#now my anti-slice gloves are stained :(

[existencebringsonlypain]

carved my first thing! it's a fish! stained with the blood of my enemies (me) (it's my blood) (I stabbed myself on accident)

[revengeoftheantichrist]

Stranger Danger

Warnings: Blasphemy, Stalking, Breaking and Entering, knifeplay, scarification, masks, face slapping, object insertion AO3

Maybe visiting Satanist family members was a bad idea. Going to a Satanist party was an even worse idea.

Michael Langdon had spotted you from across the room. He could smell your soul. Untouched. You weren’t one of them. You weren’t clawing for his attention like the rest of the room. You looked more like a tourist, here to see the sights but not stay for long or participate in the local traditions. He watched your curious eyes wander over the pentagrams and the strange décor of the room. Your eyes roamed over the crowd, not looking for anyone in particular.

Then you made eye contact with him and his swore he stopped breathing. You gave him a shy smile and raised your glass; Michael returned the gesture.

He watched you the entire night, admiring the quiet confidence you had about you. He admired the way you declined anything you weren’t comfortable with, the way you engaged in polite conversation despite the difference in beliefs with people in the room.

He licked his lips as he made his way over to you, wanting to do nothing more than corrupt all that was good about you. He wanted to be the one to stain your soul, to cover you in his marks, to drag you down into the depths of hell with him.

“I hope you ladies are enjoying your evening,” Michael asked.

“Oh? Yes, my lord, we are, thank you for the party,” replied your cousin, but Michael wasn’t talking to her.

He turned to you, “I haven’t seen your face around here before, enjoying yourself so far?”

“I’m just visiting my cousin so I just tagged along, but thank you for asking it's been quite … interesting,” you replied.

“I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Michael Langdon,” he held his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you Michael, I’m Y/N,” you took his hand in a firm handshake, instead Michael brought your hand up to his mouth, placing a light kiss upon it. He loved the way his name rolled off your tongue.

As he put your hand down, he noticed the signet ring on your pinkie finger. A dove with a dead snake in its mouth, the words ‘stamus contra malum’ (we stand against evil) inscribed onto it. Michael knew this symbol, he had been looking for it for months, thinking it was a myth at this point. It signified the family that stood between him and his purpose, the final obstacle before the end of times.

It is said that your family had been keepers of the sword of St Michael for generations. To have the sword in his hands would prevent any sort of divine intervention in his plans.

This was perfect. What a way to celebrate the end of the world, he would corrupt you and the holy relic.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realise you had left until he couldn’t feel your soul nearby.

////

Your hand felt like it was burning when the blue-eyed man held it. Your ring felt like it would melt into your skin. The rumours were true, the anti-Christ had risen, the first seals would be broken. You had to get back to the family and tell them the news, for the sword you had protected to be kept extra secure. It may be the only thing that stood in the way of the apocalypse.

You were lucky that your flight was booked for tonight, you’d be out of sight in a few hours and no one would suspect a thing. You hoped that you had flown under the radar.

Unfortunately for you, the antichrist was determined, and nothing could stand in his way.

////

You woke up after feeling your arms were at an awkward angle. Your mouth moved to yawn but something was stopping you from doing so. As you snapped awake, you realised your mouth had been taped shut, the awkward angle was caused by your wrists being duct taped together behind your back. You began to wriggle, attempting to move, but you were taped together at the ankles too. You attempted to scream, to make any noise.

“No one’s home tonight, remember?” a smooth voice rang through the room, you shuffled trying to get a look at who it came from.

The sounds of heavy boots getting closer to you made you shiver. He finally stopped near you, his gloved hand turning you on your back. All that could be seen were his blue eyes and a single blond curl. You knew who this was.

Michael Langdon.

He had figured out who you were and your location.

You began to shake in fear, you were powerless against someone like him, you saw his smirk underneath his mask, as if he had heard your thoughts.

“You’re a very deep sleeper you know, it could be dangerous.”

You began to thrash around, hoping you could kick him, but you stopped seeing the flash of a very sharp blade. You whimpered as you felt the coolness run down your cheek and rest on your neck. He pushed down a little bit, just enough to nick the skin.

“I only have to push a little further to slit your throat.”

He brought the blade up again, studying the red that now stained the blade, He lifted his mask just enough, so that he could run his tongue over the blood. He then moved to lick a stripe along your neck, collecting droplets along the way.

He pulled his mask back down, “Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

You didn’t reply, just tears welling up in your eyes. You saw the annoyance in his eyes before he slapped you.

“I asked you a question!”

You quickly nodded.

“Good.”

You had gone to bed in only a t-shirt and panties, not expecting anyone to come into your room; they were still an obstacle for Michael.

He brought the tip of the blade down your breastbone, before moving it over your breast. He circled your nipple with the tip, until it got hard through the shirt. You whimpered as he did the same to the other.

“Hmm? What’s this? Enjoying yourself already?” he taunted. He brought the knife to the hem of your top, slicing through it and exposing you to the cool air of the room.

You hissed at the sudden sting you felt on your stomach. He was cutting little nicks into the skin, all the way up to your neck. He then moved his mask again, to lick all the way up, following his knife.

The tears forming in your eyes began to fall.

“Poor baby,” he laughed, giving your cheek a condescending pat.

He finally got on the bed, moving you onto your stomach. His blade ran down your spine, causing Goosebumps to rise.

“But your face isn’t the only thing wet about you, is it Y/N?” he asked, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

The blunt edge of the blade teased your slit through your panties, causing you to soak the fabric. The blade finally moved, trailing the hemline all the way to your hip, before he swiftly cut them away, leaving you fully bare for him.

“look at this,” he teased you with his gloved fingers, “you’re absolutely soaked.” He pushed two fingers into you, making you groan at the intrusion.

“Disgusting.”

One hand pumped in and out of you, his thumb circling your clit. His other hand had the knife, leaving little cuts down your thighs, that were followed by his wet tongue.

Your walls began to clench around him, signalling your oncoming release, but he stopped just before you could reach it. You cried at the loss of his fingers and he just laughed.

You heard the jingling of his belt and the sound of his zipper. He groaned as he finally released his cock, giving it a few pumps. He spat on your already weeping cunt, just to remind you where you stood. The tip of his cock teased your clit, before he entered you in one swift thrust, the stretch making you see stars. He began to thrust into you at a rapid pace. He wrapped your hair around his hand, pulling you up against his fully clothed chest.

“You’re enjoying this far too much. Your tight little pussy stretches out perfectly for me,” he jeered, right into your ear.  

You shook your head in denial. But his hand around your throat got tighter, the leather making you clench around him and drip all over him.

The house was silent, save for the wet sound of skin on skin and Michael’s grunts. His knife cut little nicks in your back, his plump lips licking the blood and sucking hickeys all over, marking you as his.

“Do you want to cum angel?”

You nodded the best you could, too lost in pleasure to answer him properly.

He smacked your ass, “then beg for it,” he painfully ripped the tape from your mouth, letting you speak again.

“Please please please let me cum, I- I’ll do anything just please,” you begged, not thinking about the words you were using.

“Anything huh? I’ll hold you against that,” he said, letting go of the knife, his fingers circling your clit instead.

A few little circles of his fingers is all it took for the earth shattering orgasm that washed over you, losing all sense of self in that moment. Michael followed not far behind, your walls milking him for all he was worth, his cum painting your insides.

He finally stopped thrusting and pulled out of you, letting you slump face first back into the mattress, your ass still in the air. Michael watched his seed drip out you, satisfied at how thoroughly he had corrupted you.

You heard him zip himself back up, expecting him to finally untie you, instead, he moved you back on your side, facing towards him, he had finally removed his mask. His curls clung to his skin, his face flush with exertion, but an utterly sinister grin painted his face.

“I think I’m going to keep you as my own little cockslut,” he stated. You couldn’t think of a reply, still fucked out.

“Stay still and this will hurt less,” he said, the glint of his blade making you panic again. He straddled you, holding you down and in place as he brought the blade to the top of your outer thigh. He pressed the blade in further than he had all night, making you scream in agony.

He let out an irritated sigh, stopping briefly to shove his fingers into your mouth.

“Suck on these,” he ordered, you could taste yourself on the leather. He resumed his work with one hand, as the other fucked your mouth, blood and drool dripping out of you.

He finally stopped after what seemed like forever. “There, all done,” he sang. He moved your leg slightly from side to side, admiring his artwork, before licking all the blood that it had produced.

He finally let up, his tongue licking around his red-stained lips and he hummed in satisfaction. He grabbed his discarded belt off the floor, bringing it around your neck and securing it in place. He gave it a little tug to test the tightness.

He finally set you free, painfully ripping the tape off your ankles and wrists. You flexed your hands and feet, trying to get the blood to circulate properly. He didn’t let you rest, pulling you up onto your feet by the belt, choking you a little; he held you by the hip to stop you falling to your knees.

His hand reached for the wound again, still oozing, and swiped the blood, making sure to press into the cuts. He brought his fingers to your lips, staining them with your own blood. He squished your cheeks with one hand, forcing you to properly look at the state you were in. You finally got a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you looked utterly debased. You took a closer look at your thigh, it was carved with a heart, a large ‘ML’ in the centre. He had carved his initials into you, marking you like a piece of property.

“If found, please return to Michael Langdon,” he said.

“Now, you said you’d do anything, remember?” he started, you nodded in reply. “Be a good girl and open the door to the shrine for me, you know I can’t do it.”

You went to grab a top, but he slapped your hand away, pulling you out of your room with the belt, like a leash on a dog. He dragged you through the halls, not caring whether you could breathe or not.

You finally got to the door. He raised his brow and looked at you expectantly. You hesitated a little, before placing your right hand in the required crevice, lining your ring up with the lock system. The mechanics of the door began to move around, before the door slid open, revealing a candlelit interior.

Michael walked to the far centre of the room, where the sword sat upon an altar, gleaming in the candlelight. Michael grabbed the hilt and inspected the blade. He closed his eyes before taking a deep breath. You gasped as he opened them, they had turned black, and his skin white. You watched as the sword corrupted in front of you. You watched the gold and silver tarnish to black and red, becoming useless for its intended purpose. You felt a shift in the air.

The world would end smoothly now.

You stayed by the door, feeling ashamed of the state you were in. Michael held his hand out.

“C’mon, no need to be shy now, I don’t think god minds you coming in here with your cunt dripping everywhere.”

He sat you on the altar in front of him, teasing your skin with the tip of the now obsolete sword. You shivered at how cold the blade was.

You looked at him in confusion as he turned the hilt towards you.

He only smirked, running the hilt through your sensitive lips, making you hiss.

“S- stop it!”

“Hmm? I don’t think I will,” he said, slowly pushing the hilt into you. You clenched around the foreign intrusion, knowing for sure that your future now belonged in the depths of hell.

“Can you believe it, the very sword that brought my father down is now being swallowed by that greedy hole of yours,” he chuckled, continuing to thrust the hilt in and out of you, the wet sound echoing through the shrine.

He eventually had enough, pulling it out of you and resting it nearby, he was going to take it on his way out.

He pulled you up by his belt. He sat where the sword formerly sat, pulling you into his lap. He pulled his cock out for the second time tonight, pink and painfully hard. He lifted your hips and thrust up into you, holding you in place. You still sensitive walls fluttered around him, aching for some friction.

“Sit still, or I’ll slit your throat,” he ordered, bringing his knife out yet again. He held your neck back so you would have to stare at the ceiling and began to carve where your collarbones met at the centre. You clenched around Michael in pain, trying your hardest not to start riding him. the roughness of his trousers was irritating your thighs.

He finally stopped with his knife, letting your neck fall back into its natural position. You looked down to see what he had done this time. A pentagram was carved into your skin, right where everyone could see it. He began to lick the blood that had ran down your breasts. You wanted to feel that tongue on your pussy.

“All in due time,” he said. He held his bloody knife up to your lips, “Clean it.”

You hesitated before sticking your tongue out, the metallic tang unpleasant, but you cleaned it anyway. Michael finally pulled it away, throwing it to the side. He captured your lips with his, immediately swirling his tongue around your mouth. He began to thrust up into you, assaulting your sensitive walls again.

“Look at you, getting fucked by the antichrist on sacred ground, I wonder what your ancestors are thinking, centuries of guardianship relinquished for some dick,” he taunted, slapping your ass in the process.

“Shut up, you talk too much,” you finally spoke, bringing him into another kiss. You tugged lightly on his hair, making him groan into your mouth.

You pulled away again, and Michael latched onto your nipple, giving both of them equal attention before going to leave hickies all over your neck.

The pair of you were already sensitive from your previous encounter, eyes rolling back as the coil in your belly snapped for the second time. The candles around you flared as Michael followed behind. The increased light made your skin glow. Michael’s gloved finger tracing the new carving he made.

“Yes, you’ll do just fine.”

[mimiplaysgames]

And There Are Storms We Cannot Weather (Ch. 3)

Pairing: Terranort x Anti-Aqua Rating: M Word Count: 3,303

Summary: Terranort baits her into following him—straight to Castle Oblivion.

Read on AO3

A/N: First fic of 2021 and I had to give it to the dark OTP. I spent weeks insecure about this chapter, but it’s thanks to @lyssala​ for reading through it and assuaging my fears. This is honestly the end of... the easiest part of this fic ljgfjlgfjfklgj I’ve really got my work cut out for me. Thank you all for your patience, feels like it’s been a while!

~*~*~*~*~

My Worst Brings Out The Best In You

Waking up is nothing like how she remembers it to be. Soreness ruptures her back, and her skin jolts as she peels off of knuckles of stone that dug in all night. She barely remembers if she dreamt. What she really can’t recall is if there’s such a thing as a refreshing morning. 

To top it all off, her ass is numb. Aqua groans when she stands up, stretching as hot gusts blow into the cave, throwing dust to her legs, caking the armor, nudging the shadows as they stir. Besides the wind rolling pebbles along, there’s no noise to enjoy in the Badlands, all the sun glaring down on bleached red sand.

The first thing she does is not breakfast (she must), nor a wash (she should), but to close her eyes, reading darkness. Maybe he woke up, too. 

He did.

He’s here.

Aqua shushes her Heartless. They’re squirming, reacting to the way her heart is pounding. At the mouth of the cave, Aqua surveys where she should go. The Badlands splay out with endless sunlight, no shade to cover her except for a passing dust storm. It’s not a view she’d share with anyone; it’s the worst place to sneak around. She’d be like a marker with a giant arrow, her shadow stretching to grotesque proportions depending on the way the light hits her.  If she’s going to titter around this exposed, she’d better make it count.

She starts by running then she fades away into clouds of smoke, magnetized to the nearest cool spot beneath a plateau, a stark, black slice across the dirt. Here she’ll recover and look for a different spot. As long as it heads in the same direction. 

It’s after the third resting place, a tunnel cutting through a mountain, that she notices she’s heading towards the Graveyard. Well, if she heads west she’d reach it. But her gut feeling—a twinge in her nostrils—veers her slightly north. When Aqua steps out amidst a precipice, she spots a gathering of oddly skinny rock towers stretching to touch the sky. No natural force could have made them.

On each of these towers stands a cloaked figure. Different heights, different hierarchies, with hearts inexperienced, lost, angry, bored, apathetic. There’s one with a third mind. Regardless, they all reflect the image of an old man somehow, like a plague they’ve infected themselves with. 

Ah, there he is, wearing black like all the rest. 

She inches closer, melting into a shadow cut off by a boulder, peeking over the edge. On the tallest tower is someone she hates to recognize. The only one without a hood. Bald. Old. Breathing with the excitement of a bully crushing dirt into another child’s hair. He’s about to land something big and Aqua knows what it is but she doesn’t care anymore. She just wants him dead for stealing.

Xehanort waves a hand and Aqua ducks back. He couldn’t have seen her. 

But when she risks a glance, most of the figures burst into a fire of purple and black, disappearing. 

Except for the only one she wants, of course.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if they knew she was there. Aqua thrusts forward, gliding over the sand, flying up parallel to one of the rock towers until she gracefully floats back on her feet at the top. 

He stands across from her, a field of what looks like ruins in the distance behind him. He takes off his hood and draws a proud smirk on his face.

“I’ve proposed they take care of you,” he says, proceeding to undress his gloves one finger at a time.

It’s a funny way of saying he asked them to get rid of her, and maybe Aqua should be nervous about it, but she tells herself that she can handle twelve nameless men. That is, until she thinks about their empty spots in this ritual circle.

Is this supposed to intimidate her? She has to hand it to him, he’s got spine. “Looks like they left you to do it yourself.”

There’s a flash—a knot at the edge of one eyebrow—of a shot of rage, like he’s about to chew her head off. Then he flashes teeth. He smiles too much.

“Then we shall begin,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Mind a detour?”

Energy sparks at the tips of her fingers, readying a Keyblade but she stops short of summoning it. A detour? He’s not making a move. Aqua leads a staredown, watching for signs of what he’s plotting.

But he doesn’t plot. He steps backward off his pillar with that ridiculous gremlin smile as if to let himself fall. An inky doorway swirls open and swallows him whole. 

Aqua bursts across the chasm, throwing herself into the same portal. She won’t lose him this time.

She lands on a muddy, brittle pathway suspended in the air, where clouds blot the sky so there’s no horizon to see. She lands on what could have been where she first conjured her very own Rainfell. Where she slapped Terra in the face that one and only time. Where she made love to him, where she picked up her Master’s abandoned Keyblade for the first and last time—it’s all erased here, ground and packaged into a single path where even the mountains eroded to dust. It’s worse than the Badlands. It’s home. 

The castle stands in the same condition she left it in years ago: painted the color of stale, crusty shit and topped with a bright turquoise roof, like a surprise gift to give your worst enemy. Warped with upright towers, towers that jut out to the side, and towers that hang upside down, it’s disjointed and bizarre, a puzzle with mismatched pieces forced together. Which is exactly the point: let the intruder wander, let him be lost, let him forget and enjoy the oblivion. 

He has thrown away his cloak at the entrance of the castle, Terra’s armor adorning his left arm. He has his back to her but there’s a tension in his shoulders as though he’s pretending not to notice she’s behind him. 

There’s one reason, and one only, why he’d bring her here. Aqua readies the Keyblade.

“Like an animal,” he quips. She can imagine him snickering. “Always prepared to deal the first blow.”

She strikes. He dodges. She’s right—he is snickering, making a show of gripping the door handle like bait asking to get caught. “Stop,” she hisses. Which is stupid. Of course he wouldn’t.

Of course he’d turn the handle. Of course he’d glance at her, tilting his head as an invitation to come inside with him. 

“You don’t have the right!” she yells.

He laughs, leaving the door open for her. 

Terra. She could lose him today, forever. If they spend hours wandering the rooms of this castle, they’d lose memories with no way to predict which ones go first. The painful? The nostalgic? Either way, there’s no such thing as Terra and Aqua holding hands if they are gone.

Aqua tackles the front door before it slams in her face. It’s heavy, resisting her at first before swaying momentum and throwing her off balance. Instead of a grand entrance hall with a proud foyer, luscious stained glass displays, mirrored marbled stairways, and a warm hello, it’s just one room. 

An empty blank room, so clean that she’s the stain, framed by polished sculptures and a rose dais she doesn’t recognize. It’s not like she had a design in mind when she transformed the castle. There’s no memory of where this came from, no record of it ever written. Not even from Eraqus, who had an idea and not a clue. She takes one step; it echoes like a screech. The white on white on white glare back. The walls stand like sterilized canvases, starched for a bleed of whatever color in exchange for a few of her thoughts. They know. This isn’t home. There’s nothing here. Just him.

“Lest you forget, this was my home, too.” He smiles.

Aqua nearly spits that it isn’t, wasn’t, never will be, but that isn’t true, is it? He’s pleased with himself, leaning on the door on the opposite side with his elbow propped up as though the castle is a casual friend he’s embracing.

“Now, isn’t this exactly where you would prefer me to be?” he asks. 

“Acting like an idiot?”

“Somewhere familiar. Old family. Fond memories. A place to call your sanctuary.”

She shrugs it off. “Not much of a spectacle anymore.”

His eyebrows worm one by one. He’s lucky he has Terra’s face, otherwise she’d shave them. “But a spectacle worth revisiting.”

“There’s nothing left,” she snaps. “This place is empty.”

He strokes a finger on the door, a gesture that is halfway between Is that so? and Not so fast. “Except one room.”

Hunger churns in his eyes and she’s uncomfortable with the way he’s looking at her, like he’s about to drag her by her ankles. 

“Don’t bother asking. It’s not like you’d ever see it,” she says.

His nostrils flare, surveying disgust as he scans the room from floor to ceiling. There’s a ferocity there, an ignition of something ready to deteriorate. Aqua settles for what’s coming, claws extending as they fasten her Keyblade. If she tears flesh today, so be it. It will only be a little. 

How he gets himself to smirk the next moment is a secret she’d have to learn. “Then a bargain. The Chamber of Waking, and I won’t harm him.”

Aqua grunts and cuts an arc through the air with her Keyblade, firing a sphere of energy dark enough to absorb light. He blocks it with a wave of his hand and he chuckles like there’s not a day worth living if you’re not close to dying. 

Summoning his giant Keyblade, he swings back, rupturing the tile beneath him as it cracks and crumbles towards her. She dodges, but an explosion bursts from beneath and knocks her off balance. As she turns over to stand up, he’s already looming over her. 

They’re in a tight space, the walls knitting together and forcing them to take intimate strikes and forgo the fancy spells. Tinks and shears and blasts echo as though one hit is actually three, the sound of their blades bashing against each other. Her Heartless can’t form a congregation here. He doesn’t bother with his Guardian either, too cumbersome and clunky to maneuver inside.

He’s slower than her, but the close proximity means she’s running out of space to dodge his wide reach. Every hit he throws is the force of a boulder destroying a mountain as it avalanches, testing her balance, stealing the seconds that she needs to steady herself and parry the next. 

She readies a spell. He blows the tile beneath them, an earthquake tripping her feet.

Every curse she scrambles with—a Sleep, Confusion, anything to throw him off—does nothing, as though he’s feasting on her efforts. She should’ve known better.

It’s fine. Aqua’s tough without her Heartless, tough without needing to trust anyone but herself. Glowing with an icy hotness that burns like frozen snow on exposed skin, she’s about to multiply—

“You will not,” he says.

He pummels into her like a canon, his armored hand around her throat as she collides back onto the door behind her. Not the front door, no—she’s foolish and distracted enough not to notice that he’s been circling her in this small, square room. He’s pinning her against the other, the one that would lead to Ven but wouldn’t. It creaks under the weight of her body and the pressure of his strength.

“I could lock you up in this purgatory,” he whispers, his breath brushing her cheek, her nose, her lips. Smiling. “Or you could take me to him.”

Aqua pants, her fingers scratching the surface of the door. The thought of being left behind—

Like choked breath, she stops the moment she sees the proud expression on his face. 

It’s a bluff.

Calm down. He wants to scare her. It’s a bluff. 

He needs her to get inside regardless, even if he doesn’t know everything. That you need the Master’s Defender at all is a secret only shared with those who wield it. He wouldn’t know. Despite how desperately she wants to dig her way out, Aqua keeps her chin high, staring him down. She scoffs through her nose. 

His eyes twinkle as he reads her. Aqua tries not to lead him on with any assumptions. Keep it stoic.

But there’s something about the way she’s doing it that’s betraying her. She’s failing with every second that he blinks. “Ah,” he cooes, “you do not have the means—”

Claws into flesh—she pierces his wrist, right through the leather in between the metal, and he yelps. Pulls off of her. She closes the gap with black fire and cold fingers and the intent to rip an iceberg in half. He has his arms over his head, his Keyblade forgotten as he pathetically defends himself against a rabid monster flailing at him.

All she sees is the opportunity to take back. Priming a sharp hand over his face (and at such the perfect angle to peel it off his skull), she lunges forward and pins him under her. Reaches to his waist. Pulls the orange Wayfinder out of his pocket.

He yells and throws her off of him. His pupils shrink to nothing, his Keyblade burning with an unnatural color. He’s clutching his chest as though his heart is pounding too quickly and is about to plop dead. Aqua is on her knees, the Wayfinder’s chain threaded around her red knuckles.

Move. She needs to move while he towers over her, a trickle of drool seeping from his lips, his white hair messy. He’s manic, searching her and searching the floor and searching the walls, moaning. Aqua has to move. Aqua sits frozen. 

Has he forgotten where he is? 

Is this… 

She whispers his name, barely audible.

For a moment, he stares past her. He growls and throws himself on her, the back of her head hitting the floor. Pupils so small his eyes are golden orbs, two little false lights in the dark, tempting you to go deeper into the fog where a monster waits. Like the Guardian’s, watching her take her last breath underwater. As though he knows no weapons, or no magic, he squeezes a fist around her hand, his fingers prying the Wayfinder out of hers with such strength that he could amputate them. Aqua chooses her fingers and lets go. 

Once he has it back in his possession, he stumbles off of her, heaving and hunched over. With the Wayfinder to his chest, his pupils slowly grow back. Brows knitted, lips quivering, eyes lost. That’s not a face Xehanort would make. 

Then he runs. He bolts down the terrace, disappearing in a cloud of smoke, leaving Aqua on the floor, leaving the doors open. Terra’s body is traveling like a shooting star. She can feel it propel somewhere in the far sky, where the stars hover above the clouds. She could follow him, fight more and more and more until she drags him to the ocean kicking and screaming and losing.

But it aches.

But she’s tired. She’s fought, and they’ve matched the same games over and over, with nothing to show for them except sore throats and scratched cheeks and defeated bodies slumped over floors like they weren’t dignified Keyblade wielders but wronged children.

It aches. It aches more than anything the Realm of Darkness threw at her, as though a hollow has cracked inside, collapsing her lungs into a pit of gravity and threatening to take the rest. If this is how it feels to be human again, why bother going back? What good is it to pretend that fate is kind and hearts are strong and one day he’ll realize what just happened and wake up with his blue eyes?

Instead, she should try to find Ven on her own, without her Master’s Defender. Her heart will lead the way, let her keep her memories. Or she’d lose it all, walking in circles, be the ghost that haunts this castle and create a legend that will keep her name immortal. It’s a stupid idea.

Aqua rolls over to her side, the tile underneath jutting into her hips and ribs. The doors he left open frame the outside, a dry and empty nightmare. She misses the sound of pattering, the smell of moisture, the promise of green every year. The Land of Departure certainly had its dreary days when the clouds were thick, but the light never dimmed. It would rain and all would be clear, the raindrops bulbous as they pummeled and exploded into miniature puddles.

Maybe the reason why the dirt is so rancid here is because rain never fell on Castle Oblivion. If she and Terra were caught under an onslaught, they’d continue to par. Water never stopped her flow and he couldn’t be bothered to slow down. 

There was one obnoxious day when Terra grabbed her elbow and dragged her to the front porch, just under the awning in an effort to keep dry but it was futile—they were still pricked by frigid droplets. Beneath the rain, his blue eyes were less noticeable. His dark hair weighed heavy but it was thick enough to perk up if with less gusto. He smirked at her, and she knew what it meant.

She smacked his arm while he glanced through the entrance as he watched for signs of someone coming. If the Master, they’d be in trouble. If Ven, they’d have to suffer relentless teasing, and maybe pay off his blackmail. 

When Terra was sure no one would see them, he went for it in spite of her whispered giggles and hushes. A warmth on his lips that burned on hers when the rest of her was cold, drenched, and shivering. 

I wanted to know what you taste like in the rain. 

He had tasted like water, a spring from the mountain.

She was close to Terra today. She’s sure of it. 

Tied to her sashes is her blue Waydfinder in immaculate condition, glass stronger than metal with a vibrance that’s foreign to her. 

It sits in her claw, blood red framing its brilliant shine. She’s done so well not to stare at it every time she felt nostalgic, but here she is now: a damn mess, with scales that cover skin, rough and pointed at the tips. Cold with layers of calloused leather that never molts unless she tears it off, building on top of her knuckles that folds as she retracts her claws, like there’s something slithering beneath. Her hands are now beyond repair, so thick that she’s unable to feel what she touches. 

I’m ugly, she realizes, keeping her claws contracted so they don’t scratch the surface of her Wayfinder. It’s still pretty. 

Dull stars float down to the entrance of the castle. Not stars, but a plethora of orbs, pairs of them as her Heartless pile on top of each other and funnel inside, squirming themselves free. It would have been easier for them to make a line. They’re silly, sometimes. 

Something small butts its head into her—the six-year-old, scratching the tile as it makes space up against her belly. It lets her wrap her arm around it. Another Heartless nuzzles up to her chin. One sits at the crown of her head, and another nestles at the small of her back. More tack on, forming a seabed to let her rest. 

It would’ve been lonely otherwise. The night seems flippant now, impatient for the sun to come up in a world where it can’t shine. 

[lordsofmedrengard]

🔪

It should be noted that the descriptions etc are from Sal’din’s POW, and subject to bias. He’s pretty good at being neutral in appraising things, but he has quite a lot of pride in his Legion, and this shines through in some of the descriptions. I tried to convey that a small measure of nobility still lives in him, as well.

Per Aestra’s idea, some goofiness from Khromys. I’ve tried to keep her true to canon Dark Eldar as well as how she’s RP’d, so she’s perhaps a bit too open to working with her lesser and finding common ground with them, which may be her undoing.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Xenos assault had come without warning, darkening the skies with skimmers and flyers. Less paranoid precautions could not have held them back; as it was even the siege-craft of the Iron Warriors was being pushed to the very limit.

Located just beyond the Maelstrom, Despot III was an unassuming rock barely capable of sustaining its own atmosphere. It’s only value lay in anonymity – it was a convenient and isolated place to store supplies necessary for the invasions of Imperial space. It had no real industrial capability of its own, and if not for the scheduled inspection, would have been largely absent of Iron Warriors.

As it was, even Sal’din’s veterans were being pushed back, one fortification at a time. Somehow the Eldar Xenos had increased their physical speed and dexterity beyond even that enjoyed by most Legionnaires; each squad leader had reported an unorthodox aggression and sadism as well. Their alien savagery was more than enough to overcome the Legion auxilia, though grounded in piracy as it was it could not compete with the individual hatred of an Iron Warrior.

It was not enough to defeat, or even contain them. The truth of it made him clench his fingers; the threatening whirr of servo-motors causing indentured soldiers to glance at him warily, before their overseers managed to force some semblance of discipline back into their worthless minds.

As he was considering ordering a withdrawal to the inner defences, a nearby foe-skimmer came apart under anti-air fury. Straining his eyes, he could just about pick out a slender figure made broader by bladed armour and expansive furs leaping from the wreck an instant before it kissed the rockcrete. As the flames provided better light, he saw the alien war-queen in her terrible glory, if but for a moment.

The Iron Warriors had quite rightly been famed as a Legion lacking in the unsightly desire to beautify armour into art; even so the beauty of her armour was startling. Obsidian tresses tied into a topknot framed a handsome face of pure alabaster, with sharp cheeks, a noble nose and pointed jaw. In her hands were death given shape, in the form of a bone or tooth carved into a curved sword and a curious device that looked like nothing so much as a lightning claw made out of miscoloured glass.

While her leap could only be described as regal, the landing was inelegant. She came in at a bad angle, and, fumbling with a syringe in her off-hand, managed to leap from the ground into a wall with a thud audible even over the sound of the exploding Xenos skimmers in the air. The conscripts hesitated, brutal training overcome by the comedy of life.

This was their undoing.

As the alien peeled herself of the wall and set her nose straight, a storm of poison-shards savaged the barricade, killing all but the Warsmith and the handful of bodyguards that were not needed to stiffen the spines elsewhere. In truth, such a deluge was highly wasteful, for the poison would have done away with the conscripts in little time. As it was, most had been reduced to tatters of gore, bubbling unpleasantly.

Worse, a single Iron Warrior had been reduced to kneeling, gurgling feebly as he slunk lower still. Shards were stuck in the armour of his helmets, breastplate and left arm, and others had managed to penetrate the armour seals and the eye lenses.

Seizing the initiative, a pair of sky-chariots landed behind the alien leader, disembarking two small squadrons of horned Xenos armed with great klaives. Belatedly, the nine Commorrites activated hidden generators, clouding their shapes with shadows. With an elegant gesture and a haughty sneer, the lady of war commanded her servants to kill, and Sal’din rose. With him rose four of the finest Iron Warriors left to the Legion, and the stink of ozone was the herald of Terminator support to come.

As the Xenos drew nearer to the barricade, explosives hidden under-ground tore through them, paying little heed to their shifting forms, slaying none but leaving three with vulnerable injuries. Of these, one was slain by combi-flamer, another by a volley of bolts aimed by two of the veterans. Then the aliens were among them, and brutal confusion reigned. Distracted as he was by two of the aliens working in tandem, instincts honed over millennia allowed him to take heed of the death of two of his warriors, even as Eldar technology interfered with Astartes auto-senses.

There, the Eldar warlord’s voice. The remaining xenos pulled away with startling speed, and Sal’din saw why: twenty Cataphractii had teleported to the battle, and though their heavy plate should have left them vulnerable to Eldar attack the narrow confines of the Iron Warriors battlements gave them the advantage.

He gestured to them to stand down. Then, he stepped forward to confront the enemy.

“Who would be so bold as to enter my kingdom uninvited? This-“

The alien’s laughter and mocking gestures interrupted him, as she mimicked the movements of some great, musclebound ape-creature while moaning, slack-jawed.

Sal’din allowed himself a moment to feel burning rage. Then, he composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice could have been confused with that of a low-quality servitor.

“Identify yourself at once, pitiful Xenos whore. Despot III belongs to the IV Legions Astartes, and-“ with a smooth motion, he paused to shoot the remaining wounded klaive-wielder, which finally brought her undivided attention, “-and you are trespassing. Identify yourself, and I will allow you a quick death. Defy me further, and I shall break you – mind, body and soul. Only then will I allow the Dark Prince to consume you.”

The alien’s eyes had narrowed. By now, bright red Legion blood stained her. When she spoke, defiling the human languages with her unworthy tongue, the words were somewhat hesitant and marked by a strange accent.

“That one was a favourite of mine, and of my daughter. I believe I shall decline your most gracious offer; however, as it would appear that I am gaining the upper hand in this combat, skirmish or… struggle?”, she glanced at one of her remaining guards, who nodded, almost too quick for the eye to catch. She nodded back, another lightning movement of the chin, and then turned back.

“As I said: I am but a few minor delights away from achieving victory, and my heart desires your death to be one of them,” she smiled, alien musculature and burning hatred in her eyes making a mockery of the expression, and struck a majestic pose: “I am Aestra Khromys, Queen of Splinters and Archon of the Kabal of the Obsidian Rose – and I challenge you to a duel. Consider yourself fortunate, grotesque, for few Mon’keigh are so fortunate as to die by my hands, to the edge of my huskblade”.

Sal’din hesitated, nodded, and waved his Legionnaires off. He had barely had time to take a step forward before she was upon him, quicksilver speed and grace combining with Xeno technosorcery to give her movements akin to liquid shadow.

Her blade was everywhere, weaving a web around him, and it was all he could do to hold her away, occasionally striking at her with his volkite charger in an attempt to hold off the strange-looking lightning claw.

Often, her blows would slide through his guard, and only his experience allowed him to slide them across his warplate instead of suffering a mortal wound. She’d shriek in frustration at this delaying tactic, this denied gratification, this insult, but she was driving him back – a baffling experience for any Warsmith, made worse by her inhuman nature.

What strikes and lunges he managed to counter with were easily dodged; at one point she mockingly kissed his power sword before twirling away with a grimace, lips badly burned. Scarcely had he taken this development in, then she was upon him again, pushing him back. His body began to burn from the exertion, Astartes physiology and Legion combat drugs being pushed past their limits. She was a whirlwind, her attacks were everywhere and often came from strange angles.

The world had narrowed to nothing; only the duelling pair existed. Dimly, he was aware of one of the Xenos transport-gunners slicing a Terminator apart with a beam that hurt his peripheral vision, and of battle being joined – but such trifles were not enough to distract from the humiliating dominance of the Xenos scum. Adding insult to injury, Aestra twirled away with flawless grace, slicing away the leg of a Terminator while stabbing at the armour seals of another with her glove – the action seemed to give her new strength, for she gave a terrible, shrill laughter, and when she returned Sal’din was disarmed in a handful of savage sword-blows, priceless paragon blade flying away to stick quivering in a rockcrete wall.

Time seemed to slow, as she prepared a series of killing thrusts. Had she not picked her target poorly, this would have been the end of Sal’din – she started by impaling her blade in the Warsmith’s bionic leg, where it became stuck. Both combatants froze, for a moment, eyes meeting, as if unsure what to make of this new development. Hesitantly, she began to smile. A desperate surge of hatred gave Sal’din the speed he needed to kick out, tearing the alien sword out of her hands. A piston-like movement from Sal’din’s servo-arm smashed her across the face, reducing her fine features to a splintered ruin.

As she recoiled, strained laughter began bubbling its way out of her throat. “Well done, Mon-keigh! It is most rare for one of rarefied skill such as myself to experience such a wondrous physicality, the grinding of bone, the heat of a shattered eye! For your reward, I shall not only allow this world to remain in grotesque hands, I shall grant you the gift of life. You are most welcome, Monkeigh.”

There was a stunned silence as the surviving Iron Warriors took this in. Striking with serpent-like speed, Aestra lunged forward with her claws, only for her ruined depth perception to foul the blow.

A storm of bolt shells made sure she did not strike another one.

[bloodsoakedheretic]

Grip My Throat and Rip Out My Lungs

TW: Medical Malpractice, Gore, creepy organ stroking? yep we got that too.

Mob AU!

While the higher ups of the underground were so busy fighting and screaming at eachother, loose cannons flying off the handle, the underground moved as if it was business as usual, the death and chaos just another stain on the already blackened streets. Henrik, a prominent underground organ seller and black market doctor to the mobs was preparing for yet another dramatic day at work. While most of the underground was used to the insane chaos, Henrik wasn’t. He liked his practice to be quiet, gut cadavers, sell organs, keep his head down, keep his shit silent, stay out of the limelight.

But that would just be a little too much, a little too easy. Henrik was just as shocked as most would be when he opened his door and saw a writhing Anti, one eye severely burned and a fresh slice in his neck with a lovely pink balloon tied to his wrist. Wilford apparently had gotten pissed off once again, the Mob boss being a victim for once.

“What the fuck.” Henrik asked, moving to apply pressure and seeing that Anti barely seemed lucid enough to hang on much more than growl out a half-assed ‘Fix me up you fucked up doc’ and then promptly wail and choke on his own blood.

Honestly, these fucks couldn’t let Henrik just have a normal day in the office could they? He had just started to clean him up when he had a rather… dangerous idea. Sure, his corner in the Mob Empire was a faithful doctor, his mob all had rather well science and other credentials, all of which included genetic modifications. He did need to run some tests and all, considering Wilford dropped him here, no one knew where he was either…

That made him the perfect little test bunny.

“Well, since no one knows where you are.. I think it’s time you repay me for all those bodies I’ve gutted dear one. I warned you, you would always need to pay the piper.” He crooned, pulling away from the dressing he was doing to the wound to slowly fill a needle on the tray with a new sedative, a morphine cocktail really. “Good night, Anti.” he crooned before he injected the cocktail of drugs into his system. He had already started to hold him down when he started thrashing, but with how weak he was it was all too easy. The big man himself was passed out on the table, a table he wouldn’t be leaving until after the experiments were completed. Once that was done Henrik wheeled the unconscious man to the operating room to prep him by taking a biopsy and seeing what information he could draw from him, the nursing staff already setting up the surgical wards encrypted servers so they could ensure the top secret information couldn’t be found unless they wanted it to, simply booking him in under M,A and tagging his file as John Doe, all normal protocol.

“Nurse 0890, please prep him for a biopsy, he currently has morphine cocktail AN09-E in his system. Nurse 0933, get me the new power saw, we’ll need to take a bit of his lung.” Henrik said, tone rather empty as he put on the white gloves that would soon be changed into such a pretty shade of crimson as he made the man below him more beautiful with the help of his tools. He watched as the nurses got the dirtied and tarnished tools that he so loved out of fondness that he couldn’t just throw it away. Once he saw the staff had backed off and he was prepped for surgery Henrik began, a smile on his lips behind his mask.

He started by making the cut, a large ‘Y’ shape that started with the right clavicle and slowly went diagonally to the sternum  and the down to the pelvis, the nurse opposite to him making the cut for the left one, so the could peel it back and easily expose his insides. The soft flesh of his intestines and the sounds of his beating heart, it was such a beautiful and taboo thing to behold. To see one’s body in such a vulgar and beautiful display was something he enjoyed on a daily basis, but he soon went to work. Instead of worrying over how pretty he could make him he was focusing on taking samples, removing worthless things he wouldn’t need such as his gallbladder and appendix. The red that was soon painting the whites of his gloves and scrubs was a welcome sight to behold.

The procedure was rather routine, the rusted clamps being placed on the areas around the two organs he would be removing and causing the deep red blood to bubble and erupt with every little movement. The dirty scalpels gliding through the soft flesh of the organs, carving out the gallbladder and any unsightly fatty areas slowly, like he was savoring the feel of the organs and flesh falling apart under his hands. The fats fell to the floor at his and the nurses feet as he worked on making him pretty on the inside. The comforting sounds of the internal movements of his little test animal more than enough to relax him as he worked.

The Nurses were moving around, encrypting his files as they followed Henrik’s orders, though once he hit a pause, a large smile curled at his lips. “Bring in the serums, I think he is ready.” With that, the nurses wheeled in a refrigerated cart, the white bright in the room as it was now the only clean object in the makeshift operating room in their dirty underworld job.

“Now, darling Anti. It’s time to repay your debts to me.” Henrik crooned, a hand pressing down as his nurses had exposed his lungs, which he decided to stroke gently as he watched them prepare for the next part. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a single thing.” as he said that, he heart the man’s heart pick up, knowing he had woken but was still unable to move.

“An eye for an eye, a lung for a lung, a lab rat for a lab rat. All is fair, no?”

[mangled-dreams]

Jameson accidentally cuts himself and tries to cover it up, but the blood is clearly visible, so everyone just assumed he was self harming. He wasn't, but it just seemed like it.

Admittedly not as long as some of my others, but not any less entertaining for me to write. I love the brother dynamic between the egos. It’s just adorable and fun to write about. 

Concerning Wounds

Hedidn't mean to cut his arm with one of Anti's favorite sharp knives.He'd been cleaning the den when he found Anti's knife nearly buriedin the couch cushions. He'd pulled too hard, his foot slipping onsomething on the hard wood flooring, and in his attempt to catchhimself slice a nice long line into his forearm.

Panickedat the sight of blood Jameson rushes to the kitchen dropping theknife into the skin and rush to turn on the faucet. Slapping his freehand on the counter Jameson tries to get someone's attention to comehelp him. He doesn't believe he can die but it's not as if he wantsto test the theory.

Inhis panic Jameson leaves a horrorfying blood trail from the den tothe kitchen, his hands leaving bloody prints as he searches for atowel or rag to press against the wound. It's far deeper than he hadoriginally thought and being in panic mode isn't helping control theblood flow.

Pressinghis hand tightly against the wound Jameson runs to the bathroom onthe ground floor and gets into the medical kit Henrik keeps wellstocked. Pulling it down Jameson cleans his arm, using the butterflysutures in the kit to close the edges together he then wraps it in acling gauze until he can see Henrik for better clean up.

Oncehe's sure he won't bleed out Jameson goes to the den to clean up thecrime scene he left behind. Now that the panic is subsiding Jamesonremembers everyone is out until the evening. Sighing Jameson gets outa large bucket, cleaning solution, and some rags. Getting on hishands a knees Jameson begins the cleaning process all the way to thekitchen then to the bathroom.

Nearlyan hour passes before Jameson feels as if he got everything takencare of. He'd emptied his bucked three times for fresh water cleanermixture. He'd ended up changing his ruined shirt for another aftereverything was cleaned up. Walking into the kitchen Jameson isgreeted by Henrik and Marvin.

“Howvas your day?” Henrik asks going to the fridge to retrieve a soda.

Jamesonshrugs. He tells them he had an accident but was able to get the messcleaned up before they arrived. Marvin nods, his eyes wanderingaround the kitchen thinking Jameson had an accident while trying tocook.

Chucklingas he looks at the ceiling Marvin says, “I remember when Chasetried to “spice” up making flapjacks and ended up getting batternearly across the whole ceiling.” Looking to Jameson Marvin pauses,his head tilting to the slide at the sight of red stained bandagewrapped around Jameson's arm. “Jay, what happened to your arm?”Marvin asks.

Jamesonlooks at his arm and realizes he still needs Henrik to look at hiswound. Looking at Marvin Jameson tells him he accidentally cut hisarm with a knife.

“Howdo you accidentally cut yourself that high up?” Marvin askswatching Jameson lift his sleeve up. He is just baffled at how a cuthigh up on his forearm could have been an accident.

“Jameson,how was that an “accident”?” Marvin asks looking to Henrik forassistance. Henrik quickly slides his soda onto the counter androunds Jameson, taking care to unwrap his arm. Jameson feels queasyupon seeing his arm hasn't healed at all and is still seeping blood.

Henrikgets into a draw next to Jameson and pulls out two pairs of gloveshanding a pair to Marvin. “Vat did you do, Jamezon?”

“Jamie,do we need to have a talk? Are you feeling okay? Did you do this onpurpose?” Marvin asks sincerely concerned for Jameson's mentalhealth.

Jamesonshakes his head telling Marvin and Henrik he had found one of Anti'sknives in the couch and while trying to clean up slipped and somehowcut his arm. He doesn't understand how all of it happened but hadtried to stop the bleeding in the kitchen but couldn't and went tothe bathroom for the medical kit to wrap himself up before cleaningeverything. He'd been so concerned with getting all the blood cleanedup and making sure no other knives are lurking in the furinture he'dforgotten to take it easy with his injured arm.

Henriknods deciding that the cut requires stitching and a good wrapping.“Marvin, hold right here. I vill be back vith needle and zread. Vevill have to zew up zis wound and wrap it before zit gets vorse.”Henrik says waiting for Marvin to apply pressure on Jameson's armbefore leaving for his office, discarding his bloody gloves on theway. Not only does he not want to spread around Jameson's blood forhygienic reasons but Jameson said he'd just finished cleaning anddoes not want to undo all the work Jameson just finished.

“Yousure it was an accident Jay? I'm not gonna think less of ya.”Marvin says once Henrik is out of ear shot.

Jamesontells him it was an accident and that his thoughts do not movetowards self harm. He promises Marvin if his thoughts were to everget to that point he'd come straight to Marvin for help and comfort.

Marvinnods patting Jameson's head affectionately. “I'll hold you tothat.” Marvin smirks watching Henrik come into the kitchen againwith a medical kit from his office. The three remain silent as Henrikgives Jameson a few shots of lidocaine to numb the cut and stitcheshim up. As he finished Henrik tells Jameson to be careful and keep itwrapped up and dry.

“Unrememba to keep to take zit eazy un no more playing vith ze knives.”Henrik orders in a teasing nature. Jameson nods his head agreeing tothe order. Henrik smiles. “I suggest you rezt for now. Marvin un Ivill get dinner ztarted.” Henrik says shooing Jameson into theliving room after cleaning him up and wrapping his arm again. Jamesonleaves giving his idea for dinner to which both happily agree andshoo Jameson away.

Laterthan night at dinner a similar scene plays out as everyone gathers toeat and sees Jameson's red stained bandage. Thankfully Marvin andHenrik come to Jameson's defense. It's rather funny to Jameson aswell as endearing his alter selves would be so concerned for hismental well being.

“Anti,you need to keep your knives out of the couches.” Marvin sayschanging the subject from Jameson to the real issue at hand.

“Iwould never..”

“Jamesoncut himself cleaning up after you.” Marvin says cutting Anti off.

Jamesontries to defuse the conversation by saying he's alright and everyone,Anti included need to make sure that their things are picked up. Hehad slipped on one of Marvin's silk handkerchiefs. Reluctantlyeveryone agrees to do a better job at picking up themselves. Jamesonthanks them and a comfortable conversation takes place of the fingerpointing.  

Jamesonfeels pretty happy with the outcome of his unfortunate events. He'dbeen trying to find a way to ask his compatriots to better clean upafter themselves and this was a good platform for it, other than himgetting hurt. Despite the pain today was a good day.

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

It’s a mystery in many houses – where in tarnation do the odd socks go? In others, there’s people like me who have a special ability to wear and snag holes … in just one sock … at a ridiculous rate.

This leaves many sad, lonely “survivor” socks waiting for their mate to appear, or hoping the next ripped sock matches it.  Then, commonly, after ages spent waiting with other sad, lonely survivors accumulating beside them, they’re sent to the landfill.

   Happily, it doesn’t have to be so. Those socks have massive potential for increasing our preparedness.

They can save us money and effort now, and they can be especially useful in a protracted crisis! Unmatched socks have a place from our kitchens and baths, to our gardens and back, winter and summer.

Garden Tie-Ups

One of the best-known uses for socks in in the garden is as ties for our vining plants like tomatoes and heavier squash or melons. They can be used whole and as-is, although that can be bulky. They can be split longwise down to the toe to create longer lengths, or cut off in rings or shorter strips.

Socks can also help us by holding the fruit itself. We can split them and tie them at the center to make a 4- or 6-strand “X” that we tie up from around the bottom of fruits to suspend from a trellis, enabling us to grow vertically and save space. Doing so can also limits some of the garden munchers.

Alternatively, with thick-stemmed autumn-winter squashes and melons, ties can be suspended from near the base of the fruit to the supporting rack. (Psst … check to see if they’re ready to slip regularly.)

I also use socks to tie and cover the plastic bundle I make when I propagate by air layering, to tie young trees and shrubs to their protective posts, and when I create limb spreaders for young trees or am creating an espalier or diagonal cordon fruit tree.

While they do hold more moisture than garden twine, they’re also less abrasive. I like the fact that they have some elasticity, too. Instead of snapping, they bend like a willow in the wind, and in some cases, because of the “give”, they can absorb some of the damage we get from summer and winter storms.

Pollination Protectors

If we’re gardening with a long-term disaster or instability in mind, eventually we turn to seed saving. Many of our garden plants are promiscuous, which can present challenges. To keep seeds true for another season, we can cover up flowers before they open (to include corn) and hand pollinate. Hose and dress socks excel here, ensuring we have another harvest we can count on from our efforts.

If flowers are delicate, we can slice up yogurt cups, plastic bottles, seed tray cups; bend wire clothes hangers into spirals; or create a couple thin willow rings to form a hollowed-out frame and keep our thin socks and hose from putting too much pressure on our forming flowers and their young fruits.

(Full disclosure: Pro’s actually use paper bags for breeding corn – zero chance of pollen seeping through the weave.)

Pest Barriers

Socks and hose can also help save our fruits from predation. As with breeding stock, some fruits may benefit from a ring or frame that keeps the cloth from making direct contact.

Coddling moth on tree fruit is the most common foe defeated this way, but it can help with everything from birds and bramble berry bunches, to tomatoes and hornworms. Cloth socks can also be substituted for newspaper when protecting transplants from cutworms.

  Wicking with Socks

Heard of Earthboxes, or sub-irrigated planters and beds (sometimes called self-watering)?

DIYs from buckets, storage totes, and 2L bottles regularly call for a wick. There’s no need to buy mops or pond baskets, though. A polyester sock filled with coir, wood chips, or your planting soil will work just as well and last nearly as long. Cotton and wool socks can be cut into strips to perform the same functions for smaller containers.

On a different note, farmers and gardeners have started cutting up cleaned waste wool pieces from shearing, and tilling it into gardens or sticking it near root zones, especially for particularly thirsty crops. The wool absorbs water, keeping it available to plants longer. Natural-fiber sock pieces can do the same.

Allium Chains

Never really got the hang of braiding garlic and onions into chains for storage? No big deal. Thin dress socks or hose can make it faster and easier to accomplish the same.

Once cured, just bundle them up. You can use bread ties, paper clips, or clothespins to separate bulbs in a chain instead of tying knots, or you can cut right below the knot. (Remember to save the “toe” for flower & fruit protectors.)

Goo Grabbers

Got any bottles of oil in the kitchen – or one of those oil sprayers to replace Spam? Get any dribbles down them?

No? Can you teach my entire family how to not do this?

If you do, or if you have slick stuff it’s tough to grab in the kitchen or shed, socks can help. Cut the toe off, slide it over, fold over if desired. Dribbles will catch in the sock, not pool under the sprayer or bottle, and you can gain a little extra traction on those bottles.

Their ability to prevent accidental splatter or drippage also extends to paint cans and shoes.

When you’re ready to paint, roll or twist your sock(s) into a thin rope, and tie it around the can. As with the oil, it’ll catch any drips from the rim.

When you’re painting and staining and priming, you can also slide mismatched and sole-survivor socks over your shoes (and your hands) to help limit any drips or side spray from making contact.

   Washing Up

Got a carpet mess to clean up? Stick bar soap in one of those sole survivors of the laundry, dunk, scrub, repeat. Bar soap in a sock will also make it easier if you’re planning to hand-scrub your laundry at some point, with or without a board.

Tired of losing those little slivers of bar soaps, or of dealing with the mushy mess?

Stick them in a sock, and hang the sock from a hook. You could hang it to drip into the sink, but for even less waste, set it up so it drips onto a sponge or the floor-scrubby louffa squash you grew.

(Psst … that sock thing also makes it fast and easy to wash hands over a catch bucket while camping.)

When it comes to cleaning up, we can also repurpose lone socks as reusable “Swiffer” pads for dusting, sweeping, and spot mopping.

Socks also make excellent dip stick wipers (and “hot pot holders”) to tuck along the inside rim of a vehicle hood. Tuck a few in with your air compressor to save your hands (and knees) there, too, so you spend a little less time using soap, scrubbing stains, and patching holes with them.

     Critter Care

Got a small dog or pup prone to getting super cold in winter? Piglets or rabbits that need a sweater? Doggy child like to dip its ears in its dinner? Or shake them after an injury?

Socks can be the answer.

With a few snips we can create hoods and sweaters for our pets, as well as some of our small livestock.

They can also be turned into chicken vests, or used to create stockings and suspenders to keep animals from reopening leg wounds or chewing “hot spots” that may develop from allergies to grasses and insect bites.

A quick knot, piece of Velcro, or old belt can work to hold them over the shoulder, or you can use some garden twine to tie off between their shoulders or to a harness.

Those stockings can also be used in winter to help dogs gain some traction on ice. There’s some limited assistance for dogs that end up with balls of packs snow between their toes, too.

The biggie for me in winter, though, was always in limiting how much deicer ended up on their feet and in the house. It only works for front paws, but since that’s what mine will sit there and lick most often, that’s a win.

Every tiny speck that turns their socks crunchy-crispy is a speck they’re not consuming, so it was worth it to me even not being a perfect “boot”. A quick coat of spray sizing or waterproofing limits that exposure further.

Hoofstock can have fitted socks used to replace light brush guards as well as help keep them from messing with an injury. Socks can also be soaked as fly repellents, or help keep a heat rub or anti-inflammatory dressing in place.

If socks aren’t big enough to slide over a hoof, we can still use them instead of ACE type flex-compression bandages. As with garden supports, we can slice them long wise from the opening to the toe and use them as a wrap.

Just make sure they fit well, won’t slide off, and that we use tape or a salvaged piece of Velcro, especially for animals we won’t be watching – constantly and closely.

Applying a medical aid does little good if Rin Tin Tin or Silver manage to swallow an ACE clip or step on a safety pin. (That goes for brand-new, purpose-specific items, too, not just repurposed items.)

   Solar Boosts

Got a water bottle that boils in summer? Pull a white sock over it. Want to help water absorb solar rays, either to stay warmer in winter or cut down on boiling time for instant meals in summer? Sheath it in a black sock instead.

The black sock trick can also be used as a heat sink for winter plants, with cans, bottles or emptied jars.

Socks as Saviors

We spend enough money on preparedness. Save it where you can. There are all sorts of things that can be given new life. Unmatched socks in particular are pretty useful around a home and yards – and we barely brushed the surface of their potential.

From feminine hygiene to small pouches, mittens to coin-roll saps, homemade draft rolls and dusting gloves, even as a washable alternative to paper for windows and mirrors – it’s a pretty big list, with pretty wide applications. They don’t have to cycle from waiting to the trash.

Go ahead and stash some back for hard times, but get started seeing nothing as a waste product now, too.

  The post The Lone Sock appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

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