

I was bored and somehow or another an idea came to me... What if Wendy wasn't the only one caught up in the show?

Well, I made this: (She doesn't have wings on purpose, it's not a mistake)

A variant of Millie Lost Soul, to be honest I just wanted to see Millie with a Mulan or Merida vibes.

The story is simple:

(This is not canon within my WH universe or Bug's universe)

After Wendy had been missing for months in the neighborhood, Wally said she was on a trip to the big city, Wendy came back saying that she must "free" the rest from the torture of "HER" (the curse of the neighborhood) And I do a kind of purge where she left only Millie alive, as she was just as trapped in that false world of puppets and colors.

Millie, like Wendy, ended up being a Lost Soul (her human body had already died because she was trapped almost the same time as Wendy, since the 70's) But instead of Wendy, Millie really loved that neighborhood and those who lived there and more Wally, Wendy's supposed older brother, so now she tries to find answers and some kind of closure for herself regardless if the path has to lead to violence, which turns out to be used a lot because Wendy is not very soft.

Now for a few little facts that make Millie more god:

-Unlike Wendy, who had a mentor named Sangoo who helped her a lot in her sword training, Millie had to learn on her own how to use her fans.

-She can switch between puppet form and his pre-death form, the human one, I haven't designed him yet. (I'm not good at human designs-)

-Her hood is like that of Harry Potter, she becomes invisible if she puts it all the way on. (Makes Wendy harder to fight her)

-She is around 1,48 meters tall, two centimeters smaller than Wendy, while in the human she is taller than Wendy by 5 centimeters, 1,67 meters.

-This is more a headcannon of mine, your relationship is pretty much like the following representation I made:

(I DID ALL THIS OUT OF BOREDOM, I DOUBT TO UPLOAD MORE CONTENT FROM THIS AU BECAUSE THIS UNIVERSE IS NOT MINE AND NEITHER IS THE CHARACTER)

Millie Valentine by @artsybug0

Lost Soul universe by @g4t0-p4n (

(I don't know why I can't tag them)

[hummingbeebuzz]

Forced into the fanfiction specific writing chair, what comes to mind?

That bloody Harry Potter evil Dumbledore and evil Voldemort fic idea I have. They’re both assholes, Dumbledore has been going wild with potions, spells and obliviations. The teachers at hogwarts are under a shit tonne of compulsions and potions and/or just like fucking sadists or worse, who abuse obliviations. Voldemort was a victim of Dumbledore yes, but he has become another player on the chessboard and reacted to Dumbledore by deciding to destroy him and everything and everyone else. No bashing of kids - all of them are just under a shit tonne of magical manipulations, I’ve never understood the whole evil eleven year olds trope with Hermione, Ron, or Ginny. Especially because the same writers criticise jkr doing the same thing with a lot of the slytherins. My favourite idea for this is that between twin telepathy (which no one knows they have) and accidentally producing some prank purging potions, the weasley twins realise something is fucked and along with idk Warrington (some slytherin of the right age who is immune to obliviations due a secret genetic quirk/and or experimentation performed by family members on him) have to work out wtf they can do about this (maybe better than just survive and actually help others). I might add some really dark stuff (torture, sa) and Dumbledore has also manipulated previous generations and continues to manipulate them - leading to a lot of abusive parents, both those who would have been otherwise and more….

Maybe have some corner of hogwarts which is set up for human and creature experimentation as well.

I never find any fics like this bc either Dumbledore is a manipulator who means well, is morally grey or he’s evil but Voldemort is good and Ron and Hermione are also evil.

And yes I am aware this is not canon, I just think it’s a fun au. I haven’t got as far as logic for Dumbledore’s actions, but like I feel like it would be fun to have a subplot of various chars discovering their actual sexuality and gender rather than what dumbs imposed on them.

And oooo maybe aberforth could have tried to oppose him as a kid and dumbledore responded by putting him under a shit tonne of stuff, keeping him nearby to taunt him and putting him in his worst nightmare of a job.

[endwersed]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by the fabulous @dear-massacre 😘

How many works do you have on ao3?

21 - it would be a lot higher, but I purged all but one of my old Destiel fics back in 2017. They weren't very good, so I can't say I really regret it 🤷‍♀️

What's your total ao3 word count?

319,994

What fandoms do you write for?

Now, just Teen Wolf 🐺

Top five fics by kudos:

Find Your Fire - Reddie (IT)

Clue(less) - Reddie (IT)

Nah, He Didn't - Destiel (Supernatural)

Worst Enemy - Reddie (IT)

as dear as a brother - Sterek (TW)

Do you respond to comments?

Embarrassingly, it's very hit and miss... I want to! I love and cherish every single comment I ever get! But I find the process of replying to comments bizarrely stressful, so sometimes it takes me... a while. And that while might be, like, years. Sorry!!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I genuinely don't have anything with an angsty ending posted; I need my boys to be happy too badly for that. I guess I could say maybe striking out - just because it's not finished yet, and where it is in the story right now is angsty af!

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them have rom-com level happy endings lol. Maybe Clue(less) - it's a childhood friends-to-lovers soulmate AU, so it has all the sap that comes with those particular tropes wrapped up in there.

Do you get hate on fics?

I wouldn't call it hate, per se - but I guess my interpretation of Stiles is a bit harsher/more rough-edged than others I've seen, and some people don't vibe with that, so I get comments telling me they don't like Stiles in my story for XYZ reason.

To be clear - I also don't write Derek as a completely faultless, entirely perfect guy. I also have him do bad (arguably worse, in some fics) things. But for some reason, I don't ever really get the same kind of comments about him!

Do you write smut?

Like, almost exclusively at this point. It's like my brain can't come up with a story unless I'll get a chance to write them fucking nasty in it.

Craziest crossover:

None, they're not really my jam.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

omg yes! years ago! It was this Destiel HS AU I had posted on AO3 (since deleted because it was... not good) and someone posted it onto ff.net and claimed it was theirs. I can't remember if I ever was successful in getting it taken down.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't think so!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not.

All time favourite ship?

All time is so hard... I do probably have to say Sterek. I shipped them intensely back in 2012, and I ship them even more intensely now. So - yeah. Probably them.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Are we talking real WIP that I've actually made a meaningful dent in? Or just ideas I've put down to paper?

Because I have so many ideas, there isn't enough time to actually finish them all lol. But for fics I have actively started, I'm pretty confident I'll manage to muddle through to the end of all of them, even if it takes a little while.

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and smut, I think.

I tend to develop a scene around the dialogue - in that, it's the dialogue that will come to me first when I'm planning the outline, and I'll note it down for when I come around to writing the scene. Then it's mostly a case of refining that dialogue and building the scene with descriptions around it.

I also love smut as character study. It's not just about being horny for them. It's about being horny for their introspection, too.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I don't have the imagination to come up with some of the flowery prose I see and love from other people. I wish I did, but that's just not how my brain works unfortunately!

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I only really feel comfortable writing in languages I'm fluent in. For anything else, I think we all know Google Translate can't be trusted, so I just... avoid it.

First fandom you wrote in?

Harry Potter! Wolfstar all the way back on ff.net <3

Favorite fic you've written?

Oh god, this is hard. Let's go with a Teen Wolf fic, because they're the nearest and dearest to my heart right now.

I think I'd say feels so good inside. It was so much fun to write, and I just love loss of virginity fics so damn much.

-

Open tag to anyone who wants a go!

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: Screamfest

Screamfest 2023:

in the name of redemption by palomab1anca - E, one-shot - “I’m saving lives! That was a person. An innocent person and we can save them. This is what the Phoenix Serum is for!" “You are playing god!” “If it’s between that and being a monster, then so be it.” - Years after the war, Draco turned to healing as a way to redeem his family's name. An experiment gone wrong could jeopardize it all.

Forgive Me, Father by Wanderingxfae - not rated, WIP - For Screamfest, we have a porn with plot. Prompt was abandoned church, we went with a corruption kink. PLEASE NOTE: this involves essentially, blasphemy. you read this after reading the tags. thanks.

The Fall of The House of Malfoy by Edna_whatoopshelp - E, 3 chapters - no summary

To Purge and Protect by RandomVirgoWrites - E, 6 chapters - 7th Year AU where Hermione goes back to Hogwarts instead of hunting for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. As Voldemort now controls the Ministry, he allows muggle-born students to return to Hogwarts if they were previously enrolled. Why? For sport. The Purge is enacted on All Hallows' Eve, permitting all manner of crime from midnight till sunrise (with a special focus on Mudbloods). Will Hermione survive the night?

Dead is Better by vannminner - E, 7 chapters - Draco told himself to stand. To reach for her. To say something, anything. Instead he watched her disappear into the room with the large bay window.

day 666 by riddikulus_puff - M, one-shot - On what had been declared as Day 567, Draco Malfoy had abandoned St Mungo’s hospital, leaving behind the numerous amounts of infected and Death Eaters, who were storming the building, and Nurse Hermione Granger, who had made him aware that they were soulmates. He had the mark on his back to prove the connection between the two of them. She had been abandoned. He disappeared from sight. Nowhere to be found. And Hermione was pushing her luck to try and find him for one final goodbye

Hogwarts Psycho by hermionejean99 - T, one-shot - There was an idea of Hermione Granger, a kind of bemusing intellection. But there was no Hermione Granger. Only a being, something sinister. Though you could pass her in the library and feel her hair brush over your arm, and maybe think she was like you, just another student working to get good grades, you’d be wrong. Something was entirely off about Hermione Granger.

The Hunt by caruciatus - not rated, one-shot - Hermione races through the forest, pursued by something far more sinister than Death Eaters.

As Above, So Below by megiswritingsomething - E, 5 chapters - “If you wanted to play hide and seek, little witch, all you had to do was ask...” If he was the devil, then his voice was the apple, beckoning her to take a bite. He was so close; the subtle smell of firewhiskey and parchment curled around her nostrils like a vise. “No…” his breath left gooseflesh in its wake, “I think the Golden Girl has outgrown childish games, haven’t you?”.

Bond by spicyxpisces - E, one-shot - When her best friend convinces Hermione that a simple ritual will help her heats, she agrees eagerly. Because Draco Malfoy would never trick her.

Cinnamon by tamsynsw - E, one-shot - Hermione realises just how much she likes blood.

Chainsaws and Curses by ereneefics - E, one-shot - Questionable donations and brown-nosing don't go unnoticed. You can escape Azkaban, but actions have consequences and they will catch up to you.

The Sanguine Cure by sin_and_tonic - T, one-shot - Sanguine adjective 1.optimistic or positive, especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation. 2.blood-red. Astoria Malfoy has been prescribed the country air and plenty of rest to recover from her blood curse, so like any dutiful wife she doesn't complain and she finds herself swept away to Malfoy Manor. Under the care of her husband Draco and Healer Granger she is sure to recover quickly isn't she? However the manor isn't what it seems. Inside the green room Astoria starts to unravel the mysteries of the pattern in the wall-paper and the women that live inside it. Inspired by The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Silver Serpent by DarkCloud190 - E, 3 chapters - *If you were uncomfortable watching a movie like Sinister – this fic is probably not for you. Some of the deaths depicted in those films ring true through this story – so just keep that in mind. This is meant to be a horror fic with a bit of humor, smut and characterization thrown in *READ ALL TAGS before proceeding! “The Weasel was always weak and spineless. Wherever he is he won’t be alone, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to hide behind his mother’s skirts,” Draco snorted. A deep voice reverberated out of the floo. This is not a test, this is your warning. Announcing the commencement of the annual purge sanctioned by the Ministry of Magic. Ministry officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime (including unforgivables) will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Auror, and Healer services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. When the purge concludes. May Merlin be with you all. A loud ear curdling siren blared out of the floo indicating the start of the first annual purge. “Showtime,” Theo chuckled, tossing his wand in the air before snatching it again.

Screamfest 2024:

Devil Like Me by megiswritingsomething - E, WIP - Draco and Hermione share something special. A fascination no one else could ever understand. And he intends to give his witch exactly what she wants tonight. Or so he thinks. [WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, SUICIDE]

A Snake in the Grass by SilverDragonGemini - E, one-shot - Having grown up with the sole Nott heir, Draco was more than familiar with how Theo could fixate on things. Throughout their youth, Theo had made it a point to steal every broom Draco had been gifted, break every toy purchased for him, and, as they got older, bed every woman Draco expressed even a hint of interest in. Not this one. For once, Draco finally had something that Theo couldn’t take. In the unspoken competition between the two pureblood heirs, Draco had won, and Hermione was better than any prize he could have asked for. OR: Theo will do whatever it takes to have Hermione all to himself.

Captive in the Shadows by KikiGreen - E, WIP - Pansy Parkinson lives a life she never thought was possible, growing up under the tyrannical reign of her mother. Living with her boyfriend Percy Weasley, and working for Sleekson's Potion's, selling to the public and wholesale. Sleekson however has been strangely absent for the last week, Head Auror's in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Draco and Harry, with the help of part-time private Consultant Hermione, are tasked with finding Pansy and Percy, both of whom have gone missing. But why have they been taken? And who by? It's a race against time for the team to figure out the connection and where Pansy is being held, but will they make it or time or will it be too late? This started out as a One Shot! But quickly evolved into a multi-chapter, I hope its scary enough! [WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, RAPE/NON-CON]

And Still, We Burn by Dizzle00 - E, one-shot - no summary [WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH]

Memento Mori by meraecherie - not rated, WIP - Memento Mori: “Remember that you will die.” A reminder of morality or the inevitable transformation of life into death. Draco Malfoy is dead. And in death, judgement will be passed. But who is willing to walk this path with him? What awaits on the other side? “Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness the Lord will be my light.” Micah 7:8 [WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH]

Blood is an acquired taste by xx_morsmordre - E, one-shot - Hermione Granger's journey through trauma, fear, and desire is intertwined with Draco Malfoy. After her mother’s death, Hermione’s nightmares of blood and violence plague her. She finds that Draco Malfoy, in search of redemption is the best ally to overcome her fears. With Draco by her side, a figure equally scarred by his past, she delves into the murky depths of her darkest fears, surrendering to the chaos of pain and pleasure. She'll learn to harness the violence within, using it as a means of power, desire, and a new twisted form of control. As the lines between life and death blur, Hermione begins to thrive on the edge, embracing her own primal lust and dark ambition. [WARNINGS: VIOLENCE]

[dhr-ao3]

To Purge and Protect (Draco's POV)

To Purge and Protect (Draco's POV) https://ift.tt/wuGiflJ by RandomVirgoWrites This is To Purge and Protect from Draco's POV; the original is from Hermione's. Although I do prefer this version and can see how much I've grown as a writer, I still recommend you read the original first for more context. I think this can technically be read on its own, but some things won't hit the same without knowing Hermione's side. 7th Year AU where Hermione goes back to Hogwarts instead of hunting for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. As Voldemort now controls the Ministry, he forces muggle-born students to return to Hogwarts if they were previously enrolled. Why? For sport. The Purge is enacted on All Hallows' Eve, permitting all manner of crime from midnight till sunrise (with a special focus on Mudbloods). Words: 17871, Chapters: 6/6, Language: English Series: Part 2 of To Purge and Protect Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, Astoria Greengrass, Daphne Greengrass, Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Gore, Violence, Execution, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Explicit Sexual Content, Attempted Sexual Assault, Alternate Universe - Dark, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Explicit Language, Character Death, Torture, Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Crucio | Cruciatus Curse (Harry Potter), Chasing, Inspired by The Purge (Movies), Avada Kedavra | Killing Curse (Harry Potter), Werewolves, Stalker Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Biting, Oral Sex, Creampie, Mudblood via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/lpXYoEL November 13, 2024 at 07:32PM

[himegureisu]

I so badly want severus to be given a knife and free reign to kill people bcs THAT👏 MAN👏HAS👏 SUFFERED👏 ENOUGH👏

That should be a the Purge x Harry Potter AU Crossover.

[1800titz]

KINKTOBER 2024 ★₁₈₊

...the titz take

★₁₈₊

if you would like to be tagged in any particular piece, please read the warnings and join the tag list here (please make sure your age is visible in your bio). (tag list: closed).

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

[our-sweet-t-universe]

Just went through this old thing and purged almost everything. Gonna start posting fanfiction here, so we’ll see how that goes.

Also maybe art too, we’ll see. My Instagram is really where I put art but I might sprinkle some in here occasionally.

Shoot me a message if you have a request I suppose.

Fandoms I know are Harry Potter (both movie and book), Fantastic Beasts, Hogwarts Legacy, Hollow Knight, BATIM, Batman, Danny Phantom, Warriors, Wings of Fire, Owl House, Amphibia, and Pokemon.

You can request other things but characters might not be super accurate because I won’t know them as well.

I’ll do Reader Insert, shipping, fluff, angst, AUs, crossovers, and horror.

Might consider others if you pitch them to me as well but I reserve the right to say no for any reason so please do respect that, thank you!

Hopefully I’ll have something to post soon :3

[cellsshapedlikestars]

What fandoms/pairings did you get into before Jonsa? Or the first work/story that made you discover fanfic?

Just randomly sharing, broke my phone other day and looking for my downloaded fanfics made me look even further back.

😭 Final Fantasy VIII rpg game was 25 years ago and beloved fanfics of it published 20 years ago (still there in internet).

Also realized my love for broody, sulky male protagonists with angry chip in their shoulders and female characters that receive hate just bc they’re “princess”-y, “damsel-in-distress” not-the-strongest type was there too. (Prob started it.)

(we def share a ship preference for broody/princess lol)

It's been so long, I can't remember how I found fanfic. Probably in my Sailor Moon phase (elementary school-ish) because I absolutely wrote Sailor Moon fanfic. (I never posted it online or showed anyone, though. I can distinctly remember writing a Sailor Pluto fic where she's still alive after all the other sailors are killed, and she just stands there as the keeper of time waiting sad and alone for millennia for them to be reincarnated. Really fun and chill story, 12 year old me!) I can't remember any fics specifically that I read, though there was this website that used to MST3K "bad" Sailor Moon fanfics, and I remember reading a lot of those. I didn't ship anyone in Sailor Moon.

If you want to know about any prior ships/fics I wrote, below the cut!

Considering how much media I have consumed over the years, I don't tend to ship very hard. I tend to go with what the piece of media tells me the ships are tbh. Jonsa is the first that wasn't canon.

InuYasha

The first fandom I had a ship for, and the first fandom I actively remember reading fic for. I was big into Miroku/Sango. Never wrote anything for that, though.

Harry Potter

I did vaguely ship Harry/Ginny while the books were coming out, and even wrote a few chapters of an alternate book 2. That was on ff.net and is probably purged at this point. I could not tell you what my username or the fic title were lol.

Later, I dipped my toe into the Marauders/Jily fandom, but never went all out, because by that time, I'd become disillusioned with Harry Potter. Every once in a while, I'll go read a Jily fic.

Buffy

While this is my favorite show, I didn't ship too much. I kinda shipped Buffy/Spike (have thoughts on it now) and also Angel/Cordelia. I never read nor wrote fic for either of these pairings.

Veronica Mars

Veronica/Logan. Read some fic, never wrote anything.

Skins

I wrote a one shot for Sid/Cassie. Posted on my old livejournal and now re-posted to an alternate ao3 account. I don't hate it. I'd probably change some things if I were writing it now, but I think it's pretty solid.

(No, I just re-read it and it's very solid. Kinda proud of this one)

Glee

I am SO embarrassed to say this, but I wrote a Rachel/Puck one-shot after the episode where they decide to date because they're both hot and Jewish. It wasn't a super shippy fic and mostly centered around him telling Rachel Quinn's baby was his. I stopped watching Glee after the first season lol and did not repost that fic from my livejournal to ao3. It can die on livejournal.

Elite

Carla/Samuel!! LOVE me some poor boy/rich girl dynamics. I got really into them and even read some fic, though there wasn't much out there. Never wrote anything. Have debated writing a Jonsa Elite AU

The Other Fandom

Now. I have hinted in the past that I used to be in another fandom that I wrote fic for.

Oh, the OC. You held my heart for so many years (well. 2 years). I wrote so much fic for you (mostly in the first year, kinda fell off and did more experimental stuff in the second).

That fandom was the O.C.

I'm kind of afraid to say the pairing, because there's only 1215 OC fics total on ao3, and for my pairing is not one of the popular ones, and I wrote about a quarter of those, so I feel like you could find my alt account pretty easily...

I dunno. I'm a little embarrassed about some of the fic I wrote back then. Some of it is SO unnecessarily dramatic (AND IN FIRST PERSON. I HATE FIRST PERSON POV!!). I also wrote a wild amount of smut for someone who didn't really know what the fuck she was talking about lmaooo. I've spoken a lot about how skittish I am about writing smut now, but as a teenager I was cranking that shit out. (ok I actually just looked and it's only 5 explicit fics, but still. That's about 1/5 of the fics I wrote)

I'm probably making too much out of it, because there are some fics I'm proud of, but enough that I'm embarrassed by that I have yet to be able to publicly say what my apt account is

[oknowkiss]

getting to know you tag game

gosh i'm late on this, but thank you for the tags @eveningstruggle @geesenoises @citrusses @ghostofnoir

three ships: drarry, of course. two more from HP which i've never written but really like: plantseeker (harry/neville), lunarry (harry/luna). three outside of HP: kagehina, kenhina, sakuatsu. sorry this was like 9 ships i have no control

first ship: god the first fic i ever wrote was in middle school: self-insert o-town RPF with me and ashley angel. it was lost in the great ff.net RPF purge so don't even try looking for it. my first ship i really shipped? harry/zacharias smith

last song: sitting by tj mack + all requisite covers, each one more amazing than the last

last movie: in theaters: bottoms (so fun!! so gay!!), at home... does it count as a movie if i watch half a season of veep in one sitting?

currently reading: 

fic:

cut from the sky by @mallstars

the star splitter by @oflights

terrible people by @wolfpants

non-fic:

you, again by kate goldbeck (when harry meets sally reylo AU that become published romance)

just finished the guest by emma cline, which gave me zero anxiety at all

currently watching: paint dry in my bathroom after the ceiling partially caved in almost a month ago (ask me about my anxiety levels). also veep. also considering torturing myself by starting jujutsu kaisen

last thing i wrote: the waiting for @hd-wireless / @m0srael

currently writing: my @hd-erised fic! and that's all i can say about that!

i feel like most everyone has done this so far, but if you haven't @sorrybutblog @mintawasalreadytaken @vukovich @oflights @tackytigerfic @sweet-s0rr0w @mallstars @babooshkart and anyone else who sees this and wants to!

[ruleofrosethorns]

notes for kuwtm!! (since some of yall seem to really enjoy this au)

the main au takes place a few months after SH3

james is here because harry kinda just felt like visiting sh after a couple of years and lo n behold

CAR IN TOLUCA LAKE FEAT. DEPRESSED WET CAT!!

he saved wittle old james and the rest is history

Harry DID NOT DIE because his protective bf (james) saved his sleepy ass

they decided to go on a road trip to Silent Hill and fuck around for a bit

(i might start writing a separate thing for that hehe)

anyway at some point harry got separated from the gang(tm) and went to alchemilla hospital

AND HOLY SHIT LISA IS HERE SHE IS VIBING

(oh and Maria was out and about terrorizing James like old times <3)

pretty much there's just a group of monsters who are kinda just hanging out and smoking weed

they're cool w/ the gang and through undisclosed plot developments i'm still tryna work out in my brain-

the weed-smoking sh group survives the purge of Harold Mason and move into the human world

not directly next to but in the same area as the Masons (much to their concern (except for Heather))

and thus, the mlm wlw rivalry begins /j

Heather enjoys hanging out w/ them but Harry and James are UNDERSTANDABLY conflicted

like idk bro letting our adopted daughter hang out with the manifestations of my guilt seems kinda wack...

but regardless they all love Lisa because she has never done anything wrong ever

Harry's alright(???) w/ Maria and PH?? James is mostly just annoyed by Maria and PANICKED BY PH

Harry and Lisa are honorary siblings <3 they didn't really get to know each other during SH but that all changed when Lisa moved in

Maria and Lisa are in love and sort of formed a found family with the monsters. co-workers of the otherworld ig

the monsters sort of look up to Maria and Lisa as mother figures, PH being the weird uncle that they all love bc he supplies them weed

James & Harry tend to COINCIDENCELY run into Maria & Lisa whenever they go on a date its an ongoing issue

Most of the monsters can't really go outside?? (y'know because grotesque eldritch horrors aren't "allowed" in public SMH)

So Maria, Lisa & Heather usually go on shopping sprees to get their demonic buddies things that they want

Unfortunately Lisa sometimes starts leaking blood so that's sometimes an issue

(she has to inhale & hold her breath to keep it at bay for long periods of time)

She is like a balloon

ALSO Harry is still an author!! He's moved away from murder mystery's and works on supernatural horror & non-fiction novels about certain cults...

NOT BECAUSE OF SH OR ANYTHING HAHA

James doesn't really have a job.

he just sort of fucks around and gets a new part time job every time the last one realizes he has been legally declared missing for 12-13 years

Heather's still in school (doing her last year), had to repeat once because of SH3 kinda resulting in her family needing a REAL vacation

Maria and Lisa don't have jobs. No one knows how they managed to rent a house. James thinks they probably killed the landlord.

Like seriously, where does their money keep coming from.

Heather asked one day and Lisa spoiled the mystery by admitting they sell random demonic items they find in the Otherworld.

SPEAKING OF HEATHER. she is a girl liker. i don't make the rules (i do)

Harry is also teaching her piano (yknow for puzzle related purposes), James "trys" to help her maths homework to various degrees of success.

James does most of the cooking, but can and will resort to eating dirt if needed.

(He doesn't cook because he's good at it or enjoys it tho. it's not like he is better than Harry at cooking-he just REALLY wants to help out around the house)

Oh also James &  Harry got married a few years before the events of SH3. It was a tough decision for them at first but Heather helped them work things out

(She also hijacked the music at the reception and played My Chemical Romance)

Maria n Lisa had thought about marriage but they're sort of stuck with each other for eternity sooOo

LEMME TALK ABOUT HARRIA REAL QUICK (yes harv i have coined that name it is TOO GOOD)

So Maria is directly, y'know, connected to James' subconscious, so she can go back and forth between the forms

Again, James fell in luv w/ Harry and SH panicked and said "FUCK MARIA CHANGE UR PFP"

At first she didn't have much control over it?? So like a year after SH2, Maria's just chilling w/ Lisa and then POOF

HARRIA. And Lisa's like "AYO :O I KNOW THAT GUY?!" So they found out about the boyfriends PRETTY early on

It took a few months, but she managed to figure out how to shapeshift at will. Turns out shes genderfluid!

But after SH3 she doesn't use it that much (yknow considering harry is RIGHT THERE) but she will shapeshift just to fuck w/ people

James is ashamed to admit he actually fell for it once (he was SLEEPY and half-awake, okay?!)

Harry was a lil bit freaked out at first but now he just thinks it's kinda cool

Heather just thinks it funny that this eldritch demonic horror from another world is basically just a yassified vers of her dad and James' ex-wife

>:3