#violent imagery tw

[strawberry-barista]

⚅— Continued from here. —⚅ ⚅— @pureposer —⚅

— ★ ⚄ ★ —

Still with this. It hurt, being referred to this way. He didn't feel good around Hazuki a lot of the time anymore. He couldn't make amends with him, and that made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. He'd gotten so worked up, too worked up. He'd ruined everything and tried so hard to impose his love upon this person. A casualty of his former self. It tore him up inside.

But he knew that displaying that feeling, internally our out, would do him no good. He saved his mourning for the moments when he was alone and closed off from others. For moments when he couldn't be seen by his Composer or city or anyone else. Making sure he was warded so not a soul could take note of his pain, and he tucked it deep in the lowest cavity of his chest. And instead he smiled, and he tucked his hand in his pocket, and he hunched himself a bit to look as careless as possible.

"Of course not, Composer," Hanekoma replied in a professional tone. "You can walk away at any point that you get bored of me. I simply want to re-establish a connection with you so that our districts might work better alongside each other in the future. My own Composer aside, I feel as if I'm involved with maintenance enough that I should be on better terms with you. Otherwise, should something go astray, I won't be able to communicate with you properly enough to fix the issue. You have my guarantee that I will refrain from inserting my own opinions about things into our conversations going forward."

It felt so cold, but this was the best that he could hope for. Anything. Anything was better than the emptiness he felt concerning Hazuki. He was going to take responsibility. He was going to keep up with this Composer. He was going to protect this city. He didn't have to have a close relationship to do that much at least.

[phoebeyates-archive]

○ location: snowman building section, spruce mountain, 20th december 2023 ○ status: closed for @sebvora

Phoebe was sulking. She didn't sulk much, because granted before this year she didn't have a free moment to sulk, and whilst she knew wallowing in her own misery wasn't healthy, she decided to take up the opportunity to do so. Her original plan to combat the sulking was to trek up to the ski lodge was to watch people wipe out from the comfort of the lodge, but then she ended up bumping into Seb, who managed to convince her to come out and build a snowman.

And annoyingly she now had Frozen stuck in her head.

She had spent the better part of the last half hour or so sitting on the snow, her own attempt at a snowman resulting in a mound with a carrot sticking out of it, watching Seb construct something that looked considerably better than her own meager attempt. Her stupid brain then betrayed her by daring to wonder if Foster would have been good at building snowmen, and for a moment, just briefly, she was very tempted to just roll down the hill and never stop until she bashed her skull open on some rocks.

"What's the worst thing a person did that turned you off them?" Phoebe found herself asking Seb, cutting off whatever rambling she hadn't been listening to. "Like, did someone ever like go...too far or was like, a bit too slutty or something?"

[phoenixcoin]

❂⭃ @phoenixfiiire asked: ⥷❂

❂⭃ GRIEVED: a scene from my muse's past in which they had recently lost someone / something ⥷❂

Glimpses of the Past

⤛⌠❂⌡⤜

The day that the news came to Byron, he was standing among his peers at a social gathering, and absolutely in the truest sense. A gaggle of men who knew him best from their days fighting together, covered in blood. Being men of action more than they were men of prestige, the lot of them were gathered around, cutting up at each other with vulgar and familiar behavior. They mocked each other to a degree, barking laughter as the group chicken pecked each other and aggressively insulted one another.

All in good fun of course.

And in the midst of the alcohol and the ruckus as servant came into the room and moved quiet as a mouse to Byron's elbow to get his attention.

"A... A letter for you, sir, and a stolas. From Rosalith."

Byron grinned as he turned to look over his shoulder, "What was that? News of my nephew perhaps? Well, don't wait, man, let's see it!"

The servant furrowed his brow, gazing pointedly at Byron's elbow while he talked, "You'll want to take this privately, lordship..."

The odd behavior for what should have been a momentous occasion caused Byron to pause, his own brow mimicking the other but overall keeping his smile on his face, "Alright... Ah, excuse me, gentlemen. I'll return shortly."

Havel scoffed and raised his chin, "Right, then, go sing your praises. No one here cares about your damn coming-of-age anyway."

A round of laughter burst from the other men as Byron waved them off, disappearing into his office with his servant, "This better be damn serious to have interrupted me like that, I hope you know."

"It is, lordship..."

That... Wasn't encouraging... And Byron straightened himself up in a bid to comfort himself as he was led into the room. Standing by the desk was another attendant, holding the stolas on his arm and the letter, along with a scrap of some sort, in the other hand. His expression was as grim as the first, and as Byron took the bird from his servant, he began to feel a sick twist in the pit of his stomach.

He addressed the stolas first, who had a message to inform him from one of the court of the grim news of Elwin and his sons. Spoken with all the sincerity which could be imagined by a member of House Rosalith fairly out of their circles, which was to say very little at all.

"I thought you might want to know, at least. That they were dead? Yes, since you're always all the way in Port Isolde."

Byron's breath shallowed, unwilling to understand, to believe what it was he was hearing. But even as he tried to deny it in his mind, he could feel his blood rushing, pounding in his ears. Turning a paled face to the servant, he gestured to the letter for it to be read to him. He prayed there was a mistake here, that the contents of this letter would not confirm the wicked words from this cursed creature.

However, it was far worse than he could have ever imagined...

The report— for that was what it was, a report full in detail and sparing no flourish— recounting the events of what would later become known as The Night of Flames. The vicious attack from the Phoenix and the rivers of blood and fire that had soon followed. The deaths of not only Elwin Rosfield, but also his sons Clive and Joshua Rosfield, and most of Rosalith's forces. The news came so seriously, so suddenly, that Byron still had a hard time processing it. His eyes hollowed out, empty and confused, and he reached out to grab at the servant's arm.

"It isn't real," he gasped. "Tell me it isn't real. How do you know? How do they know this? Tell me!"

"The... Stolas brought this with it, lordship."

Pressed into his hand was a burnt, torn piece of garment, one unmistakably belonging to his brother, shredded and bloody and torched. A piece of the battle that had taken place and serviceable token to the legitimacy of the news. Byron held the piece close to himself perfectly still as the reality of the situation broke the barrier of his mind's protection and slammed into him all at once, a punch in the gut so hard he would have lost his lunch and his breath all in one go.

There was a moment of stillness, of silence as he whispered through a cracked, tearful voice, "Elwin... Clive... Joshua... All of them..."

And as that rage and sorrow and guilt began rushing up through his spine and tearing a hot path over the rivers of nerves in his body, something finally, finally snapped within him. Through the halls of Byron's estate echoed a billowing, monstrous yell, a scream so bloodcurdling that it put every single guest on edge.

And it did not fade.

All of the energy in Byron's body went to fuel his break, where he knocked everything from his desk and tore books from their shelves and slammed his shoulders into the walls just because he could no longer see them clearly. Slamming his fists against the desktop hard enough for something to crack (his hand, he'd later find out). Throwing and smashing things against the floor (was it expensive? Who cared!? Who cared!? His family was dead!!!). The poor attendants stood cowering in the corner, fully understanding the situation but nevertheless wanting to stay well out of the way of their master.

Byron might have continued on in this manner until he'd destroyed his entire estate, but within minutes Havel burst through the door yelling at the tops of his lungs to command the attention of everyone in the room, including Byron himself, "What in the blazes is going on in here!? Byron! What is wrong you, acting like a mad man!"

A firm grip snatched up Byron's shoulders and stopped him in his tracks, though he was shuddering and tears carved hot paths down his cheeks. It was this pale visage that made Byron's battle buddy understand in no uncertain terms that something terrible had just happened.

Bryon twisted in Havel's grip like a dying snake, but he managed to choke out a response for his friend, "Phoenix Gate! Eugene. The Phoenix went-- went on a rampage...! Everyone! Everyone was fucking killed and--"

"What, your Joshua?" Havel breathed, trying to make sense of it all. "I don't believe tha--"

Bryon flung the scrap of fabric up into Havel's face, "They're dead, Eugene... All of them. My brother... My boys! Gods, my boys! They were so young...!"

In stalwart silence, Havel pulled Byron into a tight embrace, pulling the man's head into his shoulder as he sobbed with cries so hard they wracked his whole body, making him jerk and shake under the solid arms.

"This... This is all my fault," Byron choked. "If I had just been there--"

"You would be charcoal just like the rest of them," Havel spat back firmly. "This is not your fault, Byron. Do you understand me? This is not your fault. Don't you let me catch you saying that again... Listen, you need to get a hold of yourself. This is going to cause a stir, and you need to be ready, for the Duchy."

It almost felt impossible, what Havel was asking of him, with the rawness of his nerves, the vulnerability of his heart right then, the way that every single thing reminded him of his family and of the smiles he would never get to see. The years he would never get to experience. The way he, the strong pillar for his family and brother, had failed to hold them up in their greatest time of need. The way that realization made him feel so useless. But there was something calming about being physically held up, that while it took none of his pain away, it brought some lucidity to the hazy fog of grief taking over his mind. He listened closely to the words, and he shook his head slowly.

"Oh, well, Annabella will usually-- Oh...! Oh, gods, Annie! What must she be going through right now? I have to go home, Eugene, now."

Havel nodded and clapped his arms over Byron's shoulders, "Don't worry about seeing off your guests. I'll take care of that. And if you need anything at all while you're gone, contact me immediately. I don't want to hear you've collapsed because you wanted to be a damn fool overdid it, understand?"

Byron nodded, "Thank you... I... Owe you a great deal for this..."

"Shut up and go."

Byron could not bring himself to smile, but the corner of his mouth did rise just a bit as he turned to head to his bedchambers and pack his bags. He had a long journey ahead of himself and only half of it would he ever understand in the slightest until many years later.

[sanguine-salvation]

"You said once that you pulled back the skin of the world." The 'voice' lets out a bark of laughter, sharp and mean before dropping back to that low drawl of disdain. "Why do you think that makes you special? Lot've folk have seen all the bits and pieces underneath. Do you know what I did to the first person who tried to do me your kind of favor?" Now, there's a strange tension, something drawn tight and ready to snap, as if the owner of the voice is helping Viktor poke at a fat, infected wound with the tip of their knife. "I bashed him in the head--and then I kept going. And going. And going."

[ blindfolded - ACCEPTING ]

The voice was right, spare for the fact that the had the skin pulled back for them by the world itself and all her cold brutality. Or luck. Fate maybe. But it didn’t matter when seeing was the end either way, right? Under the skin, under the skin, gristle and bone and blood and spit, all gone, peeled away, what’s left, nothing, empty, empty.

The laughter cut their ears raw, and their face cracked into a soft smile as they laughed back breathily. The pain of that poking and poking and poking, like fingernails digging under the skin and into the bloody viscera— it was as sickening as it was relieving.

The voice was right. Very right. And they laughed. It was hard to pinpoint why they did, amidst the fear and excitement and pain.

“I’m not any more special than the rest. I was just lucky enough to see that.” They sigh softly. “And one day, you will, too, my dear. Maybe you’ll see it in my blood as you’re bashing my skull in. Maybe you’ll see it in me as that pretty light fades from your eyes for the last time…”

[falseapostle]

✥ Continued from here. ✥

✥ @the-composer ✥

♝~✺~♝

"I will never be able to touch humanity again," he replied, perfectly content to continue his cryptic speech. "Even as I feel them, I know I can never be truly part of them again. Even you have come to accept this, no? As an angel... Or at least, as Ascended, I have no place among humanity. That being said..."

Haruto closed the book and placed it in his lap, hands folding together atop the cover and his fingers lacing as if in remembrance. It was a fantasy title that had only recently come out but had been popular nonetheless. Haruto had a critical eye for modern fantasy, but since his group loved it so much he had promised to give it a fighting chance.

"I believe I have. Well and truly. I still do my duties, of course, and I know a day may very well come when my Composer drops down to my side and burns my eyes from my skull in retribution. But... I don't suppose I care anymore. I have my work. I have my congregation. And with my connecting to others over forums and chatrooms, I may even be somewhat involved with humanity again. I am as fulfilled as I will ever get, suppose. And I can't complain. I have lived a much fuller life than many 65 year old men ever get to claim. I am healthy and strong. I have purpose. I can ignore the small aches for those things. Like this."

[mageofpanic]

go go little star

[ra3kiv]

[mystical-strawberry-sheep]

"I'm telling you this because we're friends."

Aku hung her head low as the man stood over her, glaring down at her. It was someone who had come to the Meadow multiple times, an extraordinarily rare occurrence for her. She really had felt she was making a friend, finding someone kind and loving and comforting.

"Are you listening to me, Aku?" He spat down her. "You have got to stop opening the gates. Do you think people enjoy coming here? Have you ever met anyone who wasn't confused or alarmed or terrified that they'd landed in this world? Do you really think that all your colors and frilly talk and body language does anything to comfort them? This is not a place to relax, Aku. You showed your true colors to me and I know now. You can't be around people. You don't deserve to have friends! I know it hurts. I know it's hard to hear, but it's true!"

Tears rolled down her face. She gripped the hem of her skirt as she gazed through blurry eyes at the way those tears fell and darkened her clothes. She wanted out. She wanted to run away. The sharp words felt like physical pain, tearing through her nerves and her scalp and her fingernails like a chemical burn.

Her friend did not heed any of this as he continued. "You can't be trusted, Aku. You hurt people, you're a monster! And you're selfish, taking people from their homes and their lives to force them into tea parties with you! They don't love you! They never will! The best that you could ever do is make them fear you, and we both know you don't want that. Stop hurting people, Aku. Stop pushing yourself onto people who do not want you! Stop trying to be part of something you were never supposed to exist in. You have to close your gates. Close your gates and keep them closed. Forever."

Aku sobbed looked up to try to plead, to beg to continue, to not be left alone, isolated, pushed away from the rest. But when she raised her head, her friend was holding a crystal-encrusted skull in her face. Dark eye sockets long since claimed by the flora gazed back into her own, tear-stained eyes.

"This is what becomes of people who try to be your friend!" Her friend spat down at her. "I know you don't want that! I know you don't like it! So stop. Don't you ever let me find out that you opened those gates again. Next time I won't be able to spare you. Do you understand!?"

She nodded.

"Good." Slowly, he tucked the skull away and turned to walk off. "See to it that it stays that way."

And then he was gone, having used whatever means of transportation he used to get there in the first place to leave again. And he left her behind. And she curled up with her face tucked into her knees.

She wanted friends. She wanted family. She wanted to be loved and cared about. She wanted to love and care about others.

But she had to understand that she was a monster. And monsters didn't deserve friends.

[randoimago]

Can I request Maki Harukawa, Kyoko, Kirigiri and Mahiru Koizumi with a little brother that always get into fights at school? And by fight I mean a FIGHT fight, blood and teeth on the sidewalk type of fight. And lil bro always tries to use excuses like “He started it!” Or “He wanted it”

Okay so I've gotten this request multiple times now (each time was when the ask box was previously open) and I've temporarily blocked this user each of those times (the user wasn't on anon in the past).

My rules clearly mention no violent requests. Yet I still get this sent to my ask box. You'd think that if you're blocked then that means you did something wrong, yet it still happens??

Not to mention, I'm not even writing for Danganronpa right now. Also, did you know that Tumblr considers violence as needing the Mature Community Label? This blog isn't for that. So, I'm blocking the original user again and they're going to stay blocked cause I'm tired. I don't like being mean guys, but there's a reason for my rules.

[thatmooncake]

Is it okay to randomly have the urge to throw sun off a cliff or burn him alive?

*daycare theme plays in a chilling key*

[j0celynh0rr0r]

Unbothered

[captainzigo]

a continuation of my evil twipie AU (bit of a misnomer) if you haven’t seen it, check the tag. i’m really proud of it and there are some insanely good submissions from others

[daflangstlairde-art]

The cover art I drew for my fanfic Stranded Lullaby on ao3, from the series I Still Feel Alive. Leo gets stuck in the Prison Dimension a little longer than in canon, with the unexpected company of Future Leonardo.

Also first real post woop woop

[cubbihue]

Hey, I love how you do with Fairy Timmy AU!

My apologies if this question already answered, I might have missed or something, I’m not sure if you already have those in this AU.

I have a question stuck on my mind for awhile…

What happened to Timmy’s parents? Were they bad parents towards Timmy?

(I mean I probably figured it out but I’m not sure if I’m correct so what’s why I’m asking)

Were their memories of Timmy/having a son being erased from them?

What happened to Timmy’s best friends, A.J. and Chester? Were their memories of Timmy being erased too?

Does Vicky and Crocker’s being erased as well too?

Trootie?

What about those who know Timmy?

I’m sure everyone’s of Timmy have been erased, that’s what I guess/I think.

You can't erase everybody's memories of Timmy, sillllly! Adults have too high a resistance against magic for that to work!! Only Jorgen has the power to make adults forget full memories, and even then, it's very limited.

It takes a great deal of magic to do any of the sort.

Timmy had Vicky for nearly the rest of his childhood! Although one day Vicky's family up and moved overnight, suddenly. How annoying! It brought nothing but more burdens for his parents.

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

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[wizardsandrain]

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