#Ragged Maize

[hqmillioncorn]

Extreme Doll Makeover

Babycorn poked the ends of one of her braids. They felt hard and bristled. No matter what she did to her hair it remained the same. The urge to bite down on it also remained the same. Nowadays there were a lot of other things she could eat so she tended to bite down on it less. She could always remember thinking that it felt a lot like straw.  “Uncomfy…” She was familiar with straw, having slept in it before. Otherwise she often thought of her hair looking like uncooked spaghetti noodles.  That was the entire reason she had been tempted to eat it.  Maybe it would taste better if she cooked it?

ffxiv write day 18: hackneyed

back in the days of paradise maize looks at her dolls and wonders if they need a make over

Maize let out another grumble as she passed the comb through her doll’s wool hair. 

“Is everything alright Miss Maize?” Sicily asked, “This is the thirteenth time you’ve made that noise while brushing my hair this morning!” It was incredibly consistent and incredibly concerning. “Is there something wrong?”

Worst case scenario was that Maize had gotten her heart broken in just the few hours that she had been awake. It wasn’t likely but considering Maize herself, it also wasn’t entirely impossible either. 

“Maybe it's because she got in trouble this morning at work?” Venice was sitting on the windowsill, watching the people below them. 

“Well how was she supposed to know that pouring carrots into the coffee machine would break it?!” Or make a bunch of other co-workers sick?! Sicily was convinced that the fault lied with the others, not Maize. “I thought they would have thanked us…” She sniffled, “After all carrots help you see better!”

 With another grumble, Maize set the brush down on the table next to her. 

Sicily quickly turned around, noticing that Maize had turned around and walked away. “Miss Maize?” Something was definitely wrong. The moderately sized ragdoll carefully climbed off of the stool she was sitting on. Though not carefully enough as her foot ended up slipping. “OoF!” Sicily stumbled onto the ground and landed flat on her face. “I’m okay!” She managed to muffle out. . 

The noise of Sicily falling to the floor was enough to get Maize’s attention away from whatever thought was plaguing her mind. “Oh no Sicily!” Maize ran over and picked Sicily off the ground as gently as she could to stand her back up. Easier said than done considering that at any point one part of Sicily could weigh more than the other. 

“There we go!” Maize scooted back and let Sicily stand on her own for a couple seconds. 

Sicily moved her limbs around to check up on them. “Everythings all good!” Sicily smiled. And pushed a few locks of her orange colored hair out of the way. “Are you all right too Miss Maize?” 

“Well I’m not the one who took a tumble!” Maize smiled. She gave Sicily a boop on her triangle nose and giggled alongside her. “Venice? Are you doing okay too?” She didn’t want her other doll to feel left out. Even if he wasn’t really paying attention. 

Venice looked over with a bored expression. “I’m fine! See?” He flopped his doll arms around. 

“That’s good. Could you brood somewhere else than the window though? I don’t want you falling and landing on someone on the ground.” 

“But…I look really cool.” Venice pouted. 

“I promise you’ll look really cool if you sit anywhere else.” 

Maize walked over and gave him a sympathetic pat on the head, making sure not to mess with his little hat. It was his charm point after all. Couldn’t mess with that. Venice didn’t put up much of a fight and hopped off the window sill. “Fine! But I’m gonna go sit on the couch arm!” Or try to. Since most of the time he tried to sit there he ended up flopping down on the couch instead. 

It was far more comfortable.

Maize watched Venice struggle to climb on top of the couch. She knew well that offering to help him would be a bust. He refused any help like that. Something about wanting to look cool and capable. She rested her head on her hand, Venice didn’t always used to be like that.

Maize felt something tugging on her clothes. “Huah?” She looked down and noticed Sicily looking right at her, she looked worried about something. “Miss Maize? Is there something still bothering you or is it okay now?” 

Obviously Sicily was talking about her groaning and moaning from a few moments ago. It made sense for her to still be worried about it. Sicily was always the more anxious between the two dolls. 

The answer to Sicily’s worries always seemed to be resolved by the power of just asking. Once again, Maize grumbled, “It’s just–your hair.” She knelt down and ran her fingers through Sicily’s bright orange woolen hair.

“My HAIR?! IS there something wrong with it?!” 

Of course Maize’s first mistake was being too vague. “Ah-! No, no, no! Your hair is perfect!” She had made it after all. “It’s just…”

“Just what?” Venice asked from across the room. He knew his sister would be too busy trembling in fear to ask.

“It’s just too stale!” Maize wailed, loud enough for her neighbors to hear. “You’ve had the same hair color and material for years now!” Maize had only been a little girl when she had made Sicily and Venice so of course she hadn’t had that many materials at hand. “I can do so much better now!”

Sicily moved her head side to side, swaying her long orange hair around. “Then does that mean I get a haircut?!” The idea of it was kind of scary, but the exciting kind of scary. The possibilities of her new hair were almost endless. She also knew that Maize would do a great job, no matter the outcome.

“It does but…” Maize looked around her apartment, “I can’t figure out what material to use…”

Using yarn was the most obvious choice but it was so cliché. There were a dozen dolls out there with the same kind of hair. Granted none of them were alive like Sicily and Venice but Maize wanted something that just made her dolls pop! 

Suddenly something caught Maize’s attention. 

“Wait…"

An overturned can of spaghetti sauce spilled all over her kitchen. 

“And here we are-!” 

‘Here’ turned out to be some sort of unassuming restaurant. Sicily darted around, looking everywhere and being the cause of several people walking the other way. “Where are we Miss Maize?” 

Maize chuckled, “Only the best restaurant in the world! With all the most quality ingredients!” She yelled out as if she was some sort of walking advertisement for the place. 

Sicily and Venice were both confused. “But Miss Maize-? We’ve never been here.” Venice confidently stated. Right next to him Sicily nodded her head to show that she agreed with him. After all, Maize never went anywhere without bringing them along. “How can you know the food is good if you’ve never eaten here?” 

“...It was the only one I could find that served spaghetti and wasn’t six hours away.” Maize bashfully tipped her fingers together and tried to laugh away her lie. “But-! I saw lots of good reviews from here! So it must have the best quality spaghetti we can swipe too!”

“Why don’t we just go inside and ask for spaghetti? And pay for it with you know…? Money?”

“We can’t. Because Maize spent all her money constantly ordering food last week so she could see that delivery girl she got a crush on. Remember?” Venice oh so helpfully explained.

“Oh right.”

As soon as Maize opened the door to the restaurant, several of its patrons decided that they suddenly had more pressing matters to attend to and bolted out from the other exit. The ones who were left either hadn’t noticed her or didn’t know Maize at all.

One of those people was one of the restaurant’s cook, Aristaios. Who at that very moment had come up to the restaurant’s front counter to see what all the noise was.

His first mistake was making eye contact with Maize. 

“W-Welcome…?” 

Suddenly, Maize slammed her hands on the counter, looking Aristaios right in the eyes. “Hi! Do you have two jars of uncooked spaghetti?!” She rested her elbows on the counter and stared right at him, expectantly waiting for his answer. “Do you? Do you? Do you?” Maize blinked her eye at him very very quickly.

Aristaios was surprised to find himself at a loss for words. His throat felt dry and his hands were suddenly very sweaty. “I-I-I…” He gulped, “You’re really pretty…” As soon as those words left his mouth Aristaios decided he would be okay with dying today.

Maize looked at Aristaios almost like his head had fallen off. “Um, thanks?” What reason did he have for saying that? “Anyway do you have any uncooked spaghetti?” she asked again, “I heard the spaghetti you have is pasta-tively amazing! Haha! Get it? I said pasta!!”

Maize almost doubled over laughing at her own unfunny joke.

“You’re really funny too…” Aristaios said. Thankfully for him he was drowned out by the sound of Maize’s own laughing. He tried to shake off whatever feelings he was suddenly being pummeled with and focus on his job. “W-We do have uncooked spaghetti! If you n-need it!!”

Maize stood up from the ground, several wrappers intertwined in her hair from being on the ground. “Yay! Can I have some?”

“Sure.” Aristaios squeaked out. 

“Woah really?!” Was it really that easy? “Wow thanks! I was just gonna steal them while you weren’t looking!!” 

Maize waited patiently near the counter waiting for Aristaios to return with the uncooked noodles. She spent her time playfully tapping the counter with her hands in a rhythm. She wasn’t paying attention to either of her dolls. 

Venice was keeping himself busy hiding himself and scaring anyone who made the mistake of walking into the restaurant. It was incredibly entertaining for him. “Hehehe” 

Meanwhile, Sicily had climbed onto the counter with her own strength, taking a seat on it. “Wooow!” She flopped her elbows on her legs and held her head up with her hands. Sicily stared off into the kitchen where Aristaios had run off to. “Don’tcha think that guy looks kinda cute?”

“Huh?” Maize had no idea who Sicily was talking about. “The cook guy? Yeah I guess he was a little cute.” Either way, Maize hadn’t heard him say anything that gave her the clue that he would ever like her back. 

“I don’t think there’s a chance…” 

[love-toxin]

MEAT - thomas hewitt (leatherface)

a/n: i had to be a little silly ehe <- delusional

(cws: fem!reader, DDDNE, extreme violence, blood, gore, broken bones, a whole array of weaponry, domestic abuse, forced relationship, evolution of victim -> perpetrator, psychological torture, mentions of very dubious consent, breeding, huge size difference, ownership marking, protective tommy, implied cannibalism, unnamed victims of the tcm.)

wc: 10.7k

Lungs burning in your chest with the humid Texas heat, you forced the corn stalks aside as you stumbled through them in a frantic sprint. Each leathery pod whacked against your shoulders, your hands, your chest, and your bruised-up legs, but you wouldn't stop for nothing.

You couldn't stop. The people you'd hitchhiked with were all dead, or at least very well on their way to being so–they had been hunted one by one, by bear traps and shotguns and hay hooks, and you were sure you were the only one the family were left hunting. It'd taken all night to spread you thin and weaken you all with sadistic tortures of every kind. Now your group was down to one. You. Hauling ass was not enough to describe how frantically you were tumbling through the crop field, practically hand-over-foot crawling with how dizzy you'd gotten. Blood loss and a few hits to the head would do that to you.

Finally, the maize parted one last time to spit you out into the dewy grass, the labyrinth of sameness finally coming to an end. But when you tilted your head up to the starry night sky, your heart dropped into your feet at what laid before you. The farmhouse. You'd run in the wrong direction. Warm light glowed from within the drapery behind the windows and you spotted the older woman standing on the porch, a rag tucked between her hands as she called out a name. Terrified and hoping for the blessing of going unseen you army crawled your way right back to the corn–

Thunk. Only halfway there, the grass split with the force of a sledgehammer dropping into it. A boot stepped into view right by your head; attached to it was an enormous calf, and your eyes trailed upwards slowly to reveal the whole of that crazed maniac you'd seen manhandling the others into that house of horrors across the lawn.

Greasy hair hung down in long tresses, wary eyes pierced into your skull, an apron sat snug around his midriff stained with dark blood. Up close, you could listen to the way he breathed heavy through the mask that obscured his lower jaw, only the bridge of his nose and his forehead visible through it. He stunk of sweat, rot, and fresh meat. His weighty hand tightened round the handle of the hammer he'd set down, veins popping out with the sheer size and strength of his enormous, hulking body.

“Tommy!” The woman's voice cracked out in the night, the name finally ringing clear enough for you to hear. His head whipped around to the source and he stared in her direction; you watched her turn a blind eye to your predicament in the grass and step back inside the house. It felt as though your heart might burst in that moment, the fear and tension running through you like a taut wire about to snap in two.

The giant grunted overhead. You looked back at him again and squeezed your fists against the dirt, expecting him to lift that hammer and crush your skull into the ground with it. But upon resting his palm on the blunt end of it, the monster instead used it to lower himself to one knee. With a hand outstretched, he slowly, carefully brushed your damp hair aside, and pressed his fingertips firmly into your cheek. You shuddered as they moved downwards, probing around the soft spot beneath your ear and the curve of your jaw. He tilted your chin back and slid his whole, grubby hand down your neck…and with the most tentative squeeze around your throat, you swallowed and he all but jumped back. Your skin ran cool again as his warm hand ripped away from you, but with just as much hesitation he grazed your lips with his knuckles and trailed them across your forehead, leaving smudges of wet blood behind.

“Tommy!” A harsher voice tore through the quiet night, yanking his attention away from you again. The sheriff–the fake sheriff, that is–came stomping up from around the back of the barn, the shotgun hanging at his side causing you enough panic to scramble to your knees. But you wouldn't get far. Not even a couple feet. Your body hit the earth within moments of you climbing to your feet, and you heaved out a pained moan at the mountain of weight that pinned you down and crushed you underneath him. The giant had thrown himself forward and taken you down without thinking twice; his beefy arm came around your neck and tightened, his muscles flexing under the coarse fabric of his shirt for him to hold you in place.

“Attaboy, Tommy.” The older man came around his side as you struggled, clawing at the bicep that was crushing your windpipe with barely any effort. The sheriff kicked your flailing leg with a holler, cackling at the way you squirmed under his nephew's brute strength. “Stupid bitch. Gonna learn your lesson now, aint'cha?”

Dying squeaks for mercy escaped your throat, your words barely tinged with any discernible syllables. Thomas’ grip only grew tighter. Your arms went slack, then your legs slowed to a trembling halt…and before long your head slumped forward as you passed into unconsciousness, hoping to god this would be the last time you woke up in this sweltering Texas hell.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The chatter of voices melted into the gentle clatter of silverware. It wasn't the sounds that stirred you from your sleep rife with nightmares, though–it was the sliver of a sunbeam cast through the window that shone gently on your face. You blinked blearily as your head lolled in a stuttered circle, slowly and quietly coming to. Clink. Clack. Eyelids cracked half-open, you raised your head up despite the weight of a pounding headache, and watched a pair of wrinkled hands set down a teacup on a saucer in front of you.

Although there was much to see, you instantly turned your gaze to the woman you'd seen on the porch. Your nerves jittered and you flinched as she reached out to touch you, but it passed with her gentle shushing as she tenderly caressed your cheek. The age showed in creases all across her face, her eyes soft but wet with something terribly uneasy behind them.

“Such a pretty girl,” She crooned, a smile like nothing had happened plastered across her face. The eagerness with which she watched you unsettled you to your very core, but it would be second to the nightmare that was waiting to explode on you across the table. “I always wanted a little girl. Never seen one so pretty.” Despite the sweetness of her words, a shift of your hand rattled the chair you'd been tied to; both wrists buckled under the tough ropes used to bind you, indented where you could see dry blood crusted over the fibers. Either you moved a lot in your sleep, or someone really wanted to punish you for trying to get away.

As tenderly as if she was your own mother, the lady brought your teacup up and tilted it for you to drink, which gave you a moment to let your eyes wander. With a glance around you took a mental sweep of the place. Your chair sat at the end of a dining table, and aside from the woman you spotted two other older men; the frightening man with the shotgun, and an elderly man in a wheelchair. Framed photos hung around the room against peeling wallpaper, and aside from a decent amount of clutter and antique decorations of a house long lived in, nothing struck you as out of the ordinary from the cutlery to the frayed rug that cushioned your bare feet.

The aging woman tottered around the table to pick up a plate and slid a few eggs on from a saucepan in the middle. That and a few strips of bacon made their way down to your placemat, still sizzling.

“Why're you givin’ this bitch special treatment, mama?” The fake sheriff glared you down from his seat at the head of the table, spitting off to the side with his hands still clasped in front of him. “Already got enough mouths to feed.”

“Hush.” She finally snapped, and gestured with the spatula still in hand. “This is your fault. You wanna play sheriff so bad, Charlie.”

“It's Hoyt, mama, for god's sake!”

“Don't you cuss at me!” The old woman warned, aiming the spatula right at his chest.

“U-Um,” You whimpered softly, and drew the attention of all three of the frightening strangers, who turned their heads in your direction. The focus on you made you falter, but the problem at hand was far more pressing than fear. “Th-The rope…please..” You managed to squeak out, and only then did they seem to notice your hands were changing colours. They were so tight the blood wasn't circulating, and you feared even a few moments more of the ache would result in something very unpleasant in the near future, especially when you knew there was a chainsaw floating around here somewhere.

Just then, the floorboards creaked at your back. Too afraid to turn your head you only shifted your gaze, and in your peripheral you saw it. Two thick, fat-fingered hands reaching downwards to tug at the binds round your wrist. For someone so huge, he made short work of untying you even without the aid of one of the knives scattered round the table settings. The rope loosened and dropped to the floor in a coil like a dead snake, but as he reached over you to undo the other–and you got a whiff of soap amidst his sweat in the process–the man naming himself Hoyt grumbled and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the plates and silverware.

“Goddammit, boy–what'd I say? We ain't keepin’ her, for Christ sakes!”

“Watch your mouth!” The woman–mama–shrieked, and her fist shook as she dumped the spatula down on the table with a thunk. The other cuff came loose and you released a sigh of relief as you touched your wrists, wincing at the open cuts that had only half dried over. And while the two continued to bicker about one thing or another, a great shifting of clothes and a thump beside you caught your gaze. Thomas, the giant that you'd watched haul the others off to the slaughter, had knelt down by your chair like a dog and still came up to eye level. God, he was just massive. Somehow it made him less intimidating though, since he looked at you like he was waiting for scraps from your plate. It was somewhat pathetic, but…endearing? Was that a word you could even consider using for a maniac like him, or was it beyond all common logic to even think of him in such pleasant terms?

“A-Are you…hungry?” You whispered, only to be met with a slow shake of his head. Thomas raised a melon-sized arm and pushed the plate closer to you, as if to say ‘eat up, it's getting cold’. Emboldened by his tender gesture, you shakily plucked your fork off the placemat and leaned in to examine the bacon. It looked like…bacon. Hot, crunchy, cut in strips like you would see any day in the supermarket. Still, you tentatively went for the eggs first, and raised the tiniest bit to your mouth as the two older ones finally managed to settle down whatever argument they'd been having.

“Boys, time to say grace.” Suddenly flushed hot with embarrassment, you lowered your fork in an instant and followed their lead. You bowed your head with them, listened to mama say her standard prayers of thanks–and then, when everyone else began to eat, you cautiously lifted the bite to your lips and chewed thoughtfully. It felt like forever for you to discern whether or not it was normal, if it tasted like it should, but after a while of chewing you had to relent to the fact that it didn't taste abnormal, so it was about as fine as you could expect. You ate in silence alongside them, but just when you pondered whether the food might be drugged or other awful possibilities, the sheriff cleared his throat and drew your attention to him once again.

“Now,” Mama scowled at him, but he continued to speak nonetheless. “You got two options here, kid: eat, or be eaten. Them's the laws of life.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, readying himself to say more, but an interruption came with a grunt from your side. Hoyt raised a hand and waved the wordless concern off. “Don't you mouth off, boy. Gettin’ to it.”

You shifted your gaze to Thomas, who only nudged your plate closer to you to urge you into eating more. Something gnawed at the back of your mind. Their behavior was so strange, the looks exchanged even stranger–there was something that wasn't being said, like a plan was brewing right under your nose.

“See here, this is how it is. You got choices. Now, my nephew here happens to like you,” His honeyed southern drawl couldn't hope to mask the hopelessness that stirred in you at those words. “Ugly as sin, but he's a good enough boy, ain't that right?” He looked to Thomas, but the ‘boy’ in question stared right at you when he nodded. “So you choose. You wanna eat-”

“I'll eat,” The answer flew from your mouth without hesitation, so much so that even the most uninterested of folks around the table caught your gaze. Your breath hitched in your bruised throat. “I'll eat, I swear. I'll eat.”

“Mm-hm.” Hoyt eyed you and nodded. Something about the way he watched you made you feel overexposed, like your skin had been stripped raw from the bone and he was peering into every inch underneath. “Fine then. Whore's all yours, Tommy-boy.”

At those words, your world shifted with a violent blur of motion. Before you could even gasp there were huge, strong hands under your armpits, and you were lifted out of your seat like a child who weighed less than nothing. You'd be thanking yourself later that you at least polished off most of your plate, because aside from an accidental thump of your foot hitting the table on the way by, you wouldn't be touching the rest of your breakfast again. Thomas slung you over his shoulder and cradled your lower half in the crook of an enormous arm, and with a shriek you felt yourself being carried off by the giant and taken away into another world.

The basement.

It had been a month and a half since you'd been taken in, now. Life had gone on despite you vanishing from the world you knew, and regardless of whether or not you woke up each morning and wondered why you were still kept alive, the earth continued to turn. Time went on and you adjusted, albeit shakily, to the routine of a life in the backcountry of rural Texas. You learned to help on the farm and Luda Mae, or momma as you were taught to call her, passed on her generations-old knowledge of cookery and cleaning and caring for the household. Sometimes you'd get driven out with momma and one of the uncles to tend the store, but that was on the rare side since they didn't trust the locals not to mess with you. Pretty things like you didn't come by often and you had values to uphold, now.

Plus, you had a man at home. Tommy was the reason you survived that awful first night, but now it was expected that he was also the reason you kept on living.

The rest of the family kept out of your business together for the most part, but you'd long been perplexed by the dynamic that had ensued since you'd first arrived. For as hulking and strong of a beast he was, you came to find out that Tommy's appearance was a shell that sheltered a soft-natured, sensitive boy at heart. His penchant for murder was not so, rather it was a duty carried out regardless of will in the service of a family he was lucky to have, despite you certainly thinking otherwise. He liked to work, and eat, and make things. His rage could certainly be a problem, but it was a rare thing that only cropped up once in a great while. He would endure more than ten times a normal person before he finally snapped, and even then he wouldn't ever let you see it. The few times he got mad, he would stomp out to the barn or head to the now-abandoned slaughterhouse, and take out his aggression on the thing he knew best. Meat. And most of the time it was a beating from Hoyt or a few too many bouts of yelling before he felt the need to get away.

After all, it wasn't anger that led his interactions with you. It was odd; he'd pointed you out specifically as the one he wanted to keep, but he seldom showed any entitlement in taking whatever it was he wanted from you. He'd lean in for kisses but most of the time he missed anyways. You weren't exactly sure what you could call your one occasion of intimacy with him that you recalled, because he didn't ask if you wanted it, but you didn't really tell him outright that you didn't. Would it have even mattered? Maybe not. But he barely managed to find the hole he was looking for anyways, and by the time he did it was obvious he had no clue what he was doing. Fumbling hands and a bit of awkward thigh-humping later and he'd finally left you be, albeit soaked and sticky with sweat and the residue he'd clumsily left behind on your bare stomach. Since then, it'd been just a few fingers on your thighs and some tame through-the-mask kisses, nothing more.

Not that you should really be questioning the love of a serial chainsaw butcher, but as the days passed it grew harder to see him in that light alone. You witnessed too much of the deformed, mentally-disturbed man who refused to eat before you did, who wouldn't lay a hand on you like he'd had laid on him all his life. Thomas showed affection in odd ways but they were more endearing than you thought they would be, from picking you flowers off the side of the road to cleaning up the small room you shared so you'd feel more at home. Sometimes his arousal would grow against your back while you laid in his arms, but a bit of shuddered hip-rocking through your pajamas while he thought you were asleep and the moment would pass. He was pretty easy to please.

There came a time when new visitors drove through town, however, and you knew what was going to happen as soon as Hoyt came home and called for Tommy to come upstairs. You stood at the sink washing dishes while you peered through the window; out in front of the same cornfield you'd crawled out of nearly two months ago, a van sat parked next to Hoyt's stolen Dodge. You watched with your breath held tight in your throat as five people hopped out the sliding door one by one, all seemingly chipper for where they were. Three girls, two guys. Their sunbleached hair and fancy beach clothes said all you needed to know about what type of people they were. One of the girls had a pendant hanging round her neck that caught the light just right, and you found yourself staring at it as it jostled against her sweat-soaked collarbone.

Chnk, thuuunk. At the sound of the basement door sliding open you turned your head, and there stood Tommy in the kitchen. Quiet as ever he came walking up and placed his thick hand on your head. The look in his burning eyes said it all. “Everything's okay. Don't fret.” He touched your hair a moment until Hoyt's voice rang out again, and with a silent huff he stepped away and made his way out to the lawn.

The light in each and every one of their eyes left the moment they spotted him approaching. One of the girls even grabbed her friend’s arm, stepping behind him halfway out of fear of the hulking giant that couldn't sleep without cuddling you at night. A dish slipped from your hand into the sink and splashed you, but as you pulled a rag from your apron pocket to dry the counter a bang and a high-pitched scream cut through the peaceful din of your quiet afternoon. You hopped up to see what was happening, but struggled to piece together the aftermath of the last five seconds.

On the ground lay one of the girls with a cavernous opening in the back of her head, collapsed in a steadily-growing pool of her own blood. Her lifeless eyes stared through you from across the lawn, they pierced into your very soul as she choked listlessly on her own blood, and you dropped to your knees behind the counter. Hands clamped over your mouth, you heaved each breath and hoped not to puke all over the freshly-mopped floor. Momma would have a fit if you ruined your own hard work.

Blind to whatever senselessness resided in their screams, you held back the churning of your stomach on your own bruised knees while the two of them took care of the rest. Within a few minutes you'd managed to pull yourself back up on shaky feet and finish washing the dishes. Within the hour, Tommy and Uncle Hoyt had gathered up the remaining survivors and taken them in. Two in the barn, one in the guest bedroom…and one locked up in the basement.

“Momma?” You called out softly into the hallway, wiping your fingers on your apron. Your chores for the day were finished, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. Now would usually be the time you headed out to the chicken coop to lock it up, but with new visitors around, you didn't know the protocol. The last time this happened was…well, you didn't like to think about it.

“Down here, darlin’.” Luda Mae popped her head out from the living room, and you hurried down the hall with your skirt fluttering around your legs. All your dresses were pretty modest and most of them were out of a trunk stored up in the attic, since momma had a whole collection of clothes she'd worn in her younger days that she figured would suit a young lady just fine. When you stepped in, you weren't expecting to see what you saw lying on the couch near uncle Monty's favourite spot.

It was one of the guys from the hippie van. His long hair had been soaked with blood and he was gagged, his face sporting bruises from an undoubtedly rough encounter with uncle Hoyt, who stood on the opposite side of the living room glaring at him.

“Fucker tried to escape.” He sniffed, nursing a bloody nose with a hanky as he spoke with momma. “Other one's putzin’ around somewhere. You two keep an eye out, you hear me?” He pointed in your direction and you nodded out of instinct. Your eyes flicked towards the bound man on the couch as he made muffled noises of panic, but he was soon silenced by Hoyt whacking him over the head with the butt of his shotgun before he left to continue the search. Meanwhile, uncle Monty sat in his wheelchair unbothered, listening to the radio as it played on the windowsill and reading without a care in the world.

“Momma-” You tried again, but she turned to you with gentle eyes and gripped your shoulders lightly.

“Go clean up the kitchen for me, sweetheart?” She asked in earnest, and the plea you had to beg her not to make you take part died on your lips.

“Yes, momma.”

“That's my good girl.” Your hands fell at your sides, while she petted your hair lovingly and turned you away from the scene, patting you on the back as she ushered you back towards the kitchen. Blowing your hair out of your eyes, you resigned yourself to at least being a bystander to the horrors that were about to come, and made your way down the hall with your arms crossed over your chest in contemplation. Was there nothing you could do? No way to get out of playing a part, or at least ensuring they wouldn't ask? You had no doubts that you didn't have the stomach to do anything to the visitors, but then again, momma didn't have to do much either. Maybe you'd be saved by the tradition that dictated the six generations-deep household, and be regulated to the homely chores you'd tended to since first becoming a part of the family.

As you pushed through the door that led into the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans clattering already grabbed your attention. It would be too late to do anything, however–because before you could even take a breath, someone's chest hit your back and there was a knife pinned to your throat.

“Don't you fucking move!” An unfamiliar voice whispered harshly in your ear. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on the hand he had at your neck, but he jolted and the blade sunk deeper into your skin, causing you to cry out–and immediately be hushed by the stranger now holding you hostage. The bruising grip he had on your wrist now moved to clamp over your mouth, his body moving with you as you struggled in a momentary panic. Despite his warning, you brought your elbow backwards and loosened his grip on the knife as he choked in pain, throwing his arms off you as you stumbled forward and tripped over one of the dining chairs. Your skirt ripped as he tried to grab ahold of you again, but in his scramble to pick his weapon back up you kicked it away; and that was when fear truly started to pulse through your limbs like a heartbeat, when he glared daggers into you with a murderous rage, and you cried out the one name through tears that came to mind.

“Tommy!” You sobbed, crawling away and trying to use the table to hoist yourself up, only to be kicked down again with a harsh shoe planted in the middle of your spine. Coughs ripped through your lungs as they seized in desperation, the wind having been knocked clean from your chest, and the sticky wetness of blood started pooling under your chin from hitting the floor face-first. Your nose wept with scarlet-red blood into your trembling palm, but that realization couldn't come close to the terror you felt at being grabbed by your hair and painfully lifted up off the ground.

“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, voice hoarse and frighteningly loud so close to your face. “I'll kill you–I'll kill all you psycho motherfuckers!” He brought the knife so close to your heart you felt it cutting through the air–but before he could bring it anywhere near your skin, a muffled thump from close by yanked him right to attention. He turned his head frantically towards the source, and you took the opportunity afforded to you. You brought your foot up hard into his groin, and released his grip on you for the second time for you to drop to the floor in a heap. Your dress smeared the blood you'd left on the pristine, freshly-mopped floorboards as you shuffled away from him, fearing the worst of retaliation from the panicked, indignant captive.

That is, until the thumping grew so loud you heard it clearly coming up the stairs, and without so much as a hint of ceremony your savior burst through the kitchen door; his eyes wild, his fists clenched with indomitable rage. His gaze swept over the scene to you, so small compared to him, huddled in the corner between the cabinets with a blood and tear-stained face. What could only be described as a growl erupted from his broad chest, and he grabbed the legs of your hunched-over assailant and dragged him closer between his feet.

“No!” He cried, but it was far past too late. Tommy grabbed him by the back of his head, yanked him upwards to the height of his shins, and slammed the guy's head so hard into the floor that you could hear the sickening crack of his skull. Dazed but still semi-conscious, he fumbled for the knife he dropped or for anything that could save him, but it wouldn't be enough even so. With his nose ten times as smashed up as he'd done to you and his eye sockets bruised, Tommy's grip trembled on his head like he was considering whether or not to end him right here, right now. Evidently he figured that would be too easy, and before your very eyes he hauled the man up and carried him screaming down into the basement, where you heard the thwacks of him being cuffed down to the workbench before footsteps came echoing back upstairs. He found you in the same spot, still shaking like a leaf, and pushed the table aside to waste as little time as possible getting to you.

“Tommy..” You winced, touching your own face for your fingers to come back bloody. He knelt down like a mountain sinking into the sea and felt around your neck, his concerns for the shallow slash you'd gotten in the struggle that you hadn't even noticed was bleeding. He grunted in reply; one hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, while two meaty fingers lightly pinched the sore bridge of your nose. Knowing what he was about to do wouldn't make it hurt any less, but you still gave him the go-ahead to do it anyways–he forced the bone back with a gut-churning twist, and you squealed out in pain, but it was momentary and the ache that followed was a dull one, thank god.

But still, you sat with a face full of blood and bruises and cried, half out of pain and half out of pure misery. This wasn't the life you wanted to lead, and you hated that you had no choice in the matter. You wanted to go but you knew it would mean the end, and you hated that whenever you thought of all the things you despised about this life, your mind would always wander to Tommy and you'd feel guilt over hurting him or leaving him behind. You hated it all, but somehow you couldn't really hate him, and it left you trapped in this cycle that you loathed to think would never, ever end.

While the tears continued to streak down your face, Tommy took to patting your cheeks gently. He held them and squeezed them carefully, so tender and cautious when it was you that was the meat between his destructive hands. He moved in close, his breathing hot and stifled beneath the mask he never took off in front of you. His head tilted, tongue wetting his lips in anticipation, and he-

“Boy!” Uncle Hoyt roared as he burst through the kitchen door, alerting you both and tearing Tommy's reverent gaze away from you. He stood fast and took you with him, your elbows cupped in his rough hands as he hauled you singlehandedly to your feet. “You find that fucker yet?!” He swung his shotgun around and you flinched at the way he aimed it so carelessly. The ‘boy’ in question tucked you under his arm out of habit and shielded you almost entirely with the sheer enormity of his titan-esque frame. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the direction of the basement door with your trembling self still pinned tightly to his chest. The pseudo-sherriff narrowed his eyes at the both of you, namely the blood caking your otherwise pretty face, and scoffed. “Hose her down, Jesus almighty..” He muttered that last blasphemy under his breath as he moved past out the back door, leaving the two of you wide-eyed and uncertain; his arm squeezing you tight against him, and your calloused fingers digging into his dirty sleeve as the crickets chirped outside the screen door.

“You..” You swallowed dryly. The words came to you when no others did the same justice. “You're a good boy, Tommy. You did a good job.”

Your praise hit his ears just right, as it always did. Tommy nuzzled his face into yours just so gently, barely grazing your skin with the damp leather as he tended to your wounds. With your broken nose already re-set, he rummaged through the drawers around you without taking his hand off your arm, sparing little time before his hand clasped around a roll of familiar gauze and he nudged the drawer closed. Though it was shallow enough to have stopped bleeding already, he wrapped some around your neck for the cut that would surely leave a scar, and used a clean rag to mop up your face with a bit of water from the tap. As he moved down your body to your waist, clearly concerned by the generous bloodstain marring your pretty, cotton dress, something caught his eye that froze him in place and sent a throbbing anger right into his dense fists. Worried, you set your hand on his shoulder, but it would do no good at comforting him after what he saw.

Your skirt. Torn like it had been yanked apart, desperately, and it had. Was he worried you'd be upset over the damage? You wondered for a passing moment, but as his fists shook with rage and your dresses’ hem balled within them you knew it to be a different reason entirely. He thought–

Oh. So that's what he thought. You sought to comfort his fears but he'd had enough. Your delicate hands tugging at his mammoth arms made barely a dent in his intense march towards the basement, your begging too saccharine to even reach his ears. He walked with purpose into the hallway, wrenched open the sliding door with a force that bent it slightly, and with a palm outstretched to ward you off from following, he slammed it shut with an enormous bang that rattled the whole house. Standing there in shock and horror, you listened to his footsteps pounding the stairs before turning away and heading back towards the kitchen.

You had quite the mess to clean up in there, and there was nothing better to distract yourself from the howling screams of agony that would persist until dinnertime.

Maybe this was exactly how awkward it was when you'd been sat in that familiar chair. You remembered little of your first meal, the very first breakfast of many you would share with the family that had adopted you in to their home.

This was a lot less…friendly, though. Out of the five people who had arrived, two of them were dead. The one that had attacked you in the kitchen had grown silent in the basement. The other two–the hippy with the long hair and a redheaded girl–had their wrists bound to two chairs diagonal from each other. The guy sat at the very end where you'd once been, and the girl to his right with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing softly as you filled everyone's bowls. Luckily for you, Monday was chicken soup night, so you had no worries over what kind of meat Hoyt would want to prepare for the special occasion. You'd been the only one to stir the pot, and the only one who made it at all for every Monday that rolled around. It had quickly become Tommy’s favourite, hence why he was only a few minutes late to arrive outside the dining room for dinner. Though you could tell that he'd barely cleaned up, his apron and his pants still soaked liberally with clotted blood.

“Hands?” You questioned, your ladle poised over the pot of hot soup, and waited until the hulking giant tentatively stepped in the doorway to hold out his massive hands for inspection. When it was your turn to cook, you learned that you held the authority over the table for that evening. So you rarely followed the lead of uncle Hoyt or the others, and wouldn't wait until after grace to invite Tommy into the room. You checked over his knuckles–bruised, but scrubbed clean–and only then did you nod towards the seat you saved for him and waited until he settled uncertainly into the chair to pour him a bowl and set it down in front of him.

If not for the whimpering captives at the table, it would be a better-than-average night. You'd improved on your recipe with a bit of creative seasoning, and the night had cooled off considerably to offer a bit of respite from the oppressive heat. You led grace, and smoothing out your fresh dress to fan out under your thighs as you sat, the table commenced with clinking spoons and bread being buttered that you thanked the stars hadn't gotten stale yet. Though of course, the unexpected visitors weren't so keen on your homemade cooking and didn't so much as look down at their bowls.

Tommy was too distracted to be frustrated by it, though. With his head dipped down to the table like a mutt, he slurped up his soup through the mask and chewed noisily on bits of chicken and corn. You'd saved the biggest roll for him and he tore into it like it was nothing, ripping chunks of bread off with his teeth and enthusiastically gulping down broth to wash it down. You hadn't even had time to butter his bread for him first like you usually did, but it pleased you to see him enjoying your cooking even more than usual.

“Please,” A wobbly voice pricked at the tense silence. The redheaded girl pulled at her restraints again, shaking the table in the process. “We didn't do anything…please, please, let us go!” She sobbed, wailing even louder as she thrashed against the stiff arms of the old chair.

“C'mon, man! We won't tell anyone, swear!” The hippie chimed in, only for Hoyt to slam his fist down on the table to silence the whining of his two captives.

“Shut the hell up!” He snarled, whipping out a revolver from his holster to point at each one of them. “Had enough of your shit today. Shut your mouths.” He motioned towards his still-bloodied nose, and endured yet another scolding from momma for cussing at the table as he tucked the gun back into its place. You peered over at the two of them, but regret came immediately when the hippie's green eyes locked on yours like he saw a glimmer of hope within them. You forced your gaze back down to your bowl. You couldn't be their saviour, no matter how much they wanted you to be.

“Lovely soup, sweetheart.” Momma smiled over at you, while uncle Monty nodded quietly in agreement.

“Mm-hm. Momma taught you all her secrets, eh?” Hoyt added with a slurp off his spoon, the irritation from earlier having vanished. You thanked them politely, keeping your pride to yourself at the coveted praise directed your way. In a household where anything could go wrong at any time, you had to hold the good things as tight to your chest as you possibly could.

From beside you, Tommy lifted his head from an empty bowl and sighed softly with satisfaction. The remnants of spilled soup dribbled down his mask and his grimy neck, so with your own cloth napkin you reached over and did the job that was normally momma's; you wiped his face clean with a gentle hand, and he sat still for one of the only people he didn't flinch away from when you touched him.

“Good, Tommy?” He wasn't used to being asked his opinion, much less on something as scarce as food, when you didn't have much choice on what you ate. He nodded slowly, looking at you like you held the world as you finished wiping up the mess he'd left on the table.

Just then, one of the captives–maybe both of them–kicked their legs out in frustration, and shifted the table with a jolt that sent hot soup splashing out of the pot. The redhead's bowl tipped over and dumped her untouched meal all over her lap, but the porcelain shattering as it hit the floor wasn't what had Tommy rising out of his seat.

Wasteful. That's what they were. Insulting your cooking. You saw it in Tommy's eyes as anger overwhelmed him again, and for the second time tonight your reassurances weren't enough to halt him in his tracks. His chair legs scraped the floor loudly as he got up and maneuvered around the table, the tense quiet peppered by the screams of the girl as he grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the slick tabletop. Not nearly as hard as he'd done to the other guy, but enough so that he brought her back up with a nose gushing blood and a harsher sob on her lips.

“You teach her a lesson, Tommy!” Hoyt eagerly encouraged the violence, but you reached your hand out over the table and pressed your palm flat against her forehead. At the resistance you gave her, Tommy's grip grew slack and a look of panic came over him at the distress etched clear on your face. He looked conflicted, peering over at Hoyt and then back at you. Was he being bad, or being good? Was what he was doing right, or was it wrong? Hoyt started shouting and cussing at you for stopping him, but Tommy skirted back around the table to your side and put himself between you and his furious uncle. A swat to the back of the head wasn't totally uncommon for you, even if it didn't happen often, but the punishments Tommy received were always far worse. The belt or a two-by-four were considered light work in Hoyt's sadistic mind, but after what you'd been through today you were certain Tommy wouldn't be keen on letting you endure any more pain. He would take punishments and beatings for you whenever he had the chance–sometimes Hoyt had even asked him what he preferred, and not once had he put you up for the chopping block if he could take it for you.

“Enough of this shit!” Hoyt finally roared. He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the basement and shoved both you and Tommy towards it. “Take these sons a’ bitches downstairs, and don't come up until they're meat!”

Both of the captives shrieked and flailed in their chairs at his demand, but you managed to undo their binds despite the struggling and let Tommy haul each one up in his arms; one over his shoulder, and one tucked up under his armpit. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat as you followed Tommy's lead towards the stairs, and when it came time to shut the door, you had to swallow your fear with a gulp as the metal scraped on metal and a heavy thunk pitched you into darkness.

The only times you'd watched Tommy work before was when he'd taken you to the slaughterhouse. It was an aging, now-abandoned building that had seen generations of hard workers come and go, and despite it no longer being in business he still came by to do some work when he wasn't needed for chores at the house. You weren't sure why he didn't usually take you along or why he decided to on those few occasions, but regardless of the stench, the blood, and the intensity of chopping and cleaning meat, it was easy to tell that Tommy was good at it. Real good.

It was a little different today. About a week had passed since the visitors came through town, and by now all five of them were taken care of. You'd barely eaten since you couldn't stomach the fresh meat, and with you excusing yourself to throw up that first dinner after you'd had guests, the rest of the family had been looking down on you. Momma was sad for you, and Monty was mostly indifferent when he wasn't straight up disappointed in you. But Hoyt was vindictive and angry. He thought you were turning your back on the family, judging them, acting “all high and mighty” and worst of all, risking your family's safety. You'd gotten caught leaving the locks loose on the two survivors' shackles, and they'd nearly escaped out the basement before Hoyt caught both of them in the cornfield and finally shot them dead.

You swore it was an accident. Hoyt thought otherwise. He would've killed you right then and there if Tommy hadn't stepped in for you, and even then the air had been strained in the house ever since, as uncle Hoyt demanded you be properly punished for your sins.

That's why you'd been dragged along with Tommy to accompany him to the slaughterhouse. By the end of the day, Hoyt wanted a proper apology–one in the form of a bloody limb, an organ, or maybe just your head on a platter as recompense for betraying your family. And worst of all, he wanted Tommy to be the one to do it, to decide what would be a fitting price for you to pay. To ‘grow some balls and be a man’, as Hoyt put it so delicately.

But since morning, he'd just been chopping meat. Tommy hadn't even looked at you the whole time you'd been here, not even on the walk down the side of the road to get here in the first place. He'd picked you up under your arms and sat you up on the table behind him, and then he'd turned his back to you as he brought down his cleaver on the piles and piles of dripping meat. Sometimes he would turn around and hand you chunks to wrap up in butcher's paper, but for the most part he indicated nothing towards the task he had primarily been sent here to do. Somehow it just made it all worse; you felt on the edge of snapping from the anxious terror that tightened up all your muscles, wondering what on earth Tommy would do to you before the day was done. Was he just procrastinating? Because if he arrived back home with nothing to show for it, it wouldn't save you in the end–it would just make it worse for both of you when he got punished too.

“Tommy.” You gnawed on your bottom lip. He brought the blade down on the chopping block with a thunk. With the bone separated, a squelch hit your ears as he slid the sections apart and dragged over another hunk to slice through. “I'm sorry.”

Thunk. Not even a passing glance over his shoulder. And it was hard to tell if he was mad when he wouldn't even look at you.

“I didn't want to get you in trouble…”

Thunk.

“I was just scared.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Tommy-”

The slow escalation of his measured cuts finally culminated into an uproarious clatter, his cleaver smacking down on the soaked table before he turned himself to face you. Blood marred the clothes you'd taken off the laundry line for him that morning, apron slick and sticky with viscera as it almost always was. Sweat poured down his arms and his hairy chest and beaded at his dense forehead. Every inch of him was dirty, and yet you didn't cringe away from it when he closed the distance between you and came up harrowingly close. The stench of blood and meat wafted off of him from barely an inch away. His hips edged in between your knees as you sat on the lip of the counter, keeping personal space far from his mind when he grabbed your arms and dwarfed them under his massive fingers. Each breath heaved beneath his mask like swallowing a bubble, ready to pop.

This time, Hoyt was nowhere around to interrupt him. Momma wasn't there to scold him. Nobody would hear for miles what he would do to you, and you had no idea what he'd had brewing in his mind since he'd choked you out in the cornfield that first meeting. That intense stare of his was like a bear honing in on a rabbit, and if you had the thought to run, it was already too late.

Thick fingers clamped down around your neck, dug into the scar that had formed from the asshole that had sliced you, and you felt your heart stutter as Tommy pulled you along the length of the table and slammed you down into it by the throat. This way you were laid out like a cow would to be butchered, plenty of room for him to work as he held you down and reached over to pull a leather strap over your midsection. He affixed the buckle tight to the opposite side and tightened it more when you squirmed against the pressure, but not quite enough to be as painful as the ropes that dug into your wrists at your first family meal. With that in place he didn't need to hold you down to keep you pinned against the table, and although you whimpered in fear and fought against the bindings he paid your resistance little mind, instead looking through his tools on the cutting table to find a decently-sized paring knife–drenched liberally in blood–for him to hook under the neckline of your dress and make a cut down the middle. Once he hit the tough leather over your stomach, the tool skittered across the table as he abandoned it in favour of ripping your skirt apart with his bare hands, the thin layer of cotton offering no resistance to his brute strength.

Why did it make you so wet? You couldn't shake the feeling of arousal from how animalistic he was behaving, nor the sheer, overwhelming musk of man and sweat and blood. Tommy was never rough with you but he was certainly making up for it now; you flinched at the firmness of his fingers digging into your skin, leaving trails of thin blood and dirt behind as he tore your cotton bra into loose pieces. His hands trembled at the sight of you exposed like this, too much skin to handle, and such soft flesh that filled out his palms when he cupped your breasts in each eager hand. A hitch of breath was enough to show him that you liked it, whether it was the attention itself or exclusively because it was him touching you. It didn't matter.

Tommy massaged each one with such eager reverence, his handwork clumsy compared to the ease with which he handled so many other forms of meat. He wasn't keen on ripping these off your body and eating them; although he did want to test how they would feel in his mouth, especially those plum, soft nubs of yours that perked when he brushed his thumbs over them. By now you weren't completely certain he wasn't going to butcher you, but you had a pretty good idea that this was his plan B–take out that inner aggression on you that would not make his god-fearing family proud.

A deep, weighty groan slipped out of him at the taste of sweat on your skin. Every bruise he left with his teeth would have to be covered up and powdered, but god, god it was so easy for him to undo every vestige of purity you'd put on for show. Your back arched and your worn shoes squeaked against the steel table as you wiggled, the globes of fat he held in his palms jiggling with a mesmerizing glow every time you moved. As much as you wanted to wrench yourself free in some moments, in most others you couldn't bear the breaks he took to catch his breath, leaving your chest prickling with goosebumps as a draft hit your spit-sticky skin. He squeezed and kneaded to his heart's content and took a twisted glee out of making you squirm, especially when you made those gurgly noises that were so traitorous to the pristine image you painted for momma. She'd made it clear that you weren't to go off messing with boys when they came strolling up to the store's counter, or return any of their flirtations no matter how many times they called you pretty.

Obviously she didn't think her son would be the one you had to keep from tempting, but that train had long left the station now. Thomas’ index finger tore through the thin fabric of your panties with a swipe, and there you laid bare and naked to his wandering eyes while he yanked the shreds of them down the rest of your legs. He probably didn't know what positions were which and how girls had their periods, but he knew enough to slide those thick fingers through your folds and to keep going when you moaned like a dying animal. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy”, it was a mantra that hit his ears just right and urged him into clambering on top of the table with you with wild eyes. They drank in every inch of your sweltering body, the pulse of your heart through the hole he was jamming his fingers into, and on instinct he was guided to push down his waistband and throw off his apron as he knelt back on his haunches.

You might've thought he was nothing but hair if he wasn't so thick. Clearly he'd never shaved in his life with the erroneous bush he sported, curly hair matting down his thighs and his belly too once his shirt started riding up. But that fat, drooling knob of his swayed to hit his thigh, and you got an eyeful of pure, veiny, gut-smashing terror that you were sure would kill you if you didn't manage to relax. The further he leaned over your body, the more you felt like he was going to crush you as soon as he lined himself up with the hole he'd be stretching out like a little homemade cock sleeve. His hands slid under your knees to prop them up, but rather than sling them over his shoulders he bent them back and pinned them to your chest. An aching burn raced up your thighs but he paid no mind to your trembling; Tommy knelt over you and settled between your legs, and without warning, started sinking slowly into that hot opening he'd been dying to get deeper inside.

“H-Hold–wait, T-Tommy, hold oh-!”

Were you really so convinced he would play nice with you? Maybe you'd become complacent with the gentleness he showed you at his best, because when Tommy finally pressed in past the tip, he was gone. Forcing your knees back even further, he let out a groan and pushed himself up higher over you; all just to settle himself into your deepest pits and trap you in a violating mating press. After doing nothing but enjoying your heat, smushing his hips down against yours in a grinding motion, he soon seemed to realize he could move–and move he did, drawing back just to crush your hips with a deep, stomach-punching stroke.

“Unh,” What most resembled a moan fell from his scarred lips, and he fumbled around the back of his head to unclasp the leather from his face. This was the first and only time he'd ever felt safe enough to take it off since you'd met, and it was when he'd finally listened to his body and acted on his need to force every inch of him inside you. To be one. Now you finally were, and his synthetic face dropped on your chest before slowly sliding off to hit the floor.

If your jaw hadn't already gone slack from his violent thrusting, it would probably fall from the realization of what hid under that mask day after day. The sallow, sunken nose, the scars, the jagged skin and self-inflicted wounds…why wasn't it as scary as you thought? You figured, in the moment, you'd just gotten too used to him in personality, or maybe because you were just too distracted at the moment, but…

“Tommy-!” You squeaked out. The wet smack of his balls on your ass stuck in your ears, the strings of creamy slick linking you flesh-to-flesh as he went to town on your pussy. If he truly was losing his virginity to you, then all that pent-up frustration must be the source of him absolutely ruining any semblance of tightness you might've had. “A-Are you tryin’ to–you wanna gimme a baby? S'that it?” You slurred, slowly losing your good sense the longer he showed you your place.

Though you thought it would be to your horror, his slow nod only sparked something dark and tremulous within your loins. Something more than sweat and slick and the vile squelching of his seldom-washed dick rubbing up to your womb. It hit you then; this was your punishment. Every clap and sticky smack of flesh on flesh was a promise, an urge fulfilled to tear your meat from the bone and thrust a new purpose unto you. A homemaker. Tommy's little bride. A momma. Make his momma a grandmama like she was always praying for.

Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. Shluck. No doubt in your mind that was exactly what he was doing, and exactly why he brought you all the way out to the slaughterhouse to do it. The leather strap over your stomach kept you from wriggling away, but that would only be if you could somehow get him to pull out, and that for sure wasn't happening. He didn't bother with long strokes and leaving the tip in, your cunt was a home for him to bury himself in and he wasn't about to waste a second of this. His thick thighs trembled over yours, and he ground the swollen head of his cock deep against your cervix. So deep it was painful, but why would he care? He was doing a good thing. He was being a good boy, giving you what uncle Hoyt told him all women wanted, even if they didn't say it out loud.

Tommy's moans grew to a higher pitch once he affixed his hand like a necklace round your throat, swelling with the faster, faster, faster pace of his thrusts downward. He pressed his other meaty hand into your knees and shoved each one further apart, which made you whine but gave him easier access to pound you into greedy, delectable mush. Whereas it might've turned off weaker men, your nails digging deep, long scratches up his back made Tommy groan and tilt his head back in delirious pleasure. His knees kept you pinned at your sides and his weight–his stomach squishing into you from above–held you down where you belonged, where you'd be the most beautiful and of best use. Beneath him with a womb spilling over with cum, sown by his seed and his seed alone. His picturesque, pretty little wife. Hewitt property. He wouldn't stop, and you wouldn't beg him to even if you weren't being choked of any air you had left, and the world started to spin as the ecstasy took hold and Thomas was squeezing your moans out of you with trembling fervour. It felt as though your lower half exploded and left you with a warm, full, tingly sensation, marred by pearly-white globs of a load he'd had saved up since birth.

In contrast to the violent lovemaking he'd just shown you he was capable of, you were slowly brought back to life by small, soft little pecks. Kisses like the fuzz of a bumblebee brushing by your cheeks, pressing into your lips with a sweetness you weren't used to. This felt like Tommy again, like the gentle touch he used when nobody was around to laugh at him for being so sweet on you. He shuddered with bliss as his cock pulsed with your heartbeat and milked him of what little he had left, but with his chubby fingers rubbing at your jaw and brushing your sweaty locks aside he managed to drag himself off of you. Slowly, like molasses on a cold day, he brought himself back down off the table and let his feet hit the floor, having to brace himself against the table to keep from stumbling to the ground. Click-shuuunk. The leather belt snapped back into its holder as he released it, which left a sizeable indent across your abdomen that you'd have to hope would be covered enough not to show bruises. All you could do was watch as Tommy did up his pants on his way around the table, only to return to your side with the biggest, sharpest knife you swore you had ever seen. You flinched away and nearly cried out-

Shlip. With a strand pulled taut, Tommy made quick work of separating a lock of your hair from your head. Just a short one, so as not to make much difference–but he held it to his face and sniffed deeply, and it ashamed you to say that the gesture in itself just made your clit throb with need you thought you'd been completely overdosed on. Despite that, you laid still while Tommy reached over and retrieved his mask, tucking the tuft of hair inside it so he could smell it all the time. To calm him down, to cool him off, to just enjoy…all the things that you brought to him when no one else did, or could. From his pocket he produced something small and shiny, and dangled it over your face to show you before he set on fixing it around your neck. The pendant you'd seen that girl wearing a week ago now hung against your collar, the gleam of gold in it polished clean of the blood spilled to take it.

You barely let out a moan as he set on rearranging your limbs, turning you over, letting his cum spill down your thighs and all over the table like the blood from a fresh cut of beef. His calloused digits traced down your spine and up again til he found a sweet spot, and padded down your springy flesh that separated bone from his fingers. The carving knife had tinged when he'd sharpened it but he didn't show it to you–that would be too much for you, given what he was about to commit to.

Every arc, long and curved or short and straight, burned. The tip of the blade dug into your flesh like a red-hot needle, but Tommy's warm palm on the back of your neck kept you from moving out of his reach. He needed to start and to finish and his hand was already unsteady, mostly from the way his breath still hitched and his cock stirred all over again at the sight of your writhing body. Your blood turned him on. He hadn't touched any of the victims before you, not in that way, but you weren't really the same as them–no, you were special. If you weren't, Tommy wouldn't be carving those words into your back, and putting on display his ownership over the one and only thing he would ever see as more than meat.

If you didn't get pregnant this time, then this would surely be enough for the family to forgive. The letters scrawled in bloody ecstasy that would heal over, scar, wounds to be reopened over and over again.

Tommy's girl

forever

[dr3mvaalmar]

Bound by Fate | Kinktober Day 7

Pairing: Solomon x F! Reader

Prompt: Stuck in Wall (nsfw, mdni)

Summary: The reader goes to Diavolo's garden and finds a stone fence. Unaware of the warnings, she becomes stuck under its curse. Solomon, the kind sorcerer he is, lends a helping hand in more ways than one.

Warnings/Tags: power dynamic, slight noncon, unprotected sex, standing doggy style, public (caught)

Credit: @cafekitsune (divider)

“Finally,” I sighed, opening a gap through the large double-wide doors. The cacophony of the party inside bellowed into the silent night, echoing along the wind. The noise was becoming unbearable, so I decided to take refuge outside. Hopefully, no one would notice my absence. I didn’t want anyone to follow me as I relieved the tension in my head. 

Diavolo's mansion loomed over me as I walked into the gardens. The trail spiraled across the large expanse of land, a maize for those unaccustomed. I certainly was unfamiliar with the layout. Every step I took made me question my decision to leave the safe haven of the indoors. Maybe I should’ve asked Diavolo if I could rest in a spare room. However, he was quite preoccupied, from what I could tell.

I sighed, observing my surroundings. Neatly trimmed bushes led the trail to a fixed location. Maybe I’ll walk for a bit and return when I feel better. I let the various landmarks guide me. Moss lined the stone walkway, cushioning my feet with every step. Various plants were neatly tucked along the fences and monuments. I wondered how they stayed so healthy with so little sunlight. Before long, the path stretched as I lost myself in the night. I didn’t know how long I’d been walking or where. 

“What’s that?” I mumbled to myself, finding a large stone wall before me. Its length traveled beyond what the eye could see. Was it a fence? It looked like some kind of mural with intricate etchings across it. An unfamiliar language was transcribed about should-height, along with strange images. It was an amalgamation of lines and shapes. Curiously, I stepped closer. I recognized some of the text. It was carved deeply into the stone and was worn with time.

I followed the writings, trying to decipher what the words meant. The wall seemed to surround the entire premises, so I wasn’t sure how far I would go. However, not long after my journey, the text abruptly ended. Next to it was a…

“A handprint?” I asked myself, lifting my hand to compare. It seemed almost too perfect for the contours of my fingers. Growing ever more curious, I pressed my fingers against the stone. It was smooth and cold, yet there was a subtle warmth. As the warmth increased, I retracted my arm. However, to my horror, I realized my hand was stuck in place. In an instant, I realized the writing was a warning, not ancient text. Spontaneous panic spread through my mind as I tried to tug and tear my body away from the wall. Without thinking, I brought my nondominant hand to push me back. Regretfully, that hand sunk into the depths of the wall along with the other. Now, I had no leverage but my legs to free me from this predicament.

“Come on! Ugh,” I exclaimed, my breathing becoming ragged from the exhaustion. I had no idea how long I struggled. However, I could hear the music in the distance, dying to a low thrum. Pitifully, I wondered if anyone noticed my leaving. They probably were having too much fun. I jerked back my shoulder in one final hurrah, but the reality dawned on me. I was stuck. I didn’t know how far away I was, but the mansion seemed much smaller than before.

I shouted every name I could think of from the top of my head. My voice was growing hoarse with every plea for help. Yet, as time elapsed, I realized I had no savior. It was just me in the depths of the dark. I stopped, a veil of exhaustion washing over me. What would I even say if someone were to find me?

Resting my knees on the ground, my hands stretched high above me. I laid my forehead on the wall. Shocked, I realized my error but felt relief when the stone left my skin. Why were only my hands affected? I let the tension go, letting my body collapse. My arm was becoming numb the longer it stayed above my head.

“Oh? What do we have here?” a voice bellowed towards me, the slow movement of footsteps in the distance. “You’ve got yourself in quite the predicament, (Y/n).”

I looked up, my eyes cloudy and narrowed. It was Solomon. Of all people, it would have to be Solomon. I wanted nothing more than to flee.

“Go away,” I said, turned away. “I don’t need your help.”

“Are you sure?” Solomon asked, a few feet away from me by now. He crossed his arms, a cocky smile plastered on his lips. “If you don’t need the help, maybe I won’t tell the others. You’ll spend the night out here alone. We don’t want that, now, do we?”

I sighed, bobbing my arm up to get circulation through my arm. As much as I didn’t trust him, he was reliable when I needed him the most. I’d be so sore if I spent the night out here.

“Fine,” I said, relenting. Solomon’s eyebrow quirked up.

“What was that?” he teased. “I’m not sure what you’re wanting, dear.”

“Solomon, set me free or so help me God,” I said, a biting acidity to my words. I already spent so long out here. My legs and back were stiff. I needed to stretch. The wall encasing my fingers felt so oppressive.

I looked expectantly at the sorcerer, but he only stood there and smiled. Solomon showed no signs of budging as he watched me struggle under his gaze. Did he… enjoy this?

“Solomon! Please, just get me out of here already,” I cried, getting up from my knees. I tried tugging on my arms again, using the strength of my legs. Solomon seemed entertained with every passing second. 

“Ah, what a sight. Never could I imagine the brave (Y/n) succumbing to the mysteries of the Devildom. Literally,” Solomon said, a finger perched below his lip. I scoffed.

“Haha. Very funny. Get me out. Now.”

“Everything has a price in exchange for a service. What will you offer for my assistance?” Solomon asked, stepping towards me. I couldn’t stand up to my full height as he taunted me with half-lidded eyes. I knew he held me in the palm of his hand.

“What do you want? I don’t have anything,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “I left all my stuff back at the castle. It’s nothing good anyways.”

“Quite the contrary, I have everything I want in front of me,” Solomon affirmed, his pupils scanning me from my head and descending shamelessly. I felt my face burn under the implication.

“You want… me?” 

Solomon nodded, enjoying my revelation, “I knew you’d understand.”

I contemplated his offer for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. I can’t believe it’s something I would even consider, but it’s not like I had much of a choice. Solomon was patient as I caved in.

“Don’t worry, it won’t feel like very long at all,” Solomon said in an attempt to comfort me. “I’ll make you forget everything.”

“Just do whatever you want. I don’t care,” I grumbled, averting my eyes. However, I did, in fact, care. Frustration was eating at every fiber of my being.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Solomon chuckled. “Once I’ve had my fill, I promise to set you free.”

I turned my head away, the guilt of my decision heavy on my mind. However, that soon disappeared as I felt cold fingers snake underneath my shirt. My breathing hitched as the digits contrasted with the warmth of my skin. The gliding of his touch brought goosebumps along my skin. His hands felt my stomach, moving up towards my ribs. I squeaked.

“Ticklish, aren’t we?” Solomon said, a laugh resonating from his throat. He never paused for a moment. His onslaught of calculated movements sent shivers across my body. Solomon hitched the fabric of my blouse up, allowing him to move more freely. The more I squirmed and struggled, the more access it granted to his wandering touch. He would hold my body firm under his large hands if I felt especially resistant. Eventually, his fingers lingered just below my bust, tracing the fabric confining them. I could feel Solomon’s body, his crotch grinding into my backside. The lining of his cock was no secret, even if I couldn’t see it. Our surroundings seemed to fade away with every movement until it was just the two of us.

“No need for this pesky thing,” Solomon mumbled, voice husky, as he flipped the fabric above my chest. My breasts, freed from their entrapment, were immediately seized in Solomon’s greedy hands. He stifled a groan as he massaged each one vigorously. His chest fit into the curvature of my back, hips moving in tandem with his groping hands. Solomon's mouth wavered over my neck before latching on. His pitiful gasps with each wave of pleasure made my mouth open wide. By now, I didn’t even notice what lewd sounds spewed from within me.

“Mmn you need me, right? You don’t mind if I put my thick cock inside you? Hm?” Solomon moaned, his voice a raspy mess. His lips trailed my earlobe, nipping playfully. I could smell his cologne seeping from his clothes from here. It was intoxicating. “Don’t answer. I already know exactly what you need.”

One of his hands left my breast, and I could feel his vice grip against my ass as he pressed into me. I could feel everything. Every curve. Every inch of his throbbing cock. His clothes did little to conceal his aching member. He seemed drunk with pleasure, rubbing against my skirt without a single ounce of shame. Before I knew it, I felt the soft skin of his dick settling on my back. I gasped.

“So responsive. I wonder…” Solomon chuckled, both of his hands now gripping my hips as his dick thrust up and down. His fingers descended underneath the hem of my skirt, prying my panties away from my smoldering skin. He didn’t hesitate to rub the growing wetness of my cunt. “Is this all for me? How enticing.”

Solomon laughed airily as he ripped my skirt from my body. It fell to the ground pitifully. I felt so exposed under his intensity.

“Solomon,” I cried, finally finding my words under a whirlwind of sensations. “Please.” “Do you want me to stop?” Solomon asked, and I could practically see his smirk through every word he uttered. I shook my head. “Use your words, or I’ll have to force them out of you.”

“Please, just fuck me, Sol,” I exclaimed, rubbing my ass rhythmically against Solomon’s engorged dick. I could feel his body shake.

“Good girl,” Solomon said, aligning his dick against my wet entrance. I had no time to prepare before he pushed inside of me. My body resisted, but Solomon was determined. He explored every inch until he hit a dead end. I could feel the warmth all throughout me. Even a twitch was enough to send spikes of pleasure up my spine. “So inviting. I didn’t know you wanted me so deeply. Don't worry.”

Solomon’s pulled back before slamming inside of me. I could feel the tip edging into my cervix.

“I’ll give you…”

He thrust again, slapping skin against skin.

“Everything…”

Again.

“I’ve got!” Solomon shouted, digging deep inside of me. His movements wouldn’t slow as he fucked me raw. His dick slid easily in the essence of my arousal. The wet sound struck against the walls, returning to me in full force. The lewd noise of our sex was too much to bear.

Solomon gripped my throat as he fucked me senseless. I could only give in as he reared my head back, fingers clasped on my jugular. Solomon pecked my lips, straining the muscles as I twisted around. All the while, each thrust brought me painfully flat against the wall. I could feel every gasp for breath as he hovered over the nap of my neck. His nose nuzzled into the crook before biting down, saliva trailing from his mouth. My eyes furrowed as I shrieked with euphoria.

“Oh fuck yes, you fill me up so good, Sol,” I commended. I so desperately wanted to run my hands into his shirt, to feel up every inch of his body. I wanted his dick between my lips, fucking my wet holes like the toy I am. Every word I spoke seemed to make Solomon quicken his pace. His hands would grab every inch of skin he could fit in his palm. His entire body was against me now. I felt almost claustrophobic against the wall, but the pleasure dulled every sense of danger.

As the knot inside me started to reach its peak, my walls tightened around him. He let out a guttural moan, letting every ounce of energy into his last remaining thrusts. Whenever he delved deeper, my vision blurred, and stars crossed my eyes. He was getting close. Too close.

“I’m going to come,” Solomon gasped, not faltering for a moment. “Take it all. Every last ounce.”

I moaned out his name as he pumped his seed, delving deeper until I couldn’t hold it all. I could feel it spurt, warmth seeping into my core. Solomon grinded into me until he was sure I was thoroughly saturated with his cum. His voice grunted as he hit his high of the orgasm.

We hesitated to pull away from each other, his warmth a cocoon over my naked body. Yet, things must end inevitably. Solomon pulled out, my hole oozing with his very DNA. I felt a sense of pride well up in me, despite being taken advantage of by a horny sorcerer.

“Now, for my end of the bargain,” Solomon said, slowly readjusting his clothes. With a snap of his finger, I could feel the stone slowly glide off my skin, almost like goo. I flexed my fingers momentarily, perplexed to see my hands finally set free. I could already feel a dull ache, not only in my hands but in the areas Solomon ravaged. “I hope our intimate moment helped you realize how much you mean to me.”

It was hard to accept the heartfelt moment when a mixture of our fluids was running down my leg. Yet, I still felt his words tug at my heart, remembering each fleeting glance and teasing remark he showed me before. I wouldn’t mind round two.

“I had fun,” I giggled, picking up my skirt and pulling down my bra. 

“Well, if you need a little company, you know where to find me,” Solomon said with a wink. The corners of my lips curled up further. 

“Let’s go join the others,” Solomon said, holding a hand toward me. I accepted it without hesitation.

“But what about the mess?” I asked, referring to my ruffled clothes and wet skirt.

“What mess?” Solomon teased, pulling me along. We didn’t make it a few steps before we noticed a crowd in the distance. It was the others… I sincerely hope they didn’t hear me as I cried to the heavens.

“Ah, there you two are!” Diavolo exclaimed arms spread out before him. He seemed eager to see us as the demon brothers and Barbatos trailed behind. They all looked aghast, and I noticed Asmodeus snickering something amongst them. “We heard a commotion. I assume everything is all right now?”

“A minor disturbance, Lord Diavolo. Rest assured, all has been resolved,” Solomon said, a sly smile adorning his lips. I noticed a devilish glint in his eyes, which made heat rise to my cheeks.

The sea of faces was perplexing and entertaining. Barbatos was as professional as ever. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, his face indifferent. Mammon looked like he was constipated. Beel seemed none the wiser. Satan had a knowing smirk, suppressing a chuckle. Levi seemed awkward and averted his gaze. Belphie seemed dazed. Lastly, Asmodeus was trying to resist a squeal of delight. This was not how I wanted to make a lasting impression on the brothers.

Now free to move on my own accord, I shifted my clothes, not daring to let out a single noise. If I spoke, I might break under the pressure. Solomon side-eyed me, a teasing but reassuring gesture. 

Asmodeus was the first to crack. Every movement—from the tilt of his head to the flutter of his eyelashes—felt like a pang of embarrassment straight to my heart. He seemed to enjoy my reaction more than Solomon ever would.

“Oh, Solomon,” Asmodeus said. “Always one for… hands-on solutions, aren’t you? How resourceful of you both~”

Solomon’s arm snaked under me, looping around my waist protectively. Slowly, he guided me away from them as I turned my head towards the group in disbelief. 

“I believe we’ve taken enough of everyone’s time. Good day,” Solomon said, not paying another thought to the tragedy of what just occurred. I had a feeling that gossip would spread like wildfire. I hung my head in shame as Solomon reveled in my misery.

[offstage-euthymia]

All the pieces.

All the rags and coats

Shiny stars on doorsteps.

The welcoming warmth.

Pacifying growth

By the tunnels where i soaked.

And the rivers I entered.

The snow and cold that burnt.

The wine and laughter i slurped.

The fireplace i watched.

The embers and visions i lured.

Where I lurked, slept and kept.

All the secrets locked, all hollows i felt.

In the hallway of the mazes.

Maize fields and amazement.

With strings i left to remind me.

Where in all the set of circumstances i flew, flowed, swam and ran.

Just to meet another view on the mountain top.

By Marko Tivanovac

[rowdyhughesy]

Racing Hearts - E.Edwards

“One step forward, two steps to hell. I can't give up but I'm so unwell. It's me against the world, against myself. But this is not the end.”

- The end, Thomas Day

Y/F/N = your full name

Couldn’t think of a good way to end this so it is what it is but enjoy!

Ethan was well aware of what he signed up for when he started dating a professional motocross rider. When his season ends hers starts, the never ending road trips to races all over the world. Championships. He had never been one to see the enjoyment of riding dirt bikes but his girlfriend didn’t see the fun in hockey but they were each others biggest supporters in every game, every race, every chance either one of them had of a win. They were competitive. It ran in their blood.

When her season started and she asked if he wanted to tag along for the first three races he couldn’t say no. He loved seeing her have success. So he agreed and packed his bag, along with the team shirts and hats his girlfriend so graciously had gifted him. His usual getup of maize and blue being replaced by red and black. The number #12 written in big letters on the back along with her racing team. “You know I could get used to seeing you in that.” The voice of his girlfriend is muffled by her helmet, but he can still see her eyes behind the tinted visor.

He’s seen her in her gear hundred of times when they’re in her hometown on the track behind her house or on races but it still gives him butterflies. How he got so lucky to get someone as cool and fearless as her as his girlfriend he will never understand. But he’s damn lucky everyday that she chose him. “Don’t get your hopes up baby, it’s maize and blue for life.” Ethan’s lips curve into a smirk, reaching out to wrap one of his arms around her shoulders. A quick kiss to the top of her helmet, something they both do before every race or hockey game. “This isn’t hockey Eddy, maize and blue doesn’t matter here. Here it’s all about red and black.” Knocking her helmet against his chest she starts walking towards her dad - also known as her mechanic - and the rest of her team.

It’s always nerve racking before a race start, even if Ethan isn’t the one sitting on the bike he can feel it. The adrenaline is the same as when he steps on the ice. It’s all consuming and you get tunnel vision. All you see is the end goal. The win. So when the race gate falls he’s standing in his seat, shouting and hollering her name and encouragements in the air along her dad. Both of them waving their arms in the air. When she rides past the top two the cheers grow even louder, it’s electric. Chants of her name in the air around them and flags with her number waved around. It felt cool to see so many people admire her the same way Ethan does. That others also notice how amazing she is at what she does.

“Y/F/N takes the lead. It’s always a pleasure to see her on the track!” The speakers sparks in the background but Ethan can’t seem to rip his gaze away from the race.

He tries to ignore the pull in his stomach as he watches everyone getting closer to one of the bigger jumps. She’s done this over a thousand times Ethan tries to talk himself down from the anxiety. He knows things may happen in the sport, they happen in his too! It’s never a given that no one will ever get hurt. He just didn’t think it would be his girlfriend.

But that anxiety skyrockets when he sees her bike flying, her body being tossed in the air like a rag doll. Ethan thinks he hears her dad screaming no but he isn’t sure. It’s like his body stopped working when he saw her hit the ground. Body rolling down the sand hill. One arm wrapped around her head, the other across her stomach.

All Ethan wants is to run down to her but he knows he can’t, not until they’ve stopped the race and it’s safe for him to go down. Watching paramedics run over the track he just wishes that she would move. Why isn’t she moving? Her dad softly pushing Ethan forward brings him back to reality, both men sprinting full force down the stands. Jumping over the fence before running to where the group of people have gathered. Pushing his way to the front Ethan is met with his girlfriend sitting up, one of the medics checking for any obvious injuries. The sound of Y/N grumbling out that she’s fine brings a smile to his face. She may have had the wind knocked out of her but she’s still the same spitfire he knows.

Throwing her helmet off she runs a hand through her hair. She’s pissed off but she’s fine and that’s more than he had hoped seeing the crash. Y/N places her hand on Ethan’s cheek, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “Hey baby I’m fine, my ribs will be bruised but I’m fine.” Nodding he peppers kisses on her forehead, it tastes like dirt and sweat but he’s never been more grateful for it.

“I love you and you know that but I think I’ll just stick to watching you train at home from now on or I’ll die before I’m 21 of a heart attack.”

“Alright, deal.”

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

The Maize (Ch. 5)

1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6

Bel was sobbing as Turlough half-dragged half-carried him blindly through the corn. They had heard the struggle fading behind them, shortly followed by a familiar shriek of pain.

“We have to go back!” He pleaded, clutching at Turlough’s sleeve. “He’s hurt; we have to help him!”

Turlough cringed as he struggled to keep his balance, his chest tightening as they burst out onto an open path. “Bel, please—” He panted, holding him tighter. “Stop yelling. I-I need…”

He paused, looking back and forth nervously before one of his gloves held the compass where he could see it. Just keep going west. It couldn’t be that far.

“Yakov…” Bel wept, hands shaking as he tried to calm down. “I’m sorry… Turlough, I’m so sorry.”

“Not now.” Turlough struggled to catch his breath, trying to avoid Bel’s gaze as tears welled up in his eyes. “I-It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” He tried—he really tried—but heavy sobs broke out of him as his legs grew weak.

Bel just barely managed to catch himself as Turlough nearly fell over, pushing the taller boy up once his feet were on the ground. He looked around warily before squeezing Turlough’s arms in an attempt to ground him.

Turlough sniffled, his eyes falling to Bel for just a second before he straightened himself up. He cleared his throat as quietly as he could manage, taking one of Bel’s hands to squeeze tightly. “Can you run? I…I need a minute.” He confessed.

“Are you okay?” Bel asked him instead, staring up at him fearfully.

Turlough caught his other hand when it reached for something on his face. “I’m fine. We need to keep going.”

Bel’s eyes narrowed angrily, and he forced his way under Turlough’s arm to pull him forward. “You need to stop lying. I want to help you too.”

Turlough wanted to laugh, a slight smile crossing his face as he let himself lean just a bit. His legs still felt heavy, but he pushed forward with Bel supporting him. He pushed forward with his brother supporting him.

“I-I—heh—we always forget how tough you really are, don’t we?” He said breathlessly, letting out a soft chuckle while Bel looked up at him again.

His chuckles turned into labored breaths that suddenly broke into ragged coughs shaking his whole body. Turlough clawed slightly at his chest as he started to collapse, and between gasps, he could hear Bel crying his name.

And he could see black fluid spraying into the dirt in front of them.

--

“Turlough?!” Bel struggled to remain standing when Turlough suddenly buckled. The blue gloves moved under him, only to vanish into thin air when he started coughing. Bel’s eyes went wide as he saw the black fluid spraying from his mouth and running down his chin.

Bel had to let him go, lowering them enough for Turlough to fall to his knees. He looked around in a panic, kneeling beside him even though he could only hold onto his jacket and watch him. “God, please; please don’t do this to him…” He begged. “I need him. He needs this.”

Bel’s knuckles ran white as he wept softly against Turlough’s backpack, and he gasped softly when he realized he wasn’t coughing anymore. Turlough’s hands moved shakily to brace himself before spitting into the dirt and sniffling as he finally took a deep breath.

“A-Are you okay—?” Bel moved to lean over, only to stop and scramble back in horror.

Turlough’s breathing had evened out, and his head turned slowly. He seemed lost, wiping black fluid from his mouth and nose with his sleeve until his gaze fell on Bel. His cheeks were stained with black tear tracks, and the entire white of his left eye was blacked out. The blue in his irises had started to glow, and his head tipped slightly as his confused expression gave way to an almost fiendish sort of smile. Bel had almost recognized it, along with the playful little giggle that slipped out of him. But the sound was stilted; there were no gloves floating around their heads. Turlough flexed ink-black claws on one hand, his movements off balance as he took a step toward Bel.

Bel stepped backwards, gripping at his sleeves as he choked back tears. “Please, no…I-I can’t…” His hands moved to pull at his hair as the panic set in his chest, and his voice broke as he started to cry again. “Turlough!”

Turlough froze up, his eyes no longer matching the twisted grin on his face.

Suddenly, the corn rustled nearby, and the cornstalks fell in piles as the scarecrow emerged onto the path. As it turned to them, it raised the scythe again, and the blade started to glow a bright orange. Bel screamed as the scarecrow ran at them, unable to move anymore. He couldn’t handle this. He felt like his head was splitting open.

Before it could get close, Turlough whirled around and lunged to tackle it. The scarecrow blocked the attack with the scythe handle, sweeping him off his feet and tossing him aside without using the blade. Turlough pushed himself back up easily, grabbing the scarecrow by its overalls and trying to pull it back. He looked to Bel as he hooked his claws into the fabric, and his eyes were frantic, but familiar.

“Belphie, go!” He called right before the pommel of the scythe was thrust into his gut. He coughed and collapsed as the scarecrow shook him off, cringing in pain for a few seconds.

Bel was still frozen, and as the scarecrow finally focused on him again, he could only take shaky half-steps backwards. He couldn’t breathe; his head was hurting so much, his vision was going blurry, and his ears were ringing. Somewhere deep inside, he begged his God’s forgiveness.

Suddenly, Turlough was there, having scrambled to throw himself in front of the scarecrow’s attack. His eyes were soft as he embraced Bel, and Bel was happy to see his brother for the last time.

-------

…It felt like it should have been the last time, at least.

Bel realized, all of a sudden, that he couldn’t hear anything. Or really feel anything beside the slight movement of his own head. He flinched at a sound—someone groaning—and opened his eyes. Sitting up felt too fast, too easy, and his head felt like it should be spinning.

It was so quiet here.

At the sight of all the corn around them, with no clear paths to take, Bel grew fearful. His breathing would have been wild, if he had been breathing at all. He started to pull his knees to his chest, only to realize he wasn’t in the clothes he had left home in. The familiar overalls almost made him sick.

That sound came again, and Bel flinched back this time. Turlough was lying there in a matching outfit: his face clean, and his body starting to shift in distress. His eyes opened suddenly; glowing blue pinpricks surrounded in black as they darted wildly.

Bel heard his voice screaming when Turlough’s eyes landed on him, and he didn’t feel himself falling back into the dirt. Turlough blinked as he struggled to get up, his eyes normal by the third blink as he missed catching Bel’s hand.

“Bel—!” Turlough hesitated when Bel recoiled from him, quickly pulling back the hurt that filled his eyes. “A-Are you okay…?”

Bel stared at him for what felt like forever, and his mind replayed its memories of sensations that came with the rush of emotions he felt. He couldn’t feel anything as he moved to more or less tackle his brother, no matter how hard he tried to squeeze him, and he didn’t even try to hide the pain in his voice.

“I’m sorry!” He cried into Turlough’s chest. “Turlough, I’m sorry; it’s my fault!”

Turlough moved underneath him, grabbing him by the shoulders and nearly shoving him back at arms’ length. “What did you just—?”

“It’s my fault! If I hadn’t wanted to go into that stupid maze, we—”

“Stop. Y-You can’t start—”

“Turlough!”

Turlough pushed him again, getting to his feet and glaring down at Bel. “Alright, fine, you wanna blame someone so bad?! Blame me!” He insisted, only seeming to get angrier when Bel balked at him. “Go on, do it! Stop looking at me like that!”

Bel had never seen Turlough’s face like this, and he shook his head slightly as he tried not to panic. “I-I can’t… You weren’t—”

“You were scared, Bel.” Turlough said firmly, hands shaking as he clenched his fists. “You were both so scared… You were nervous from damn near the very start; Yakov sensed something right when we walked in. And I was just screwing around!”

He sank to his knees, his voice breaking as he tried to keep his eyes on Bel. “I got us lost…I was the one who said we should go deeper. I slowed us down when we could have maybe gotten out.”

Bel moved to wrap his arms around Turlough’s neck when he started to fall again, resting his hand on the back of his head.

“You know I’m used to being blamed for everything. But this really was my fault… Let me take it.”

Bel shook his head slowly. “I…It isn’t your fault that some monster wanted to hurt us…”

Turlough laughed dryly, mostly because he was starting to realize he couldn’t cry. “That means it can’t be your fault either, Belphegor.”

“…I…I don’t really want to hear that name right now.” Bel admitted. “It feels like a bad time to invoke devils.”

Turlough’s laugh almost sounded genuine, and he wrapped his arms around Bel. “That’s kind of funny, actually. Yakov was telling me earlier: a name should be for you, not for spiting Mother.” He smiled fondly, resting his chin on Bel’s head. “It should make you feel like you don’t belong to her anymore.”

“…So he likes his name then?”

“Means we have a good track record for picking names, doesn’t it?”

Bel was silent for a few seconds before a soft chuckle slipped past a small smile. “You want to give me a name?”

Turlough shrugged. “Can offer one. I kinda want to call you Belfry.”

Bel leaned back to look at him, eyes seeming to light up. “Like, a clocktower? Or just, like, ‘Bel, but free’? Being free sounds nice.”

Turlough tipped his head back and forth at the suggestions. “Yeah, those are good and true. I just like it ‘cause I think you’re batty.”

And Bel laughed. He shook his head and hugged Turlough with a smile before starting to get up. “Come on, then. We should, uh… well, we should do something, right? Can’t sit here forever.”

“‘Course we could.” Turlough shrugged and took Bel’s hand to pull himself up. “Just wouldn’t be any fun.”

Bel huffed and rolled his eyes, patting Turlough’s arm.

They were about to start discussing which way to go when they heard rustling close by. Bel had flinched with a short shriek, clamping his hands over his mouth as Turlough stepped in front of him. There was a second of silence before the rustling quickly got closer, and a new figure burst out of the cornstalks and looked around frantically. He had hardly looked at them before they were rushing to embrace him.

“You’re here!” Bel grabbed one of his hands while Turlough scrubbed his hands through Yakov’s hair. “You’re actually okay!”

“Nice outfit, barn cat.” Turlough teased.

“We’re all wearing the same thing, Turlough.”

Yakov was just standing there, looking between them, and they almost missed the way his face started to fall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy!” Turlough wrapped his arms around Yakov when his knees buckled. “Need your words, bud; talk to me.”

“…I couldn’t save you…” He whined, trying futilely to use Turlough’s touch to ground him. “This place—I cannot feel anything right. Can’t smell the Hearth Tree. There’s nothing…”

Turlough and Bel didn’t exactly have a firm argument for that one; they probably knew a lot less than he did, all things considered.

“Well…” Bel pat Yakov’s hair as best as he could. “We’re all here.”

Yakov blinked away tears that were never there, and he squirmed out of Turlough’s arms to hug Bel tightly.

“Speaking of, though,” Turlough pried at the corn Yakov had come running from. “What were you running from?”

“Running from? Nothing. Was running to you, I suppose. Heard screaming before.” He looked around their little chamber for a moment, ignoring the embarrassed pout on Bel’s face. “There is path back that way. Is not far, but I don’t know where it ends.”

Turlough leaned a bit farther, shoving stalks out of the way until he got a glimpse of the larger area of dirt just out of reach. “I guess we don’t have anything better to do, huh?” He offered a hand to Bel, and Yakov jogged past him to wait for them. Once they were all through, Yakov studied the ground under them and pointed out a set of boot prints.

“I came from that way. Kind of far…” He turned, and the others followed his gaze in the opposite direction. The path stretched on, but there was no point in hesitating.

“I’ll race you?” Turlough offered with a grin before immediately struggling to run. Yakov chuckled and immediately broke into a sprint for just a few seconds.

It actually felt amazing to get up to speed. No pain from exertion; no air for resistance; no reason not to try pressing faster; no distractions at all besides each other’s voices. For just a moment, it was almost worth it all. It was almost exactly what they wanted.

“Wait!” Yakov suddenly veered in front of Turlough and Bel, and crashing into him sent them flailing, floating, and falling to the dirt on top of each other.

“Dude, what the hell?” Turlough laughed as Yakov pushed out from under them and stood up.

“Look.”

In the distance, finally, they could see something new: Torches. As they got closer, they realized the rest of the path was lined with them on each side. The torches were just barely taller than the corn and stake-like, with small carved pumpkins set on the tops to house the flames. They were several yards apart, and as the boys went further, the torches were eventually strung together by ropes woven from corn stalks and husks with fence posts to fill the gaps.

The boys walked closer to each other, and Turlough might have walked just ahead of the others.

Finally, they were rewarded. The path opened into a clearing: a massive expanse of tilled farmland surrounded by corn on all sides. There were torches set between some of the rows, with corn-fashioned ropes braided around the poles. Somehow, the silence here was even louder, and Yakov growled faintly as he cringed. Bel shifted closer to him, holding his arm to reassure them both at the same time.

“Y-You don’t think…” Bel had begun, only for him and Yakov to bump into Turlough’s back. They stepped around to find what he was staring at.

A pumpkin sat at the very center of the field, and, for as familiar as it looked, it was clear that it was much larger than it was the last time they’d seen it. The roots that extended from it, or what little they could see before they disappeared into the soil, were larger too, likely spreading out for miles.

But that’s not what got their attention.

What they were actually looking at were the three smaller pumpkins in the row closest to it. In any other situation, they would have been normal sized, but here…

“This is—Wait, no.” Bel pulled away from Yakov, approaching one of the pumpkins and kneeling beside it. “It can’t be…”

He looked to Turlough; Turlough walked stiffly, staring in disbelief.

“I think it is.” Yakov said softly, motioning them over. The pumpkin he showed them was carved, a long serpent shape wrapping around its rind and a flame ignited in its center that flickered in the serpent’s eye.

Turlough rubbed his neck, and his free hand covered his mouth, but he couldn't hide the panic filling his eyes again.

Yakov wrung his fingers before gripping his sleeves as shame started to sink back into him.

Bel staggered slightly before falling to his knees as it all became clear.

“But…w-what does that mean for us?”

Bel’s question could only be answered by deafening silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Panda’s Notes: And finally, the boys have reached the end of the maze... >w<

[graywyvern]

( via / via )

Some famous artworks of the Mediocrism movement according to #chatgpt.

"CX.

On the bleakness of my lot    Bloom I strove to raise. Late, my acre of a rock    Yielded grape and maize.

Soil of flint if steadfast tilled    Will reward the hand; Seed of palm by Lybian sun    Fructified in sand."

--Dickinson

Luna012.

   live with rags of creeping dread where rewards are geason    kindness takes a holiday in & out of season road ahead is full of able       bale diapason

Through Your Eyes.

[thereallucifer666]

"No? Well, I thought I'd go for maize but that just seemed to corny," He said, laughing at his own terrible pun. He passed the cool rag over the back of her neck and down her shoulders, easing some of the heat from her bare skin.

Hearing the whispered words of gratitude, Lucifer smiled softly as he leaned forward and rested his chin on her shoulder, pausing to give her skin a short kiss. "Thank you." He said back. He didn't say what for, because he knew deep down he was thanking her for, well, everything. Every small, little thing she'd done for him thus far, every moment spent with him, whether in begrudging annoyance or blissful happiness.

Once she laid down again, Lucifer moved the rag to the side of her neck, over her pulse point to try and keep her cool. He didn't feel the uncomfortable level of the Los Angles heat, though he knew what it was like when heat felt damn near unbearable. And Chloe needed to sleep. She barely got any last night, keeping an eye on him and a mid-day nap certainly wasn't enough.

"Well, it's certainly not the worst was to wake up," Lucifer teased, flashing his teeth in his smile.

Hearing the offer of a second round, Lucifer's smile turned into a mixture of teasing amusement and genuine fondness. "Can't wait. But, I prefer you to be well rested for that. So you keep using that ice pack and I'll, regrettably, keep my incredibly hot body away from you, so you can sleep."

When Chloe fully woke up again, Lucifer couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. He wouldn't say now to another go, but doing it while she was essentially sleep-walking was crossing a bit of a line there.

"I noticed," Lucifer said with a small laugh, letting himself relax again. He had been caught off guard by her undressing him, but now it was just kind of amusing. He didn't know if it was because she was dreaming of something else, or her subconscious also wanted to go another round.

Rolling to his side as she flopped down beside him, Lucifer took in her posture. A glean of sweat was coating her whole body, sticky and uncomfortable looking. Strands of hair clung to her neck and she looked completely miserable.

"Hold on. I've got something," He said, crawling over her and out of bed. His untied robe fluttered out behind him as he walked into the main living area of the penthouse. He rummaged around a bit before he made his way back up to the bed, carrying a few things.

"Here, try this," He said, offering a rectangular shaped think covered in a dish cloth. "Ice pack. Be thankful I got one, because the other option was a bag of frozen peas."

He held it out to her and waited for her to take it before he got to work on his other thing. Taking a chilled water bottled from the mini fridge under the bar, he opened it and poured some of the cold water onto another rag, folded up into a square. Scooting closer to her, he pressed the cold rag onto the back of her neck, while offering her the rest of the cold water to drink.

[msb-lair]

Dragon: Scorch - Tundra Banescale Female

(Renamed from GirlOnFire to Scorch on 2019-12-12) (Banescale scroll applied on 2019-12-12) (Ragged scroll applied on 2019-12-12) (Mottle scroll applied on 2019-12-12) (Wraith scroll applied on 2019-12-22)

Purchased For: 150 gems Hatched On: 2019-05-29 ID: 52206011

Parentage: Oleo/SilverAce Flight: Fire

Primary: Maize Basic Ragged Secondary: White Stripes Basic Mottle Tertiary: Grey Basic Wraith Eyes: Primal

Comments: Another result of on-my-tablet, late-at-night. Noticed that the lore for the banescale breed had them start out as warriors of fire, and found myself thinking “I should put together a fire primal banescale, like how I have an ice primal gaoler”. Took a look on AH, and this pale lady caught my eye immediately. Saw the grey tert on her tooltip and immediately thought “wraith, for smoky bits”. Tried it out in morphology, liked the result, so started trying out different primaries and essentially made a noise audible only to bats and dogs when I saw the yellowy-orange bits in ragged.

So she joins my list of “dragons I need a gem tert for”

 I think in the long term I might try to set her up as part of a trio, with two mates who between the three of them cover most of the colour wheel for their primary, near-whites for their secondary, with greys and blacks for tertiary.

Familiar: Banshee Brooch

Progeny Testing: 

[Test] Limetti

Broods: 

Nested with Limetti on 2020-01-02, 3 eggs [Clutch]

Bred with Limetti on 2020-01-30, 2 eggs [Clutch]

Paired with Limetti on 2020-03-17, 3 eggs [Clutch]

Crossed with Limetti on 2020-05-04, 3 eggs [Clutch]

Mated with Limetti on 2020-06-30, 2 eggs [Clutch]

Clutched with Limetti on 2020-08-18, 3 eggs [Clutch]

Matched with Limetti on 2020-10-13, 2 eggs [Clutch]

Joined with Limetti on 2020-12-14, 3 eggs [Clutch]

Nested with Limetti on 2021-03-25, 2 eggs [Clutch]

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Suptober, 1 Oct.: Maze/maize

Rubbing his hands together, Dean bounced on the balls of his feet a little. "We can make soup."

deancas, fluff

"Uh, buddy. What's up?" Dean asked from behind where Cas was crouched in front of the bunker refrigerator.

Cas didn't stop scrubbing at the back of the shelf where something seemed to have been exsanguinated into gray stickiness. "There was a terrible smell."

Dean snorted. "Well, we haven't been home for a while– Oh." His grimace was the first thing Cas saw as he stood and turned, rag aloft. "Maybe the guacamole bowl tipped over sometime ago."

"It's cleaner now." Cas looked at the contaminated rag. "Can this be washed?"

Dean plucked it from his hand and pitched it directly into the nearby wastebasket. Then he surveyed the things Cas had pulled out of the refrigerator and left on the metal counter. He picked up several more items and also deposited them in the trash. Four ears of corn, half a package of uncooked bacon, and an assortment of cheese rectangles of varying sizes remained.

Rubbing his hands together, Dean bounced on the balls of his feet a little. "We can make soup."

Cas tipped his head. "We?"

Dean smiled. "Yep." He darted forward and kissed Cas quickly, once, on the mouth.

Cas felt his cheeks go pink. "Okay." He hesitated just a second before returning the kiss, his hand on the back of Dean's head to hold him in place, to more thoroughly say hello.

When he pulled back, Dean was flushed too, and looked a little disoriented. His hand was clutching Cas's hip. After a moment, his eyes cleared. "Soup."

Nodding, Cas went to fetch the big pot. In a few minutes they were side by side at the counter, Cas grating the cheeses – difficult because the grater was determined to shred his knuckles – and Dean cutting kernels off the corn cobs. He was scraping something – corn juice? – off the cobs into a bowl as Sam jogged through the door. 

At the sink Sam refilled his water bottle. He drank the entire contents in one gulp and leaned against the sink panting.

"You bein' chased by shifters or something?" Dean inquired.

Sam flipped him off as he went for another bottle's worth of refreshment. "Was trying to beat the rain. Made it by maybe five seconds."

Cas listened: outside, above ground, rain had indeed moved in, heavily and with a good amount of wind. Dean shivered, as though he could hear it too, and Cas wished he could materialize a blanket from nothingness to wrap him in.

At the door Sam paused and turned back. "Are you really going to eat the Maize Maze corn?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course," Dean said. "It was only the farm lady's husband who was a nachzehrer. What would've been the point of him messing with the crops? He had to eat too."

"Yeah, he ate the farm lady." Sam sighed. "That reminds me, we need to replenish our stash of copper coins this week."

"I have a few to tide us over." Cas scraped cheese off the counter into another bowl. "Though it would be nice if we didn't have a reason to use them right away."

"You said it," Sam said, leaving the scene.

A half hour later the kitchen smelled like smoky bacon and something sweeter. The bacon bits and corn kernels Dean was stirring in the pot on the stove looked disconcertingly like scabs and yellowed teeth floating in bog water. Cas kept this thought to himself and shook the shredded cheese into the pan at Dean's request. He meant to move away and Dean kept him close with an arm around his waist.

"You stir for a while," Dean said, giving him the long-handled wooden spoon he had deemed his favorite. He yawned and pressed a kiss into Cas's hair.

The cheese melted, gooily. Cas, tending the soup, leaned into Dean and felt a great kinship with the cheese.

[kawuli]

I grew up on stories of the Dust Bowl.

My dad’s parents were Okies--environmental refugees, before anyone had a word for it. They left their families, the land they were renting, their animals, took their 1-year-old daughter, and drove to California. My grandpa worked in a peach packing plant. My grandma cleaned houses.

They were so lonely that after a couple years they went back to Oklahoma, with their total savings of $20. Later, they bought land. Built a house. Survived.

My mom’s dad was a kid then, and his family stayed in western Kansas. Stayed because my great-grandpa was too damn stubborn to leave, stayed when their neighbors had all left, stayed because they didn’t have enough money to leave. They slept with wet rags over their faces. My great-grandpa tied a string around his waist, tied the other end to the house, and went to check on the cows, while my great-grandma tried to make soup from a little milk and a little flour. There was so much dust swirling in the air, the soup turned to mud. She cried, begged her husband once more to let them leave, and they went to bed hungry.

My grandpa’s oldest brother was the first one in the county to leave his wheat stubble in the field instead of plowing it under after the harvest. His neighbors made fun of him. His parents scolded him for having messy fields. 70 years later, at his funeral, someone told how people from Japan came to visit the farm, to see what he was doing differently.

More than 80 years after the Dust Bowl, I stood on a mountain in Ecuador watching, horrified, as a man with a tractor plowed a steep field. He would back up the hill, set the disk in the ground at the top of the field, and drive down, breaking up the soil, dragging it downhill. Dust billowed around him.

The man next to me, a rich-for-the-area farmer, sighed happily. “Look at all that dust. Isn’t that great?”

“What? No!” I was shocked.

“Why not? That’s what a modern farm looks like.”

I thought of the old black-and-white photos, dust clouds like black walls rolling in across the prairie. That’s what a modern farm looked like, too.

The next field down, four people and four oxen--well, dairy cows used as oxen--were planting. They used plows, too, but instead of a disk pulverizing the soil, their plow was a straight piece of wood, metal from an old leaf spring bolted to the end. One team of oxen used that plow to open a furrow, the women walking behind dropped maize seeds into the soil, and the second team of oxen dragged the same kind of plow just above the first, closing the furrow and burying the seeds. They walked along the hill--side to side, furrows running along the contour of the hill. If they were raising any dust, it wasn’t enough for me to see from across the valley.

The man with the tractor probably finished in an hour or two. The whole group, people and oxen and all, probably spent the whole day planting the same size field.

As the maize grew tall, you could see the difference: In the tractored field, the top rows were yellow, spindly, trying to root in the yellow-brown clay the topsoil had once covered. Down below, in dark, rich earth, the maize was tall, green, strong.

In Mali, years later, a farmer explained to a group of visiting scientists why, despite having made erosion control bunds, his rows of maize still went up and down the slope, instead of along the contour, parallel with the bunds. “Because of the wind,” he said, like it was obvious--because it was. In the rainy season, the wind comes from the south, and when storms come it blows hard enough to send dust and dishes and clothes left on the line flying and tumbling with it.

The rows of maize have to be parallel to that wind, or they’ll blow over. So sure, you can put the scientists’ earthen ridges in to block the downhill flow of water, but your rows can’t follow that meandering contour. Your rows have to face into the wind. 

For thousands of years we’ve been coaxing, wrestling, dragging our food from the soil. If we’re careful, and lucky, we can make our peace with it. If we charge into places unknown--the high plains of Kansas and Oklahoma, the steep slopes of the Andes, the storm-swept fields of West Africa--if we plow, and plant, and harvest without thinking? Without learning from the place? Dust clouds blackening the horizon, stunted maize on worn-out soil, crops blown down in  thunderstorms--the earth is forgiving, but only so far. We have time to learn, to make mistakes, to do what is easy even when it does harm, but only so much. Beyond that, we destroy the very literal foundations of our lives.

[mytwilightimagines13]

Amnesia (Book Two)(Part Thirteen)(Alec Volturi)

Polite games

Aro smiled. "Avery pretty speech, my revolutionary friend." Garrett remained poised for attack. "Revolutionary?" he growled. "Who am I revolting against, might I ask? Are you my king? Do you wish me to call you master, too, like your sycophantic guard?" "Peace, Garrett," Aro said tolerantly. "I meant only to refer to your time of birth. Still a patriot, I see." Garrett glared back furiously. "Let us ask our witnesses," Aro suggested. "Let us hear their thoughts before we make our decision. Tell us, friends" - and he turned his back casually on the foes, moving a few yards toward his mass of nervous observers hovering even closer now to the edge of the forest - "what do you think of all this? I can assure you the child is not what we feared. Do we take the risk and let the child live? Do we put our world in jeopardy to preserve their family intact? Or does earnest Garrett have the right of it? Will you join them in a fight against our sudden quest for dominion?" The witnesses met his gaze with careful faces. One, a small black-haired woman, looked briefly at the dark blond male at her side. "Are those our only choices?" she asked suddenly, gaze flashing back to Aro. "Agree with you, or fight against you?" "Of course not, most charming Makenna," Aro said, appearing horrified that anyone could come to that conclusion. "You may go in peace, of course, as Amun did, even if you disagree with the council's decision." Makenna looked at her mate's face again, and he nodded minutely. "We did not come here for a fight." She paused, exhaled, then said, "We came here to witness. And our witness is that this condemned family is innocent. Everything that Garrett claimed is the truth." "Ah," Aro said sadly. "I'm sorry you see us in that way. But such is the nature of our work." "It is not what I see, but what I feel," Makenna's maize-haired mate spoke in a high, nervous voice. He glanced at Garrett. "Garrett said they have ways of knowing lies. I, too, know when I am hearing the truth, and when I am not." With frightened eyes he moved closer to his mate, waiting for Aro's reaction. "Do not fear us, friend Charles. No doubt the patriot truly believes what he says," Aro chuckled lightly, and Charles's eyes narrowed. "That is our witness," Makenna said. "We're leaving now." She and Charles backed away slowly, not turning before they were lost from view in the trees. Maeryn rolled her eyes slightly. Cowards. One other stranger began to retreat the same way, then three more darted after him. Maeryn evaluated the thirty-seven vampires that stayed. A few of them appeared just too confused to make the decision. But the majority of them seemed only too aware of the direction this confrontation had taken. Maeryn guessed that they were giving up a head start in favor of knowing exactly who would be chasing after them and Maeryn was sure Aro saw the same thing she did. He turned away, walking back to his guard with a measured pace. He stopped in front of them and addressed them in a clear voice. "We are outnumbered, dearest ones," he said. "We can expect no outside help. Should we leave this question undecided to save ourselves?" "No, master," they whispered in unison. Maeryn, Alec and Jane said it too. Jane and Maeryn with venom in their mouths. They were ready to put an end to this coven. Even if it meant they had to die in the process. "Is the protection of our world worth perhaps the loss of some of our number?" "Yes," they breathed once more. Alec, he wanted to finish off this threat. A threat that was ready to rip off his sister’s and mate’s head in a blink of an eye. No. No more family would be taken from him. Not by some lowlifes who think they can defy the Volturi and think to get away with it. He too felt his venom filling his mouth, ready to attack.  "We are not afraid." Aro smiled and turned to his black-clad companions. "Brothers," Aro said somberly, "there is much to consider here." "Let us counsel," Caius said eagerly. "Let us counsel," Marcus repeated in an uninterested tone. Aro turned his back to the foes again,

facing the other ancients. They joined hands to form a black-shrouded triangle. As soon as Aro's attention was engaged in the silent counsel, two more of their witnesses disappeared silently into the forest. Carefully, Bella loosened Renesmee's arms from her neck. "You remember what I told you?" Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded. "I love you," she whispered. Edward was watching them now, his topaz eyes wide. Jacob stared at them from the corner of his big dark eye. "I love you, too," Bella said, and then she touched Renesmee’s locket. "More than my own life." Bella kissed her forehead. Jacob whined uneasily. Bella stretched up on her toes and whispered into his ear. "Wait until they're totally distracted, then run with her. Get as far from this place as you possibly can. When you've gone as far as you can on foot, she has what you need to get you in the air." Edward's and Jacob's faces were almost identical masks of horror, despite the fact that one of them was an animal. Renesmee reached for Edward, and he took her in his arms. They hugged each other tightly. "This is what you kept from me?" he whispered over her head. "From Aro," Bella breathed. "Alice?" Edward asked. Bella nodded. His face twisted with understanding and pain. Jacob was growling quietly, a low rasp that was as even and unbroken as a purr. His hackles were stiff and his teeth exposed. Edward kissed Renesmee's forehead and both her cheeks, then he lifted her to Jacob's shoulder. She scrambled agilely onto his back, pulling herself into place with handfuls of his fur, and fit herself easily into the dip between his massive shoulder blades. Jacob turned to Bella, his expressive eyes full of agony, the rumbling growl still grating through his chest. "You're the only one we could ever trust her with," Bella murmured to him. "If you didn't love her so much, I could never bear this. I know you can protect her, Jacob." He whined again, and dipped his head to butt it against her shoulder. "I know," she whispered. "I love you, too, Jake. You'll always be my best man." A tear the size of a baseball rolled into the russet fur beneath his eye. Edward leaned his head against the same shoulder where he'd placed Renesmee. "Goodbye, Jacob, my brother." Maeryn watched the little scene, and felt her ice cold heart break alittle. Even though she hated Bella and Edward, all she could see right now where two parents saying farewell to their little girl. A girl who had never asked for any of this. Renesmee had never asked to be born, or to cause any of this. Maeryn bit her lip, and found herself hoping that the child would be able to run and at least survive for as long as she could. But Maeryn soon regained herself. She must not let her own feelings about her parents get in the way of justice. Of the safety of her own kind. Of her mate. The others were not oblivious to the farewell scene. Their eyes were locked on the silent black triangle, but Maeryn could tell they were listening. "Is there no hope, then?" Carlisle whispered. There was no fear in his voice. Just determination and acceptance. "There is absolutely hope," Bella murmured back. "I only know my own fate." Edward took Bella’s hand. He knew that he was included. Esme's breath was ragged behind her. She moved past Bella and Edward, touching their faces as she passed, to stand beside Carlisle and hold his hand. Suddenly, the foes were surrounded by murmured goodbyes and I love you's. "If we live through this," Garrett whispered to Kate, "I'll follow you anywhere, woman." "Now he tells me," she muttered. Rosalie and Emmett kissed quickly but passionately. Tia caressed Benjamin's face. He smiled back cheerfully, catching her hand and holding it against his cheek. I didn't see all the expressions of love and pain. Maeryn looked at Alec and he looked back at her, even though he tried to stay strong she could see the fear in his eyes. Not for himself, but for his mate. He quickly pulled her close to him and kissed her passionetly, pouring all his love in what could be their last kiss. Maeryn wrapped

her arms tightly around his neck, doing the exact same before letting him go. Pain in her heart. She knew this could be their last kiss, but she would fight to the bitter end. Both Alec and Jane hugged , kissing eachother on both cheeks. And to Maeryn’s surprise, Jane pulled her into a hug too. “You are my sister, Maeryn.” Jane whispered in Maeryn’s ear. “And you are mine, Jane.” Maeryn replied. No one saw the three vampires, as they were hidden and protected well by their much taller bodyguards. And no one heard them. Soon the three vampires got back into their position, ready to attack. There was no change in the silent, still forms of the counseling ancients. But Aro had given the three vampires the signal. It was time. And Bella had seemed to notice this too. "Get ready," She whispered softly to the others. "It's starting.” Yes, it was indeed.

[zephyrnoodles]

Lair Review for TheAwesoMew

@mewrising​

Oof, picking only five dergs to review was not easy. Your lair is vast and beautiful. After long time of consideration I decided which dergs to put here:

Zelda: Mint is one of my favorite colors. While not a big fan of slime/sludge it is perfect for her, I admit that with no grudge. She is gorgeous holy fuck. The way her mint secondary and tertiary works so well with her grey skin primary? *A thousand Chef’s Kisses*. I really like her outfit plan, it goes so well with her colors and it does fit her job of being a researcher! A very fancy one but researcher nonetheless! I have never played any of the zelda games, but I do noticed the name references :D

Storm: What a character. What a story. Wow, she went through a lot. I really like how she changed over the years, but still retains some traits of her younger years. Change is a force of life, a sign of growth. Okay I actually started a philosophical rant about this and went off tangent lol. Back on topic: Aqua toxin is an amazing combination, and I really like how well it works with her black savannah primary. Her dark primary make her eyes really pop out. Her outfit is minimalistic but tbh she doesn’t need much more. So, a beautfiul dragon with fascination lore. I wanna give her a hug.

Eosphoros: What a gorgeous derg! I love his soft yet vibrant colors. I wasn’t aware that buttercup striation looks like this! He is so pleasing to look at! I’m glad you didn’t give him too much apparel, the scarf and the flower are enough imo. I really enjoy his lore too. A mute and deaf coatl who found joy in colors and travelled around sornieth to meet more people and find more techniques and colors for dying fabrics, and finding friends in the process, is a wonderful story. He has so much amazing art in his bio and yeah, he is just delightful!

Vestrin: A radio host! I haven’t seen one yet and I love the idea. It’s hilarious that he kinda became one by accident. His colors are so beautiful. Beige Jaguar is amazing, and spruce butterfly has the perfect accent colors to go with it. His maize tertiary finishes the look. His outift looks so good on him. It doesn’t look like a radio host but then again radio hosts are just being listened to and not watched, so he can wear whatever the fuck he wants. I really like the combination of the rags with the nurtured cluster. The fit colorwise and all in all the apparel gives Vestrin desert vibes which I love a lot!

Sterling: The keeper of the treasury. Yeah no I wouldn’t want to face him and would think twice about stealing from the clan’s treasures. He looks firece. I really like how subtle the skincent is on him. It is not the focus, but adds to his overall appearance in a more subtle way instead. His outfit looks practical and kinda comfy, and I can’t even explain why. I feel like he smells like freshly cut grass, herbs and petrichor.

[botanyshitposts]

that is the most horrifying piece of corn i have ever seen. i'm shook

honestly the mutants of maize (1968) as a whole is a book that haunts me. when you see it in person its this super thin book, pretty old (apparently theres an updated 1997 version???? might have to seek that out for nightmare corn purposes) but it just….gets me, man. like to be fair asynaptic gore corn is probably the most nightmare-inducing shit in there, but idk man it’s just……ominous. maybe its just bc ive grown up around corn so seeing it messed up is particularly disturbing, but like. heres some more stuff from the online edition, put in picture/accompanying caption format for quality (i cant find an open source link unfortunately, im accessing this from my uni’s database): 

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 2) 56 sk— SILKLESS— Pistils abort; no silks produced.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 3) 31 Cg — CORN GRASS— Narrow leaves, extreme tillering, poorly defined ears and tassel.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 4) (60) Ia — LAZY — Prostrate growth habit begins after 12 to 18 inches of normal growth. In photo 19–lb force required to raise stalk from prone position. (SIDE NOTE: i’ve seen this one in person before back when i worked at a corn research place. i know it sounds like an Actual Joke, but trust me. this is real and an accurate description of it)

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 6) (0) rgd — RAGGED— First leaves composed of narrow strips of disconnected tissue; seedling not able to emerge without help (E. G. Anderson).

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 6) 58 sm — SALMON SILK— Silks are salmon color with prr; brown with p. (Courtesy M. M. Rhoades).

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 6) (59) Pt — POLYTYPIC— Proliferation of pistillate tissue to produce a mixture of amorphous and silky growth on ear.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 7) (112) Pn — PAPYRESCENT GLUMES— Long thin papery glumes on both tassel and ear. Kernels often covered.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 9) 134 Bt1 — BLUE FLUORESCENT— Plant tissues contain anthranilic acid derivatives, which fluoresce blue under UV light. May be detected by odor. Recessive in seedlings; dominant in anthers. Picture shows seedling leaves under ultraviolet light. Bt1 leaf on right.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 10) l1 — LUTEUS— Produces uniform yellow pigment in leaves of white seedlings resulting from a number of chlorophyll mutants or white tissue due to j1. ij, etc. Seedlings shown are W w w L1, and w w l1 l1.

^^ CAPTION: (Chromosome 1 only) D8— DOMINANT DWARF—Similar to d1 (3–18); does not respond to gibberellins (E. G. Anderson).

so anyway this book contains many of my sleep paralysis demons. 10/10

[wonderoftenwanderalways]

Harrow - draw a harrow over (land)."they ploughed and harrowed the heavy clay"

Kismet - destiny; fate.

Gilt - covered thinly with gold leaf or gold paint.

Hydrofoil - a boat whose hull is fitted underneath with shaped vanes (foils) which lift the hull clear of the water at speed.

Fetter - a chain or manacle used to restrain a prisoner, typically placed around the ankles."he lay bound with fetters of iron"

Ouroboros - a circular symbol depicting a snake, or less commonly a dragon, swallowing its tail, as an emblem of wholeness or infinity.

Gouache - a method of painting using opaque pigments ground in water and thickened with a gluelike substance.

Horizon Line - In a drawing or painting, the horizon line is the point where the earth meets the sky. It is always at eye-level—no more and no less

Vignette - a brief evocative description, account, or episode.

Fulcrum - a thing that plays a central or essential role in an activity, event, or situation."research is the fulcrum of the academic community"

Turpentine burn - A turpentine burn is made by soaking a rag in solvent and scrubbing the canvas surface directly. This technique removes paint and leaves a stain on the canvas.

Torque - a force that tends to cause rotation."the three-litre engine has lots of torque"

Galvanise - coat (iron or steel) with a protective layer of zinc."they promised they would galvanize the iron railings to prevent rusting"

Becquerel - the SI unit of radioactivity, corresponding to one disintegration per second.

Buttermilk - the slightly sour liquid left after butter has been churned, used in baking or consumed as a drink.

Shambolic - chaotic, disorganized, or mismanaged."the department's shambolic accounting"

Sonorous - (of a person's voice or other sound) imposingly deep and full."he read aloud with a sonorous and musical voice"capable of producing a deep or ringing sound.

Acrimonous - (typically of speech or discussion) angry and bitter."an acrimonious dispute about wages"

Stalwart - loyal, reliable, and hard-working.

Shuck - an outer covering such as a husk or pod, especially the husk of an ear of maize. remove the shucks from maize or shellfish.

Schismatic - characterized by or favouring schism ( a split or division between strongly opposed sections or parties, caused by differences in opinion or belief. )

verdant - (of countryside) green with grass or other rich vegetation.

[naphiatra]

Masked Phantom +Veiled Vision

~~~

Storm Ragged/ Mint Tear/ Robin Wraith

Maize Ragged/ Grapefruit Tear/ Peridot Wraith