#the purge fanfiction

[bunnylouisegrimes]

💖🐰 Bunny's Masterlist 🐰💖

American Psycho Fics 🪓🩸

Tumblr Fics:

Trouble (Songfic/Drabble): My self insert muses upon her relationship with Patrick to a song featured in the end credits of the movie. https://www.tumblr.com/bunnylouisegrimes/764830225308712960/trouble-american-psycho-song-drabble?source=share

In Good Health (Smut Drabble): My self insert and Patrick get freaky in a hospital room after work... https://www.tumblr.com/bunnylouisegrimes/763929495420993536/in-good-health-american-psycho-drabble-includes?source=share

Domestic Joys (Fluff Drabble): A fluffy and trad themed drabble where Patrick comes home to a clean apartment, a cooking dinner, and my self insert. https://www.tumblr.com/bunnylouisegrimes/763467567159443456/domestic-joys-an-american-psycho-drabble-fluff?source=share

AO3 Fics:

Fancy Feast (Smut): "I didn't know pussy was an appetizer,” I snorted. “What are you, a cat, and this is your Fancy Feast?” (In other words, Patrick eats my OC out while she's playing video games on a Friday night before he orders dinner). https://archiveofourown.org/works/54747253

Love Hate Love (Songfic, Fluff and Angst): (Told from Patrick's POV)

After finally breaking things off with Evelyn, Patrick meets and finds himself a little angel. However, Evelyn is less than pleased to see this. Enraged at her and defensive of his little angel, he decides to kill two birds with one stone and present his little angel a gift while settling things with Evelyn once and for all... (Inspired by the Alice in Chains song that shares the title name). https://archiveofourown.org/works/54917731

Unforgettable (Fluff and Smut, Contains Dubcon and Hypnokink): (Told from my OC's perspective). Although he never admits it, Patrick Bateman is a man who craves never being replaced and forgotten in the world. He's trapped in a Hell where no one listens to him or views him as human. So when he's given a mysterious supposedly hypnotic substance by his coke dealer, he's not sure what to do with it at first...but that all changes when he meets a young woman who was stood up on a date... Now he's going to make sure that he's never forgotten... https://archiveofourown.org/works/55147468

Crimson (Fluff and Smut, Contains Period Sex): To quote a wise man, if you're on your period around Patrick Bateman, you're fucked. https://archiveofourown.org/works/55475986

When October Goes (Songfic, Fluff and Slice of Life): Just some sickeningly sweet slice of life fluff about my OC and Patrick getting out of the city and living their simple life with their twin son and daughter, reflecting upon how much healthier life is... https://archiveofourown.org/works/55628704

The Ultimate Escape (Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Contains soft safe oral vore): They both seek an escape, and preferably, it's the ultimate one. Luckily for the two of them, he knows how to fulfill her deepest desire... but is it real, or a dream? Truth be told, does it even matter? https://archiveofourown.org/works/55989004

He's Literally Me (Fluff, Metafiction, Contains transformation fetish): A young woman has to deal with her abusive boyfriend who tries to be a "sigma male bro." However, a trip to an antique store owned by a goth family proves to be helpful when she comes across a "cursed Rolex" that once belonged to a certain rich serial killer from the 80's. Fortunately for her, and unfortunately for him, if you want to become Patrick Bateman so badly, you might want to be careful with what you wish for... (The amazing artwork of Branwen the goth witch mama featured in this fic was created by my wonderful buddy on here @/Mothhmannn! Please go follow him for more fantastic art!) https://archiveofourown.org/works/56399890

Chamber of Reflection (Songfic, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort): My self insert has a meltdown and Patrick comforts her (AKA: Loneliness always seems to follow her, and here she is, alone again...) https://archiveofourown.org/works/57644497

Starcrossed Lovers and Killers (The Patrick Bateman Doll) (Contains Metafiction, Fluff and Angst, and Creepypasta Elements): Seraphina, nicknamed Phina, tries her best to make through her lonely days. When she finds a new friend group, things start to look up for her. But it all takes a different turn when a certain doll of a fictional killer shows up in her life thanks to destiny, and he isn't one to give up, especially when he needs her to realize that he's the only one for her... https://archiveofourown.org/works/58571761

Man Up! (Contains Fluff, sexual undertones, and transformation fetish): Emma moves into a house in the Hamptons, knowing only that the previous owner was some Wall Street yuppie. But finding a mysterious overcoat in the attic leads to a much needed change to become the man of the house... https://archiveofourown.org/works/60380959

The Purge 2013 Fics 🔪💙

Tumblr Fics:

AO3 Fics:

Head Like A Hole (Songfic, Smut, Fluff): He'd rather die than give her control... (AKA The Polite Leader, named Christian in this story, spends Valentine's Day with my OC and they engage in some naughty fun...) (Inspired by the song by Nine Inch Nails of the same name) https://archiveofourown.org/works/54748246

The Purge: Release The Beast (Contains Angst, Fluff, Whump, and Dark Humor): Meet Gary, an unwise young man who loves the simple things in life: anime, emo music, video games, and "dommy mommies." Enter his homewrecking girlfriend, Judy. The two think they'll be spending Purge night acting out their "Five Nights at Freddy's" fantasy at the pizza joint they both work at. Unfortunately for them, Gary's old girl, her new preppy boyfriend with the manners of a hotel concierge, and his masked friends are about to give them a Purge night worth dying for... https://archiveofourown.org/works/54918664

In Your Debt (Contains Fluff, Angst and Smut): The Polite Leader (Christian) has a very rough day. Luckily, he has my OC to come home to, and she knows just how to cheer him up... (Bonus angsty and fluffy backstory reveal as my OC reflects on how she and her Polite Stranger met): https://archiveofourown.org/works/55124761

Survival Of The Fittest (Contains Fluff, Smut, Dubcon, and Hypnokink): A young middle class woman has her house broken into on Purge night by a group of rich kids. Their leader, a certain polite blonde boy, ties her up on her bed and orders his men to leave them alone. She thinks she's done for, but she's in for quite the surprise... after all, there are multiple ways one can cleanse their soul on this night of all nights...and it's about time she understands the truth of this world... https://archiveofourown.org/works/55291411

They Said Eat The Rich, But... (Contains Fluff and soft safe oral vore): The old saying goes to Eat The Rich… But sometimes, it’s the rich who end up eating you… Is that always a bad thing? https://archiveofourown.org/works/55876174

Perfectly Polite and Preppy (Contains Fluff, Smut, and transformation fetish): A young woman's cheating boyfriend finds a certain blazer from a thrift store that apparently once belonged to a preppy frat boy who died on Purge night. However, he begins to gradually transform before her very eyes...but she isn't completely against it... https://archiveofourown.org/works/56264923

Closer (Songfic, Contains Fluff, Dubcon and Smut): On this most blessed of nights in America, where cleansing yourself of sin is imperative, he shows her the importance of this night. He shows her how their society works, and their rightful places. But most importantly, he gets them closer to God, the same one who allowed the Fathers to grant them these holiest of rights... (And yes, the title was inspired by the Nine Inch Nails song of the same name :P) https://archiveofourown.org/works/57871189

Would? (Songfic, Drabble, Contains Fluff, Dubcon, and Smutty themes): Know her broken by her master...teach thee on child of love thereafter... https://archiveofourown.org/works/58752823

Who Is She? (Songfic, Drabble, Contains Romantic and Stalking themes): He gazes at her picture, and all he has to think is...who is she? (The main fem character is written to be open to reader interpretation: she could either be Zoey (18+ of course), yourself as the reader, or my self insert ;D) https://archiveofourown.org/works/58983319

A Safe Place (Contains Fluff and soft safe oral vore): A foolish venture out into the house leads to somewhere far more comforting and permanent than would be expected... (Inspired by personal Character.ai chats authored by @/Ocelotmilk) https://archiveofourown.org/works/59978365

Miscellanious Fics 🤪:

Mission Near Impossible (Outlast Fanfic, Contains heavy AU themes, scary clowns, and goofy adventure): When the world is in danger from the Murkoff corporation, the world's top trans-national "charity" organization for over half a century, only four heroes will rise to the occasion to save the day. As victims and witnesses to Murkoff's heinous crimes, they are guided by Simon Peacock, a former worker of Murkoff and prototype of the infamous Project Walrider, to save and protect other witnesses and gather evidence to expose Murkoff's crimes to the world through Simon's website ViralLeaks. Brought together by their shared trauma, friendship, and desire to protect the world, ameture urban explorer and passionate nurse Bunny (Agent Urbex), cynical freelance investigative journalist Miles (Agent Truth Teller), brainy software engineer Waylon (Agent Whistleblower), and faithful cameraman Blake (Agent Excommunicated) will stop at nothing to save the world from Murkoff's misdeeds, together as The Witness Protection Squad! In this story, the WPS find themselves in a mysterious hospital filled with clown doctors and nurses...what could possibly go wrong here? https://archiveofourown.org/works/55636216

The Four Musketeers (Crossover Crack Fanfic w/ The Walking Dead, NOS4A2, American Psycho, and The Purge 2013): Four dominant, old-fashioned dudes with slicked back hair and questionable morals walk into a bar, and things get… interesting… https://archiveofourown.org/works/56176036

Scoring The End Of The World (Doom Fanfic, Songfic, Contains hurt and comfort, fluff and angst): Demons have invaded Earth, and she is left to survive on her own. He saves her from a close call and decides to take her in. But the mighty Doom Slayer himself must face an issue more insurmountable than even the demons: bringing his walls down enough to love and connect with another human being... https://archiveofourown.org/works/56837884

The Wylder Files: A Trilogy On The End of The World and Humanity (Gemini Home Entertainment Analog Horror Web Series Fanfic, Inspired by an AU fanseries Quietcamp, Contains horror and fluff): To say that Anais Danvern is a lonely young adult is an understatement: she has no true friends outside of her older brother, Brandon, and her parents are constantly fighting. She struggles with her mental health everyday, and the whole world just keeps on turning. Unfortunately for humanity, there's a grand plot that's been in the works for years, and their fate is in the wretched hands of a rogue planet out for ultimate control and destruction. However, Anais doesn't have to spend the last of humanity's days all alone. A long lost Canadian couple who've found themselves at the heart of the planet's wrath have been given a second chance at life thanks to their newfound daughter. Together, they will live their lives until the very end, bringing a glimmer of light to this darkness of astrological proportions... https://archiveofourown.org/works/57488149

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ

KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au

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

★18+

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

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

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

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

WC: 12.3K

As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. 

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

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

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

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

(Feel it— don’t you feel it?) 

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

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

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

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

Last spring, a man broke into your apartment. 

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

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

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

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

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

Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.

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

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

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

You felt sick—

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

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

Kiss me.

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

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

For protecting you? That’s what he said. 

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

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

Lotta bad men around, tonight.

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

Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you? 

(Kiss me.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanting. Slick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.

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

And what can you do? 

You’re a statistic. 

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

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

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

She tells you it’s not. 

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

That’s a different question. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what a bodily reaction is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(What you’re feeding.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoke.

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

Your fingers brush. You swallow. 

You hand his change over with your fingers twitching. 

“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.

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

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

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

“Up for anything tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May God be with you. 

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

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

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

He breaks the silence. 

“…Come tell Daddy hello.”

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

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

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

Waiting. Watching. 

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

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

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

He doesn’t. 

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

Half-stranger. Almost.

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

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

Not your hands. Not your hands. 

Your pussy. 

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

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

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

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

You stare back, and—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush. 

“Is that right?”

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

You can’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Humiliating. 

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

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

It’s the wrong thing to do. 

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

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

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

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

He won’t.

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

His nice, clean white teeth. 

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

You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—

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

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

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

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

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

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

(And worse yet, you liked it.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the breath you’ve been catching—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horrified. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Course I can,” he tells you. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You do, you do— you—)

“Oh—“ 

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

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

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

It’s too much. Too—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[auntie-venom]

Just saw Wattpad is starting their very own purge. As a fandom elder who lived through the MANY purges and fansite deletions of the aughts prior to Ao3’s existence, I give everyone my deepest sympathies.

Good luck creators.

I highly recommend migrating to Ao3. There is a learning curve but it is ultimately superior IMO.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

It started back when he was 16.

His parents found out about him and Vlad thanks to the fruitloop being an idiot and practically outing them both. Danny was so lucky that he had planned for a situation like this. He had go-bags ready with a few changes of clothes, a thermos, some weapons, a star projector, lots of money from Sam and enough medical supplies to make a hospital jealous.

It was a good thing too, after crippling the GIW and destroying all the gear they and the Fentons had they destroyed their research and everything ghost related. Vlad at this point was already dead so he wasn't much of a concern.

Dannys had landed in an alley in a new dimension, only problem now was the parting shot his mother gave him on his back. Due to the placement of it Danny couldn't reach to treat it properly and he didn't know anyone in this dimension who could help him.

Thats when his ghost sense went off. He groaned, hoping he wouldn't have to fight a new ghost in this state when a man in a red helmet (Mask?) walked up to him and motioned for peace.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The man said gently, "I just wanna look at that injury, maybe help."

Danny stared at him. He didn't feel anything off about the guy and Danny prided himself on being a good judge of character. "Okay." He scooted himself around so his back was exposed to the stranger.

"Wow, you're really not from around here." Danny stiffened, had he been tricked? The man made no moves to hurt him, just got to work tending to his wound. The man was swift, and aside from the slight sting of an ointment he didn't recognize there was no pain at all.

Once Danny was all patched up the guy made to leave, "Wait!" Danny called out and the man halted, "Who are you?" The man turned his head to look back at him, still facing away from him, "Red Hood."

As it turned out, Red Hood was the new up and coming crime lord who everyone was talking about. He came seemingly out of nowhere and was making a lot of waves in Gothams underbelly. Gotham...so this was Dannys new haunt.

Danny wanted to protect it but...he wanted to protect Red Hood even more. So when he heard about Red Hood forming a gang he made a decision. He gathered up materials to make his own supervillian outfit- basically an all black outfit with a long hooded coat and combat boots- and to add the finishing touch he put on a all white gas mask that he had made himself, complete with a voice modulator, night vision, heat vision, etc. If Hood ever wanted him to prove it was him he could make his mask glow using his ghost powers. Not that it was needed. Hood seemed to be able to sense him in a similar way that Danny could but in a much much smaller range.

With that being said, hoods men didn't trust him at first, which was fair considering he just started randomly appearing at their operations and helping them out...by force usually. They weren't sure what to make of him but Danny didn't want to go through the usual goon enlistment process as Hood would want to know his name and face and everything else and Phantom was...well a phantom.

Danny liked to hide, even in plain sight. He couldn't deny the little game of cat and mouse they had was fun. Hood would try to follow him home or track him or get him to take off the mask and Phantom would dodge his attempts every time.

It took a while, but Red Hood did eventually come to trust him, going so far as to make Danny his right hand man after 3 years of working together, though that may also be because he had rarely failed any of the tasks Hood had given him.

Maybe thats why he never told any of the bats about him. He had picked up that there was something between Hood and the bats but he never could figure out what it was without prying into his bosses personal life. Still, it was rather shocking when Red Hood showed up one day with a large red bat symbol splayed across his chest.

It also made him look at how freaking chiseled his boss was. He couldn't count how many times he had to drag his eyes away from his abs and chastise himself for thinking that way.

Danny was in love with a man whos face he would never see. But that was fine. He was happier standing by this man's side and yearning than he ever was back in Amity and it wasn't like Hood knew his face or name either.

-----------

He felt like a halfa though an incomplete one. He had a core but it felt hollow, like the soul was forcibly removed somehow and only emotions remained. Hood gained a bad reputation for flying into a monstrous rage but was always calm when Danny was near, a fact that even Red Hood himself seemed to pick up on.

Hood began to fall for his second in command pretty quickly, always trying to feed him and take care of him (as is his love language) while Danny was openly obsessed with assuring Hoods safety and well being even going so far as to use his powers (that no one knows about) to overshadow a computer and hack into the bats systems to make sure Hood was okay after a prolonged period of him being MIA.

The bats are freaked but Danny being Danny gets lucky and they always seem to miss his trail by a hair. Lucky ghost.

Things start going sideways when Fenton tech starts showing up in this new dimension only for Danny to find out his parents have remade the portal and are looking for him. The bats are being hunted by his parents and and the now rogue government agency the GIW. Danny tries to explain things to Hood without compromising his own secrets but once the newest Robin gets captured and Hood freaks Danny puts everything on the line to go rescue the stabby bird.

[questions-about-blorbos]

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[disaster-goose]

Me, an ancient millenial watching another fanficition purge:

[azeutreciathewicked]

Heads up! Wattpad Purge is happening now - check the megathread on reddit for information.

From the post, a quick summary:

What's Happening?

The past week or so, there have been reports of user's stories getting shadow-banned (delisted from rankings) and sometimes even removed. This is due to Wattpad's recent deployment of an AI-powered tool used by their support team. (Source) The tool is designed to aid Wattpad in flagging guideline-breaking content with manual reviews of the stories flagged. When a story gets flagged, it is "shadow-banned" (i.e. removed from rankings and searches) until it's been reviewed by staff.

If your story has been removed, you can contact Wattpad Support to appeal the decision.

Also important: Wattpad's "age of consent" rule has been updated. Previously, it followed the Canadian federal law of sixteen (16) years or older. On April 15th, 2024, the guidelines will be updated to reflect the new age of consent requirements of 18+.

That means for content including sexual acts between characters, both characters must be eighteen (18) or older. More tame acts (i.e. kissing, holding hands) between underage (16+ years old) characters is still fine and sex can be alluded to, but may not be described. Please review the News and Updates channel for the full text.

Also, LGBTQ+ content may be getting disproportionately targeted. (surprise, surprise) I do not publish on Wattpad nor have any connection to the platform. But I support free speech and creative works. I am also someone who was there during the Livejournal Strikethrough of '07 and know what happens in these purges. Now there is AI, which is notoriously bad at accuracy, as well as new puritans across the political spectrum who don't distinguish between art and advocacy.

[starrieshq]

You Are In Love [Kitty & Jemma]

just our favorite Blackthorns ranting about their partners :)

Enjoy!!!

“Hey, Jules?”

Julian turned around to face Ty, headphones around his neck, fidgeting with the cord.

“What’s up, Ty?”

He sat down next to him, gray eyes flickering between meeting Julian’s gaze and his unresting hands.

“I just had a question for you.” He said.

Julian nodded, straightening. Ty didn’t love to ask questions, and preferred to figure out the answer for himself. “Alright.”

“How did you know that you were in love with Emma?”

The question took Julian aback. How did he know what love was? What was Ty going on about?

“Why do you ask?” He responded, keeping his voice steady and reassuring.

Ty wrapped the headphone cord around his finger, winding and unwinding it over and over. “Because I don’t know what to label emotions as. I keep feeling…things, but I don’t know what it is.”

Julian nodded, understanding. “I didn’t know that I was in love with Emma straight away. Actually, it took several years for me to realize.” He did a once over of Ty, who’s face looked as expressionless as ever. “But eventually, I started to see signs.” He faintly smiled, recalling old memories. “I always wanted to be with her, to the point where we would eat all our meals together, train together, we’d even sleep in the same bed.” He glanced at Ty, who looked deep in thought.

“She took my breath away. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my heart had stopped. I adored her laugh, her smile, her carefree and slightly reckless personality that made her Emma, that made her the girl that I’d fallen in love with.” He remembered the days when they were a secret, forbidden from their love. “Eventually, she was all I ever thought of. She consumed my mind. I painted her.” Julian wasn’t even sure if this made sense to Ty, if his rambling about Emma and his blatant adoration of her would tell him anything about love. “I painted her hundreds of times, but every time I did, it was never enough. The shades I used for her hair weren't exactly right, or I couldn’t catch the exact tan she had gained from the Sun.”

Julian looked back at Ty. “That’s what love is to me.”

Ty sat quietly, contemplating.

“Does it hurt?”

After a moment, Julian nodded.

“More than anything.”

Ty absentmindedly stared off, deep in thought.

“Are you in love, Ty?”

Ty’s gaze focused back on Julian.

“I have been.” He said, voice steady. “I’ve been in love and I haven’t known it.”

Julian sat back.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Ty started. “He’s beautiful. His eyes look like the sky on a sunny day, and his hair is the fluffiest that I’ve ever seen.” There was a small smile dancing on his lips. “He’s barely shorter than me, maybe one or two inches. He wears the same jacket all the time, but he always looks breathtaking.” Ty’s face was flushed, recalling his memories with this love. “He’s sharp and witty, but he’s never like that to me. He understands me.” Ty dug his fingers into the denim of his jeans. “He’s kind and funny, and he makes me laugh. And I can’t stop thinking about him.” He admitted. “I haven’t been able to for the past three years.”

Julian, knowing full well who Ty was referring to, gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “I used to see you two together all the time. You two complimented each other so well, it’s hard to explain. He brought out something in you, something that I’d never seen before. It was true joy.” Julian swallowed. “But even further, you brought out something in him, Ty.”

Ty looked at him, bewildered and almost astonished at what Julian was saying.

“He was angry, and scared, and bitter at the world.” Julian said. “You showed him that the world is what you make it.”

“But he’s angry at me.” Ty said fretfully. “We haven’t spoken in forever.”

“Forever is an awful long time.” Julian responded. “I hope it truly isn’t forever.”

[justaz]

merlin au where merlin keeps excalibur and returns to camelot to serve under gwen as court sorcerer after she repeals the ban. merlin remains for years, unaging, even as gwen dons wrinkle after wrinkle and spouts grey hair after grey hair. eventually, gwen passes without an heir and since merlin holds arthur’s sigil, he ascends the throne and leads camelot for years. eventually invaders come and slaughter the people and burn the fields etc etc and merlin goes out to fight. he fights like a demon, which is what they call him with his unnatural abilities and golden eyes, and merlin chases them from his kingdom - only, they slaughtered everyone within the citadel. there is no camelot, not anymore, not without her people. merlin should’ve seen this coming as her one true ruler has been and will always be arthur. he waves a hand and puts out the fires and restores the buildings to their once gleaming glory then takes excalibur into the center and drives it into the stone. with the force and power behind it, merlin raises the earth around the kingdom and buries it away from further invasions.

he leaves the kingdom hidden beneath the earth and travels up to the surface to explore just how far the continent spreads. then theres new continents across the ocean and he explores those as well. he watches as the world expands and grows and learns and advances but humans go too far and begin to destroy the world and create weapons of mass destruction and threaten each other with war. merlin assumes arthur will come back considering the destruction of practically everything but he doesn’t. tensions rise and snap and in the blink of an eye, humanity is chased back to their caves. with the loss of technology and modern ideas, humans revert back to their roots and connect with the elements which means they reconnect with magic. it takes another few thousand years for these humans to achieve the level of civilization merlin grew up in his first few decades of life.

different tribes are settled across the land but, thats the thing, over the course of the last few millennia (lets pretend land moves super quick plsplsplsplspls) the separate continents have collided with one another and practically the entire mass could be considered albion. he’s not even sure where the original land resides now. sooo he’s not even sure where camelot resides now. he really should’ve set up some beacon so he could remember but its been thousands upon thousands of years. sue him for his memory being a little foggy. he wanders from tribe to tribe and learns from their new magic while acting as a physician which a lot of them consider him some sort of miracle healer considering his advanced medical knowledge. it’s a win-win tho, he learns new magic and they don’t die. everyone is happy.

then during one such visits to a tribe, he finds a man of twenty summers with a head of golden hair like a crown and sunkissed skin from working outside all day and bright blue eyes that look like the very sky was captured in his gaze. merlin stands for a while and watches him dig around in the dirt, sweat gleaming on his brow, and his muscles rippling as he works. merlin can feel the countless years falling from his shoulders, he feels lighter on his feet, and pure happiness bubbles in him. a grin wide enough to split his face pulls at his lips.

he can’t help himself from stumbling over toward his long lost best friend, his body awkward and gangly with excitement and when he calls out to arthur his voice seems younger than it has in millennia and he vaguely notices that his appearance of wizened old healer melted away to his twenty year old body. arthur looks up with a polite yet confused smile and greets him followed by a question and merlin is faced with the realization that arthur doesn’t know him, doesn’t remember him. merlin manages to keep a thin smile on his face as he reaches out with magic and finds an injury in his knee from years ago that must’ve been bothering him and excuses his use of arthur’s name as someone sending him to find him and help heal the injury.

anyways merlin and arthur become friends and set off on an adventure of gathering the knights of the round table from various tribes/villages and they eventually stumble upon gleaming white stone that merlin belatedly realizes camelot was built with. the knights all take turns tugging at the sword but it doesn’t budge, not until arthur reaches out and tugs as if expecting it to be y’know stuck in stone only it slides out like butter and he knocks the hilt on his forehead and knocks himself out it out. with the sword tugged from the earth, it rumbles and cracks and splits and a hidden kingdom arises from the dirt, gleaming white and shining in the sun. they stare in amazement and awe for a moment before they grow confused and distracted. then arthur turns to merlin and says his name in an all too familiar way and merlin starts sobbing bc arthur is finally back

[e-dubbc11]

Ericca, my love. I come to you with a little idea (and challenge) ❤️

We both know how much you love Frank Grillo, so I had an idea for another one of his characters. Leo Barnes from The Purge franchise.

Reader being a sweet waitress at a Cafe where Leo buys his coffee. They always have polite exchanges, bordering on flirting. Maybe some hidden feelings? Then Purge night comes along and by some freak accident she's trapped outside. And of course Leo is there to save the day. And maybe... a little kiss at the end? 🥺👉👈

A little coffee shop meet-cute meets horror. If anyone can do it, you can. I kept it deliberately vague, cause I want you to have artistic freedom 🤣❤️

Sweet Lily,

I love your challenges for me so so much! I’ve been watching a LOT of Frank Grillo lately and yes, you’re right, I love him 🤣🥵 and Leo is obviously a character I haven’t written for before but I loved this idea and I just think he’s so smexy. I know this wasn’t a sleepover ask but it’s been done for a little while so I just wanted to get it out. I hope you like it and thank you again for sending it in! ♥️♥️♥️

A Call for Help

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Sergeant Leo Barnes x F! Reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence, little fluff, little smooching

Word Count: 4.1K-ish

Summary: It’s 2 days before the yearly Purge. You’re working in a coffee shop, and your regular, Sergeant Barnes, comes in just like every morning for his coffee.

A/N: This is my first time writing for Leo and I really really liked it. I’d definitely be willing to write for him again. For those who aren’t aware, Sergeant Leo Barnes is from The Purge: Anarchy.

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

Los Angeles, March 20, One day before the annual Purge

This was probably one of the worst decisions you’ve ever made. Moving to Los Angeles was a terrible idea and you’ve regretted it every single day since you’ve been out here. Smog, crime, and homelessness were just three of the reasons this was an awful place to live, plus you really missed home on the east coast.

No one put on fake smiles there. You missed the scowls and the open judgement of home and now you were living in a place where the smiles were as fake as the boobs.

But your boyfriend had convinced you it would be a good thing. A fresh start in a new city was just what you needed according to him and stupidly, you agreed with him. What a stupid idea to pick up and leave all of your family and friends behind for a man you’ve known for less than year.

However, about three months after the two of you arrived in L.A., you caught him cheating with bleach blonde bimbo with fake tits, fake hair, and who knows what else was fake on Malibu Barbie.

Feeling ashamed and stupid, you knew you couldn’t go home right away plus you didn’t have enough money to leave. You worked two jobs to make the money you needed so you worked tirelessly in a coffee shop during the day and a few nights a week, you tended bar at an upscale gentleman’s club where the clientele handed you ridiculous tips.

You probably didn’t even need to work at the coffee shop during the day because of the money you made at the club but the more money you brought in, the faster you could get back home and leave Los Angeles far behind.

The aroma of coffee was one of your favorite scents, it made you happy and the veteran owned coffee shop where you worked was welcoming and cozy. You didn’t have to pretend to enjoy working there because you actually did. Sure, you had the occasional rude customer that you had to put a fake smile on for but most of the time, it was a pleasure to work there.

When anyone but your regulars would come in, you and your co-workers would try and make a guess of what kind of coffee they wanted before they arrived at the counter. It was a fun game.

No one really ordered coffee flavored coffee anymore though. It was always a hazelnut concoction, or a touch of chocolate, a pump of this, almond milk, oak milk, or whatever the newest trend was in coffee. They all had to have it…except for him.

He only ever ordered a large black coffee and for that, he was your favorite customer.

Sergeant Barnes had deep brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and his eyes were the color of Tennessee whiskey. His golden amber eyes made your stomach flutter every morning when he came in around 8:30.

His thick fingers scratched at the days old stubble on his cheeks after he walked through the door and the raspy tone to his voice made you weak in the knees every time he said “Mornin’, sweetheart.” Plus, his police uniform really did it for you.

Everyone at work knew you had a crush on Sergeant Barnes. You didn’t really try and hide it. The way you jumped to the front counter whenever he walked through the door was obvious to them, not so much to him though.

Biting back a smile, you saw him walk up to the door while everyone behind the counter scattered so you were the only one available to wait on him.

“Real subtle, you guys.” You said.

Jane chuckled and said sarcastically, “Hey, we know how much you loooooove him. We don’t blame you either, your Sergeant is pretty hot.”

“Alright, keep your voice down.” You said with a slight grin. “He’s coming.”

“Maybe he’s just breathing heavy.” Another one of your co-workers said.

You playfully slapped him. “Tim! Shut it!”

The lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled at you.

“Mornin’, sweetheart. Anyone give you shit today? I can go arrest them if they did.” He said in a lighthearted tone.

A wide smile stretched across your lips and your voice got caught in your throat as you answered, “Uh, n-no. Not today, Sergeant. The usual?”

“The usual…please.” He replied.

You turned around to fill the cup with black coffee and your friends were looking at you, grinning like idiots. Jane tried to make hand gestures to try and get you to engage in more conversation with him.

It was a little morbid but you started talking about the Purge anyway.

“S-so the Purge is tomorrow night, huh? I imagine it gets pretty brutal in a city like L.A.” You said, your voice shaking a little.

Sergeant Barnes took his wallet from his pants and tapped the machine to pay for his coffee. His expression hardened when he heard the words. The muscles in his face tightened as he clenched his teeth and wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup.

“It is sweetheart and you make sure you’re locked up inside before those sirens go off, understand?” He said in angry tone.

You could feel all of the color in your face disappear and you imagined your face was as white as a marble pillar. You folded your hands together and rested them on the counter to stop them from shaking while staring into his sad eyes.

He could tell he frightened you a little, looking at his body language and hearing the gruff tone to his voice.

“Ah, I’m sorry y/n. I didn’t mean to snap at ya. I just want you to stay safe, is all. Ok?” He said softly.

You nodded and said uneasily as you tried to smile, “Y-yes, I-I understand.”

Sergeant Barnes reached for your hand. His fingers were calloused but his touch was gentle and comforting, almost protective in a way.

“It’ll be alright. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” He said as his brushed your knuckles with his thumb and gave you a warm smile.

He walked out and you didn’t exhale until he was out of sight. That’s when everyone ran up to you making comments to you about how they could tell the Sergeant likes you.

Imitating the Sergeant, Jane said “’I just want you to stay safe.’ Oh my god, he’s into you too!”

“Nah, maybe he was just being nice. He knows I haven’t been in L.A. long so it’s my first Purge out here.” You said.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ok. You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you.” She said.

You replied, “I suppose I will.”

7:00 AM, March 21, 12 Hours Before the Start of The Purge

The morning hours were usually pretty busy and time went by quickly but this morning was different, quieter, slower, which you found rather frightening. Even the air had an eerie feel to it because you knew what was coming…the one night a year where all crime was legal, even murder.

Back home you lived in a small New England town where nothing really happened except in larger cities. The next day, you would see all of the carnage left behind. Vandalism, robberies, burning buildings, the dead bodies…as much as you were hardened by the tough upbringing you had back home, nothing prepared you for what was going to happen 12 hours from now.

And you hated to admit it to yourself but it scared you because you were all alone now. You didn’t have anyone out here to go to feel safe.

It was close to 8:30 and you knew Sergeant Barnes would be in soon so everyone was acting busy, cleaning, preparing online orders, or doing whatever they could to give you space so you could talk to your crush.

Jane checked the time. “It’s almost 8:30, y/n. Hey maybe your Sergeant will ask you to stay with him during Purge hours. He’ll be able to keep you safe then.” She said with a wink.

“Well I doubt it but if you wanna manifest that for me, you’re more than welcome to. My building is pretty secure and I’m high up so I should be ok.” You said.

It didn’t mean you wanted to sit there all night and watch the news because you definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep.

As you wiped down the front counter, you looked up to see Sergeant Barnes getting ready to reach for the door handle. He wasn’t wearing his police uniform though. In place of his uniform, he was wearing a black t-shirt, gray pants, and a black jacket.

You said hello first.

“Good mornin’ Sergeant. You’re not working today?” You asked.

He shook his head, smiled and replied, “Not today, sweetheart. I got some stuff to take care of before tonight. What time are you workin’ until today?”

Warmth spread across your chest and your stomach dropped. Nervously, you replied, “Here? Me? Uh, w-well I’m working until 2 and then I have some errands to run before I go home for the night. Lemme get you your coffee.”

You turned around and poured his coffee into a cup, your hand shaking slightly which he noticed.

“You ok, y/n?” He asked. “Nervous?”

With a hitch in your voice, you replied, “Yeah, well, uh maybe a little.”

“Tell ya what…how bout I check on ya right before the sirens go off, make sure you’re home and all locked up.” He said, sliding his phone across the counter. “Put your number in there and I’ll call you, ok? I promise.”

You felt your shoulders relax and your hands stopped shaking as you typed in your number into his phone. You were feeling better already.

“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes. This is really nice of you. Can I get you anything else for the road? A muffin or a breakfast sandwich, perhaps?” You asked.

“I’m good with just the coffee, sweetheart. Thank you. And y/n?” He said.

You looked up from the register and replied, “Yes?”

“It’s Leo…my first name is Leo.” He said with a wink.

You couldn’t hide the fact you were blushing now. Biting down on your lower lip, you managed to reply with, “Ok…Leo. I guess I’ll talk to you soon.”

Leo brushed your knuckles with his fingers again and replied, “Yes, you will.”

After quickly running to the store for some supplies, mostly food, you headed for home. It was 6:30, plenty of time to walk home and get settled before the sirens went off. But when you arrived at your building, everything was locked up tight. Metal panels were fastened to the side of the building, blocking all of the exits, leaving only the fire escapes open.

You looked at your watch…6:50. There wasn’t any time to find a safe place to go. Looking down the street, you could see figures dressed in dark clothing, sweatshirts with hoods, and wearing creepy face masks, they were just waiting for those sirens to go off indicating the start of the Purge. And you couldn’t be sure but you had the sinking feeling that they were looking right at you.

Suddenly, your phone started to ring. You didn’t recognize the number but remembered Sergeant Barnes said he would call later to make sure you were alright and ready to wait out the next 12 hours. Maybe this was him.

With a shaky finger, you pressed the answer button.

“H-hello?” You said with a hitch in your voice.

He replied, “Hey y/n, it’s Leo. Just callin’ to make sure you’re home and safe.”

There was a long pause because you were trying to regain your composure to answer him, otherwise you were going to burst into tears.

He said your name again.

“Y/n? Hello?”

You finally answered.

“Y-yeah, I’m here Leo. Uh, I’m locked out of my building! I came home and everything was shut up tight, I can’t get in! I don’t know what happened! I can’t get anywhere in five minutes to wait out the next 12 hours, there’s no time!” You said in a scared tone.

Leo barked into the phone. “Where are you?!!”

You told him your address.

“Yeah, ok I know where that is. Try and find a place to hide and I’ll be there in FIVE minutes!” He said.

Tightly hugging the walls of your building, you crept around the corner to the alley. You knew there were a couple of dumpsters you could probably hide behind. He said five minutes which would take you right to 7:00.

You told yourself, “it won’t be for that long…he’ll be here soon.”

There was a small space in between two large dumpsters you managed to wedge yourself into while you impatiently waited for Leo to show up and how was he already so close to where you are? Did he live nearby? Was he participating in the Purge?

A restless shiver shot down your back as goosebumps danced across your skin. The hair on the back of your neck was standing on end as you crouched down low and out of sight while hugging your body to try and stop yourself from shaking uncontrollably.

Just as you heard the sirens, you also heard voices at the end of the alley, none of which were Leo’s.

“I saw her come down here.” One of them said.

Another replied, “You didn’t see shit, there’s no one down here! Let’s go.”

Along with their voices, the sound of a wooden baseball bat being dragged across the pavement could be heard echoing all around you. There was no place left to hide and you could only hope they would get frustrated and leave.

“Wait. She could be hiding around those dumpsters down there. Let’s go check.” He said.

Shit.

You couldn’t make a run for it. There were a lot more people waiting outside the alley than inside plus Leo told you told you to stay there. He was coming for you.

You could hear the footsteps getting closer and your heart was racing as it beat faster and harder against your chest until the sounds of the baseball bat stopped and you heard the voices again.

“You were right. She’s over here and she is a pretty little thing, isn’t she.” He said.

Two of them were wearing these creepy white masks and a third had his face painted white, black circles drawn under his eyes and an upside down cross had been drawn on his forehead. Pointing his machete at you, he silently told you he wanted you to come out.

The ones with the baseball bats began striking the dumpster over and over again, scaring you each time the bats hit against the dumpsters and the loud noises echoed throughout the alley.

The tears came hard and fast. They streaked down your cheeks uncontrollably as you opened your mouth to try and speak to them.

“P-please, y-you don’t wanna do th-this.” You choked out.

One of them that was holding a bat, stopped to look at you. From behind the mask, it had appeared that he had recognized you.

“5C?!” He said.

5C was your apartment number.

You replied, “Yes! Yes! I’m in 5C!”

“She’s always nice to us, man. Come on, leave her alone.” He pleaded.

The leader shoved him out of the way.

“I’ll decide who lives or dies! You got that?!” He yelled.

The other two nodded as the one with the machete started to speak again but was suddenly cut off. You heard three gun shots, then each of them hitting the pavement and crying out in pain. They had all been shot in the knee caps.

“Let’s go! Come on, y/n!” Shouted Leo.

He waved you out from in between the dumpsters, grabbed you by the hand and you started running toward the black car that was parked at the end of the alley.

“Get in the backseat and stay outta sight, understand?!” Commanded Leo.

Out of breath, you managed to choke out, “Y-yes. I understand! But why are you out here, Sergeant? You’re dressed like you’re…Purging!”

Leo didn’t answer you; he just started driving.

“LEO!!” You said, angrily.

“You could just say ‘thank you,’ sweetheart, alright?! I like you but what I’m doing out here is none of your concern.” He said, glancing at you in the rearview mirror.

Softly, you replied, “Thank you…thank you for saving me, Sergeant. But you’re stuck with me for the next 12 hours, so can you please tell me why you’re out here, dressed like you are, and why you have a car full of guns? Please, Leo.”

Cowering in the backseat, your eyes met his gaze every time he glanced at you in the mirror. His eyes were the color of amber and right before the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, they reflected in the mirror, matching the gold in the sunset. They were beautiful.

Leo was always very pleasant and nice every single morning when he came in to get his coffee but there was something very sad behind his beautiful eyes. Other than the pleasantries, you didn’t know anything more about him than any other customer of yours…but you wanted to.

He pulled over in an area that seemed pretty safe and parked the car. Making sure the doors were locked, he turned the engine off, and leaned with his back against the window so he could look at you.

Without warning, he told you why he was out tonight.

“My son was killed by a drunk driver but since he technically died on Purge night, the driver got off on that technicality.” He said in a low angry voice and a touch of acid in his tone.

Your heart sank into your stomach and cutting through the silence you said, “Oh Leo…I’m…I’m so sorry.”

That’s why his eyes were so sad.

He replied, “So you said I look like I’m dressed to purge…well, you’re right. I am. I want that son of a bitch dead. He took my son from me and I want him to pay for what he did.”

You placed your hand on top of his. The smooth skin of your palm brushed against the rough dry patches on his knuckles and with your other hand, you slowly and carefully brushed the stubble on his cheek.

“Don’t look at me that way, y/n. I already know what you’re going to say.” He said before you cut him off.

“Well I’m gonna say it anyway, Leo. You’re not gonna feel any better and it’s not going to bring your son back!” You said.

Leo glared at you with his whiskey colored eyes and with a dry bitterness in his throat, he said, “How do you know I won’t feel better?! Huh?!!”

Instead of matching his intensity, you calmly but firmly said, “Because that hole in your heart will still be there when it’s all over. Please don’t do this.”

He didn’t care and he wasn’t hearing what you had to say.

“Listen, I’m gonna drop you off at my apartment. You’ll be safe there ‘til I get back. I disabled one of the security panels at his house so it will be quick, in and out and I’ll be back alright?” He said.

The entire ride back to his apartment, you begged him not to go through with it, to the point where you tried to block him from leaving or at least taking you with him but it was no use.

He left you with a few guns and weapons, just in case but he said he would be back soon and he would take you home in the morning after the Purge was all over.

Leo had secured his place really well so you felt safe but scared for him. You knew it wasn’t going to make anything better, it wouldn’t help him heal, and it wouldn’t bring his son back.

One of the pictures you found of Leo’s son had his name written on the back…Nicholas. He had a very sweet face and he looked a lot like Leo.

Maybe if you had tried harder to keep him from leaving, Leo wouldn’t be out there right now murdering the man who killed his son.

You couldn’t even begin to try and know how he felt but he was in agony and the only way he knew how to deal with it was an eye for an eye. It was too late though and all you could do was sit and wait for him to come back.

You had managed to find some tea and the tv remote control. It was hidden in the couch cushions. Almost every channel was covering the Purge but all you wanted to do was escape from it so you searched until you found a movie that was far from anything that was going on outside.

No matter how many times you’ve seen it, The Wizard of Oz was one of your favorite movies so you watched it whenever it was on tv and no matter where it was in the movie too, you’d still watch it to the end.

At around 12:30 you head keys in the door. You had been too wired to try and sleep so you just drank tea and nervously bit your nails. Obviously, it had to be Leo if he was using keys to get inside but you still didn’t want to take any chances so you positioned yourself in front of the door with one of his guns in your hands.

The door cracked open and you heard a voice from behind it.

“Sweetheart, put the gun down, it’s just me.” He said.

How did he know?

“It’s been hours, Leo. Where have you been?” You asked. “Where does this guy live?! I hope you got what you wanted out of it because—“

Leo interrupted you.

“I didn’t do it.” He said softly.

“What?” You replied in a very surprised tone.

He closed the door behind him and started to walk toward you, stopping inches from your face.

“I could have. I was in the guy’s bedroom, while he and his wife were sleeping. I could have done it but then I kept hearing a voice in my head…your voice saying ‘that hole in your heart will still be there when it’s all over.’ Your voice stopped me from pulling that trigger.” His voice sounded extra raspy.

“Leo—“ You started to say before he cut you off.

He pinched your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, tilted it upward so you were looking into his eyes and he planted a soft kiss on your lips.

“I’m sorry.” Said Leo. “I just wanted to feel something other than hate and sadness. And no one has been able to change my mind once I’ve made up my mind about something but I listened to you.”

You replied, “I imagine that couldn’t have been easy but…I’m glad you did. And I’m not gonna pretend I know what you must be feeling because I don’t but I do know that it wouldn’t have made things any better.”

Closing the gap between your faces, you kissed him. Leo’s lips tasted sweet like caramel and black coffee. His mouth slanted over yours which made your entire body shudder.

Pulling you into an embrace, the two of you stood there in silence for a minute. Leo released a long exhale down the side of your neck, goosebumps erupted across your skin, and he squeezed you tightly against his chest.

“Thank you.” Whispered Leo.

You gave him a warm smile and replied, “You’re welcome, Sergeant Barnes.” Glancing at your watch, you asked, “Well we have about 6 hours left, what do you wanna do?”

As he brushed a stray hair away from your face, he replied, “Well…if you can’t tell, I kinda like ya so I’d love to get to know you better.”

Warmth spread across your cheeks as you bit back a smile.

You felt safe in his arms and deep down you knew Leo would never let anything bad happen to you. He rescued you barely knowing anything about you, only that you poured his coffee every morning but he did it anyway.

And in a way, you rescued him too.

Softly against his chest, you whispered, “I’d like that too.”

Tag List: @gijos

[ribbononline]

long time no meme post

[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

[jazzpertheghost]

Just came to the terrifying conclusion that Lloyd is like a textbook paladin. What do I even do with that information. Like yeah he’s literally a knight raining divine justice on the Overlord and cleansing evil. It’s literally his entire purpose. wtf kid stop it

[liliesdiary]

Poison Ivy x Scarecrow

"The name is Ivy, Poison Ivy. I'm assuming you're the infamous Scarecrow? You're not as scary as I thought you'd be."

"You should be scared. Let me show you just how scary fear can be, my dear Ivy. My toxin would paralyze you."

"You flatter me but your toxin would never work on me. I'm the Mother of Poison"

"And I'm the King of Fear."

special tags: @mrkdvidal1989 @slut4thebroken @scarecrowismybabygirl

[thinkof-england]

This fic has lived in my head for so many months and many thanks to @hgejfmw-hgejhsf for the endless brainstorming sessions and plot hole fixes. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you <3 and thank you so much to @priincebutt for the cheerleading and mood board expertise!!!!!!!

Chapter One of my Purge AU "In the Darkness (Before the Dawn) can be found on AO3!

Two Hours until the Commencement of the Annual Purge Ring.  Ring.  Ring.  “So help me god, Henry, if you don’t answer this goddamn phone and tell me you’re on the plane…” Alex curses under his breath as his phone continues ringing in his ear. He paces the length of his office with one hand running through his hair, pulling slightly in an attempt to stave off the building anxiety. Just when he’s about to hang up, the line connects.  “Alex? Is everything alright?”  “Henry!” Alex lets out a sigh of relief, but the relief is short lived because… “Where are you?”  The silence on the other line answers his question, but he waits it out, hoping Henry will prove him wrong. “I’m almost done at the shelter.” Henry finally admits, the sheepish tone in his voice that would ordinarily be soft and endearing now just infuriating. 

Throwing some tags below the cut since tomorrow is Wednesday, so I'm also gonna use this for WIP Wednesday cause... why not.

@onthewaytosomewhere @eusuntgratie @anti-homophobia-cheese @blueeyedgrlwrites @caterpills

@captainjunglegym @england-would-fall @firenati0n @freyjaexplores @getmehighonmagic

@inexplicablymine @judasofsuburbia @jettestar @kiwiana-writes @miss-minnelli

@piratefalls @tailsbeth-writes @wordsofhoneydew

[zephyrrhiesfyrian]

do you have any ideas about tinyformers Sunder…I personally think he is the Will Bite At Random type. Will bite at random, you keep finding him in weird spots you don’t expect, he is Always Watching you, and he cannibalizes every other robot in the vicinity so you have no choice but to keep him by himself (Froid can be had over for a “play date” but you must ensure you keep an eye on him at all time)

—malewife-overlord

Oh my god, tiny Sunder.

If you had other tinies before you got Sunder, you don't now. He will eat any other tiny, and it's nearly impossible to train that out of him. Luckily for you, he's too small to cause you much damage, but if he's in a Mood you may want to put on some hiking boots and thick pants in case he tries to bite you. He also tends to bite more if you're in a bad mood, because he sees biting and "eating" you as helping remove all that bad energy from your body.

Despite this, Sunder is very attached to you and enjoys crawling into your lap while you're sitting or lounging somewhere. He's very easy to train to eat out of your hand and do simple tasks like bringing you items, especially if you give him lil pets and scratches.

He does like to hide under the couch or behind bookshelves though. He likes how cozy it is.