Summary: You're startled during a power outage late one night when your co-worker, Harry, is at your door, drenched from the rain. How does he even know where you live?
Word Count: 4,468
A/N: This is a bit dark you guys! It's a classic stalker story so just keep that in mind as you read and only consume what you can handle! xoxo
Warning: smut, cheating, dark elements, coercion, stalking, aggressive male behavior, size kink, breeding kink, and sort of dubcon via manipulation
. .
You always loved rainy, stormy nights. It was the best time to snuggle up on your couch with a blanket and a pint of ice cream and watch scary movies. You were supposed to go out with friends but the weather had changed everyone’s plans. Some streets were even flooded and it just wasn’t going to be worth it to get out in the storm to go to some bar and drink gross, expensive drinks and then figure out how you’d get home.
This was far better, you determined, as you dunked your spoon into your cherry chocolate cheesecake ice cream.
Definitely better.
But then a sudden loud crash of thunder shook your windows, making you drop your pint of ice cream onto the floor at the same time you were suddenly shrouded in darkness when your electricity went out, taking your entertainment of the slasher movie you were watching with it.
You tore your blanket off your legs in annoyance and reached down for the ice cream container when you heard another noise making you still your movements as you listened through the heavy sound of rain and wind. It was coming from your back door. You strained your eyes to see through the dark as you placed the carton of ice cream on your coffee table and reached for your cell phone so you could investigate the noise.
Turning on your flashlight app to the brightest setting (thank god for modern technology) you made your way to the kitchen and peeked out the door’s window. But there was nothing that you could see.
You pursed your lips to the side and looked down at your phone and it was then you realized you had no cellular service at all. Which was odd. Sure the wifi was out with the electricity but cell service too? The storm must have knocked out a tower you supposed.
It was 11:47 pm. And since the electricity was out you figured you’d just go to bed. You couldn’t mindlessly scroll social media if you couldn’t get on the internet. So maybe this night wasn’t definitely better than going out with friends would have been.
You sighed to yourself and shined your cell phone light over the floor to make your way to your bedroom when there was the sound of a knock at your front door. Four harsh raps that had you stopping dead in your tracks.
You certainly weren’t expecting anyone and who would be out in such a heavy storm so late? Turning off the flashlight you slowly approached your front window to peek out but it was difficult to make out who was standing in front of your door. You could tell that it was a man but not much more.
Three more urgent knocks startled you, making your skin chill and putting you on edge.
You took a chance to peek through your door’s window at just the edge, hoping the man wouldn’t see you peering out but just as you did so a flash of lightening lit up the entire space around you as well as your front porch and you blinked as you recognized the man at your door.
It was someone you worked with.
You relaxed as you waved out the window and then opened your door. His hair was wet and his clothes were soaked, making his shirt cling to his body.
“Harry! What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
He looked behind himself and placed his hand on your doorframe, “Can I come in?”
You nodded and pulled your door open for him to enter. His presence felt heavy. Something was different about him. You weren’t sure why exactly. You didn’t know him all that well but he seemed nice enough at work. But in that moment he felt like a different person.
Closing your door you turned to face him, trying to push down the odd feeling you were getting, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Got caught in the rain and just needed a spot to ride it out a bit. S’okay if I hang out here until it lets up?” He stepped in toward you which put you right back on edge again.
“Uh… I mean yeah. Sure. Were you in the area? I thought you had a car.”
Harry’s dark figure loomed over you as he spoke, “I have a car. It’s down the street. And yes. I was nearby.”
You backed up for some space, “Oh. Did your car break down?”
“Something like that.”
You tried to steady your breaths. Something was off.
“Did you enjoy the flowers I got for you, Y/n?” Harry’s chest was rising and falling heavily as if he’d been running just before.
“Um…” you looked down at the cell phone in your hand and back up to the man as your eyes began to adjust to the dark, “Was that you? I didn’t realize… I thought they were delivered to me by mistake.”
You’d gotten flowers sent to you at work on Friday afternoon. A gorgeous bouquet stuffed with lovely flowers in a pretty glass vase. At first, you thought your boyfriend had sent them but when you texted him he got upset that someone else had sent you flowers.
The card read “To my little flower.”
You chalked it up to being sent to the wrong person because there was no name on anything.
Harry shook his head as he moved closer, “Those were from me. So were the chocolates the week before. And the gummy bears before that. But I was disappointed to find out you had a boyfriend.”
You swallowed and felt your back press into your door. You wondered if you could make a run for it but Harry twisted your deadbolt and then placed a palm flat on the wood next to your head, “How long have you been seeing him?”
You nodded, “Umm. For almost a year.”
Harry turned his head to look around your living room. You were feeling all kinds of weird things in that moment.
The first was fright. Harry’s sudden aggressive behavior was a shock to you. You were also feeling very curious about what was going on. Why was he in your home? How did he know where you lived? What was he planning on doing? But the most concerning thing you were feeling was that trickle of adrenaline and excitement.
Because that was another thing. Harry was probably the hottest guy you’d ever seen. All the girls at work gossiped about him in private. Talked about how fit he was, how handsome, his hair, his eyes, his voice… You did find him quite alluring, you’d just never gotten the chance to really get to know him. Plus you had a boyfriend to think about so getting close to another man wasn’t a good idea anyway.
“A year? Really?” You could see the outline of his face and the slope of his nose as he licked his lips, “And he’s not here right now with you?”
Shaking your head you kept your eyes on his. You didn’t know what his next move was going to be.
And when he lifted a hand up to delicately run his fingers over your cheekbone a shiver was sent down the knobs of your spine and you closed your eyes, “No. He’s at home. He doesn’t live here.”
You heard a small laugh press through his nostrils, “I know he doesn’t live here. I’m just fucking with you.”
You opened up your eyes in confusion and you saw a smirk on his face, but he didn’t back away from you to give an inch of space.
“See I’ve been keeping track, Y/n. I know almost everything there is to know about you. Pretty little flower needs something her lame boyfriend can’t give her.”
A shuddered breath left your lungs, “What do you mean?”
Harry’s gentle fingers at your cheekbone lowered to your jaw, “I mean look at what’s going on right now for example. You’ve got the big bad wolf standing in your living room, ready to do ungodly things to you, and your shithead boyfriend is safe at home, probably with his sidepiece because he never cared about you in the first place.”
You swallowed and shook your head, “What? Sidepiece?”
Harry’s dark chuckle vibrated out of his chest as his thumb ran up the side of your neck, “That’s right, little flower. Marco has been cheating on you. Some skinny girl with ratty hair. God only knows what he sees in her when he’s got you at the helm. A shame you’ve chosen such a loser. I would worship the ground you walked on if you were mine.”
“What are you going to do to me?” You had a hard time keeping your thoughts in a straight line. Marco was cheating? It could be a ruse. Perhaps Harry was lying. But also the stroke of his thumb at your neck was pressing harder into your skin and it was causing your head to go dizzy and your limbs were heating up.
Harry’s pink lips curved up into a wicked grin, “I have a few things that I’d like to do to you. Would you like to hear them?”
Did you want to know? Was he going to hurt you? That, you didn’t want. You weren’t much of a fan of pain. But if he were to force himself on you somehow… Maybe if he were to take you to your bed and do something ungodly to you… well, what would that entail?
“Yes.” You squeaked out pathetically.
That dark smile on his face widened, “That’s a good sign, flower. Honestly, I kind of expected a little more of a struggle from you. But you seem to like this so far. That’s going to make this so much easier. So much better for us.”
He moved in toward your face and then you felt his breath on your jaw and down your neck before he spoke against your skin and you felt that icy prick of exhilaration cover your body, “I’ll be soft with you as long as you let me. If you fight me it’s going to be a lot less soft, understand me?”
You knocked your head up and down in an affirmative nod as you held your breath.
His plushy mouth pressed over the side of your throat and you felt his tongue drag upward to your jaw, “First I want to taste you. Need to know what you smell like. Find out how thick your arousal gets and what your flavor is on my tongue.”
You gulped down the moan you nearly let out as you closed your eyes and his lips nipped over your skin to the front of your neck, “But then I want to know what you feel like, Y/n. Want to know how it feels when your insides are wrapped around my cock. Want to hear your pretty voice saying my name when you come. Want you to forget all about Marco. Because I want you for myself. Yeah?”
You felt like you were in a dream. Maybe it was just a dream. One of those strange fever dreams that feels like it’s happening but then it feels too weird to be real. And if it was just a dream… well what was the harm in it?
“Yes.” You whispered, your voice hitching up an octave.
“Yeah? You want that flower? Because if you do there’s not going to be any turning back. I won’t be able to let you go after this.”
You lifted your shaky hands up to his chest, feeling the moisture from his shirt under your palms. His heated skin underneath was taut and well-muscled. But of course, you knew he was strong and fit.
Harry kissed up your jaw and then his mouth was pressed against yours and the sizzle of your bodies pressed together was like an electric shock to your system as your mouth opened for his with ease. You smoothed your hands up his pecs, to his shoulders, and then to the back of his head into his wet hair. You allowed a moan to fall from your mouth against his and he shifted his hips before lifting you up by the back of your thighs and making you wrap your legs around his waist as he walked you to your bedroom, like he knew exactly where he was going.
He dropped you down to your bed and peeled his shirt off. So many tattoos that you had a hard time making out in the dark but you saw the inky designs, some blending together, some letters, numbers, drawings…
You felt his hands tear down your night shorts, taking your cotton panties with them in one quick tug, and then he began to undo his pants, pushing them down his sturdy legs as he kept his gaze on yours.
You felt like a different person. Like this was happening to someone who was taking over your body. The darkness of your room lit up with a lightning flash and then the heavy roll of thunder shook your house.
Harry crawled over you, his bulky frame covering you completely as you felt his fingers pulling your t-shirt off until your breasts were bare and the cool air of your dark room covered you in chills.
But he dipped down and placed his warm palm on one of your breasts while his mouth suctioned at the other side, pulling gently at your nipple and then lapping at your skin until he moved to the other side, warming your skin with his lips and his saliva.
“Gah!” You panted as you felt his teeth dig into your bud and you lifted your head to peer down at him.
Harry smiled against your nipple and then lifted himself to look down at you, “Sorry. Said I’d be soft. Might just accidentally nip at you here and there. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you, Y/n. How desperately I need you,” he ducked his face down between your breasts and dotted hot kisses down the center of your tummy until he gripped the inner parts of your thighs and pushed them apart so he could tuck himself in between.
You let out the loudest gasp you’d ever let fall from your lungs when you felt his soft lips peppering kisses up your labia. Harry’s tongue jutted out between your crease and you felt the warmth of his wet muscle slide up until he bumped into your clit.
“Oh flower…” he breathed against your cunt, “Better than I imagined…”
When he wrapped his plush lips around your clit you sucked in a sharp breath and let your head fall back into your blankets as Harry’s arms caged you in by the back of your thighs.
You’d never been eaten out with such enthusiasm. Marco always acted like he was going to hurt you so it usually felt like a limp rag against your pussy, which did absolutely nothing for you. But Harry felt like a real man with a warm mouth and a big wet tongue going at you like he was frustrated. Crazed.
His moans vibrated over your core and up to your hips as you wiggled under him, softly bucking yourself up against him.
“Oh!” You moaned loudly and reached down to grab onto anything when you felt his hand pull at yours and slide his fingers between your digits as he pressed it down into the mattress. But he did not let up his licking and sucking and it felt like the whole world would crumble around you if he let go of your hand.
The sound coming from between your legs was proof of how wet you’d gotten. He had worked you up into a frenzy without much effort at all. You weren’t sure if it was the way he was eating you out, or the very strange circumstance of him showing up at your place and making some kind of claim on you but you knew you’d give yourself to him if that’s what he wanted. Even if it was wrong. Even if made you a bad person. Even if Harry was a bad person…
“Shit! Oh ffff…” you yelped when he focused on your clit and it stung your flesh in the most salacious way you’d ever felt. You swore he was sucking the soul right out of you and inhaling it whole for himself.
Your whines grew loud as you squeezed his hand and his shoulders pressed harder into the backs of your thighs. He said he’d be soft but this wasn’t soft. It was better. It was hot and twisted and you should have been ashamed at how much you liked it but you were on the cusp of an orgasm and you couldn’t stop yourself.
The world around you went blank except for Harry’s mouth and his hand wrapped around yours. There was no telling how long you were shaking or crying his name or how loud you’d been or even where you were in that moment.
Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you felt those soft pink lips gliding up your body and then finding your neck, a harsh suck making you coo in ecstasy. Everything in your body felt exactly right. Harry had turned you into another woman and his warm body covered you possessively. You were his and he’d just shown you that.
“Tasted like sunshine and butterscotch,” his lips smeared over your cheek hotly, “My little flower deserves her cunt eaten properly every day. Now that you’re mine you’ll never go without.”
You sighed and then you felt his warm shaft against your pussylips. He still had your hand in his as he looked down at you and lined up his tip with your opening, pushing in only his bulbous head.
You hissed at the tightness of it, arching your back into him.
“It’s okay. I’m gonna go in slow so it doesn’t hurt. Tiny little hole needs worked open, yeah?”
You nodded with a whimper, “It’s so… you’re so big… oh god…”
“We’ll get you used to it. Don’t worry sweet, flower. Gonna take good care of you…”
His fat cock slowly took up inch by inch of your insides. You’d never felt such a full feeling from a cock before. Harry’s dick was thick and the further he pressed inward you could tell he was also long.
He slowly backed himself out to the tip and kissed your mouth with a quick peck before smiling down at you as he drove back in, pushing deeper yet. The kind of stretch he was giving you felt impossible. Even your huge dildo (which you hid from Marco so as not to hurt his fragile feelings of seeing a toy that was bigger than he was) didn’t feel this big, didn’t give you this kind of fullness.
There was the sound of a soft squelch of your pussy getting stuffed as he bottomed out. He nuzzled his face into your neck and panted softly as he thrust deeply. You could feel your insides getting moved around, rearranged, and prodded into.
It did something to your brain to know your pussy was making a man with such a big cock feel like you were. You could feel his cock twitching as he rocked into you. The front of his thighs pressed into the back of yours as he fucked you with his large dick.
“You feel that, flower?” His hot breath cascaded over your neck as he spoke.
“Mmm… I feel it all, Harry…” you moaned in response as you flexed your hand inside of his and brought your other hand up to his broad back to hold onto his outer lat.
“I can tell you feel it too. Feel me way up in your tummy, spreading you open like you’ve never been. Feels like I’m fucking a virgin right now,” he trembled as kept up his languid pace.
And compared to anyone else you’d slept with, yeah… you could say you were like a virgin. You’d never had anything so large inside of your pussy and you knew you couldn’t go back to anything less.
“Gonna get you fucked and filled so nicely every day. My little flower… fuck… feels so tight and wet around me. So warm. Just begging for my come.”
You moaned out breathily. Every stroke of his shaft and dip of his crown into your guts had you reeling. It was so much and so good. You were already addicted to the way he was fucking you and talking you through it.
“I need your come, Harry. I need you in my womb so bad…” you panted your words but you weren’t sure if those words had come from you or not. Maybe you were just cock drunk or cock dumb or whatever it was you’d heard of that happened to some people when they were getting a good dicking but it was something you’d never experienced and you wanted him to claim every part of you. You’d never before asked for anyone’s come. You’d never fucked without a condom. But Harry was the exception to everything.
His slow, deep plunges were driving you insane. Every sticky wet slide of his cock through your walls, every time you felt his balls fit up against your ass, every grind of his hips against yours… it made you feel obsessed. Like an unstable lunatic, hungry for something that no one else would ever understand.
“Need me deep in your womb, flower?” Harry pasted his hips to yours and rocked against you, making you squeal at the press of his tip into your cervix, “Is that what you want? Want me to stuff you with my come and give you babies, make you mine forever? Yeah?”
“Yes! Please!” You gasped when he bit into your neck as the roll of his back and his hips into you suddenly faltered and his rhythm grew sloppy.
Harry trembled over you as he pressed his nose into your jaw, his moans growing louder and his cock was twitching, leaking precome as his balls squeezed into his body preparing for his orgasm.
But the way he was glued to your pelvis and every grind down into you sent glorious sparkles down your spine that spread over your pussy as he was smushed against your clit.
The moment you felt your orgasm start to unfold and burst your vision went black as your heart pounded and your pussy gushed around him.
When Harry felt you squeezing him tight with a spasming pussy and he knew you were coming he coughed out a moan as he allowed himself to pound into you, finally punching through your walls the way he wanted as he fucked you through your release. Long, slick, aching strokes with skin wetly slapping, your bed rocking with each strong thrust, until Harry’s gasps of pleasure finally poured out of his lungs as he came inside of you. Inside of his sweet flower.
He pumped and throbbed as he pressed in deep, stilling his hips against yours with his heart pounding wildly. It was heaven. Bliss. He knew it would be.
Your body was limp under his as you began to come down and you felt him thick and pulsating inside of you as he drained himself into your womb just like you wanted. The grip he had on your hand ached but you loved it as he used your pussy for his pleasure. Deep whimpers fell from his chest.
Everything swirled and sparkled and twisted around you in some divine kaleidoscope. His dark words spoken into your ear, “You’re mine now, flower,” had you smiling and humming in delight. It was all you wanted. He was all you needed.
. . .
You woke up to your phone alarm sounding next to you on the bed. The tiniest bit of light was peeking through your curtains as you sat up and found your phone to shut off the noise. You were in a daze as you looked around yourself and realized you were alone in your bed.
You pulled your brows together and looked around your room. Your clothes were on the floor and memories of the night before began to flood your mind. Harry. Where was Harry?
Throwing the blankets off your naked body you looked down over yourself and felt that warm flush of excitement crawl over your skin at the thought of what had happened. You slid on your t-shirt and walked into your hallway, “Harry?” You called his name but there was no response.
Your living room was left just as it had been the night before. Your front door was unlocked and the carton of half-eaten ice cream was sitting on your coffee table, all melted inside.
You shook your head as you peeked into your kitchen and then went into your bathroom, flicking on the light and there lying on your vanity was a flower. You picked it up as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Two big dark splotches on your neck told you that you weren’t going crazy. That something had happened last night.
Unless you’d done it to yourself somehow? You leaned in to look closer in the mirror as you ran your fingers over the skin on your throat and frowned. Maybe it had just all been a dream. It definitely felt like one.
You sighed as you stepped back and retraced the events of what you remember. But it was hard to recall the details exactly. You were so gone for Harry, your co-worker, and he’d been so aggressive yet so soft at the same time.
Perhaps it had just been a dream. A wild dream that had you coming twice and begging for him to come inside of you.
You laughed as you ran your hands over your face and shook your head. Maybe you were going crazy. It didn’t explain the flower or the splotches on your neck but somehow, in the light of day, it all felt like nothing more than a fantasy. It made more sense that it would have just been a dream. What were the chances your hot co-worker had come to your house in the middle of the night and fucked you so good you were ready to marry him and give him babies? No, that wasn’t real. Because that wasn’t you.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror with a grin. The only thing you knew for certain at that moment was that you’d never think about Harry the same way again.
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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 an omen. 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 armchair across from you gives you this look, crinkled face 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.)
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 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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note: this is my first ever fic so i hope you enjoy!
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
it began subtly, almost dreamlike. a familiar scent - his signature cologne, sandalwood and a hint of smoke - would drift through your senses in the most unexpected places. the grocery store, the mall, even your yoga class. at first you dismissed it as a coincidence. but then the coincidences piled up. presents left at your door step, the same victoria secret set you frowned at once you saw the price at your door. it was unsettling, this feeling of being watched. yet there was also a twisted sense of flattery, a dark thrill in knowing someone was paying close attention.
harry started showing up at the same places you do—the mall, the park, the club—always managing to be “coincidentally” nearby. he never directly approaches you, but you start noticing him more and more, feeling like you’re being watched in a strangely intriguing way.
the turning point was the photo. a candid shot of you laughing with your friends at the club bar, slipped under your front door. it wasn’t threatening, but the intimacy of the moment captured, the way it felt like a secret stolen from your life sent a chill down your spine. you started locking your doors, double checking windows, and scanning crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of him. sleep became a battlefield of nightmares and anxieties. every creak of the house, every shadow in your periphery, felt like his presence. you considered telling someone, but the idea of explaining the unexplainable, of admitting to this strange almost seductive fear, held you back. maybe you were going crazy. maybe it was all in your head.
one rainy evening, as you fumbled with your keys at the doorstep, a voice, dark yet soft and familiar, broke the silence. “let me help you with that.” you turned to see him standing under the dim porch light, his eyes reflecting a mixture of adoration and something darker, something that made your blood run cold. “i’ve been waiting to meet you,” he whispered, a smile playing on his lips. “i know everything about you.”
🌹 concepts — send a character, au and a concept and i’ll elaborate on how i think it would go
Stalker!harry finding out the reader is inlove with him? Or if they stalk him also
harry would for sure be shocked. he kinda smirks at the fact and then leaves a note in your underwear drawer that says "so the lion fell in love with the lamb. what a stupid little lamb." wrapped up in a pair of your underwear that he jerked off into vusbvp
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He had practically perfect grades, was captain of the footie team, a great group of friends by his side.
His life was perfect, to say the least. ~ When Louis goes to the local tattoo parlor with a friend as a joke, he soon meets a boy. A different kind of boy. Harry. Harry quickly becomes obsessed with Louis in a way that wasn’t very conventional. He knows everything about Louis, facts that no one should normally know about a person, but Harry does. Harry knows everything. But Louis doesn’t. This isn’t your ordinary ‘crush.’ It’s something more. Something dangerous. Something stalker-ish. Can something like this turn into ‘love?’
Autor: onedirection23rd (wattpad)
RN: this is the first stalker!harry fic ive ever read and its brilliant, im a big fan of this author. All the fics she's written are so good i absolutely recommend them. Hope you enjoy this one as much as im enjoying it. -Ari :-)
