#the texas chainsaw massacre 2006 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

midn310 · 2 years ago

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Thomas Hewitt x leitor

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Era uma tarde quente de sábado

O sol das 15h estava brilhando intensamente, mas ocasionalmente a luz brilhante era misericordiosamente bloqueada por nuvens escuras e densas.Iria chover em breve.

Thomas estava encarregado de limpar o velho celeiro abandonado dos Hewitt.Apenas uma das muitas tarefas que a família lhe deu para sobrecarregá-lo.Luda Mae estava de volta para seu turno no posto de gasolina decrépito, Hoyt provavelmente estava dirigindo sua viatura roubada, intimidando adolescentes inocentes.E Monty estava assistindo a reprises de novelas, como sempre.

Você estava na varanda, pensativo enquanto observava descaradamente Thomas trabalhar.Mas você não conseguia desviar o olhar.

Seus músculos tonificados brilhavam de suor e sujeira, seu torso, nu para suportar o calor texano, subia e descia rapidamente enquanto ele arfava com o esforço.Você o observou, seu corpo maciço suportando o peso de um pneu gigante, que então caiu na pilha de entulho com um baque alto.O mero pensamento de Thomas fazia seu corpo formigar.

Você se espanca mentalmente

Você se lembra: Thomas e você são inimigos

Desde aquele dia você conheceu os Hewitts, quando eles massacraram seus "amigos" (que eram mais como companheiros de viagem idiotas).Você, ao contrário de seus colegas, aproveitou suas boas maneiras desde cedo, conseguindo cair nas boas graças de Luda Mae e poupando sua vida.

Mas então havia Thomas.

Foi ele quem chamou sua atenção pela primeira vez ao visitar a estação.

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

Você estava segurando uma cesta com alguns produtos, abanando-se com a outra mão em uma tentativa infrutífera de aliviar o calor.Luda Mae observou atentamente enquanto seus colegas turbulentos pegavam descuidadamente alguns itens das prateleiras esparsas.A agitação na loja parecia incomodar a velha senhora, que os olhava com desdém.

Você, uma jovem tímida e educada, cumprimentou a mulher com um sorriso doce e colocou os itens restantes no balcão.As orelhas queimando de vergonha.

"Desculpe pela bagunça senhora, eu juro que vamos limpar antes de sairmos."

"Esses são seus amigos?"Ela perguntou farejando os jovens no fundo da loja.

Você considerou a questão por alguns segundos."Não, apenas colegas de faculdade. Eu precisava de uma carona para a Louisiana para fazer um trabalho de pesquisa."

Ela te encarou por um longo tempo.Merda, você lutou para manter contato visual.Ela tinha aquela vibração de mãe rígida, o olhar sobre seus óculos redondos quase fazia você se encolher.

"Bem, estou meio que pagando pela carona, então não é exatamente uma carona."

Ela olhou para você por mais alguns segundos e sorriu "Bem, isso explica como uma jovem simpática como você acabou aqui com essas... crianças".

"E-er. Sim. Bem, onde está minha educação, meu nome é s/n."

"Luda Mãe."Ela cumprimentou com um sorriso de avó.

"Ah, desculpe incomodar de novo, mas você tem água mineral?"

"Ah, sim. Estamos reabastecendo. Vou pedir ao meu filho para trazê-los.

"Bem obrigado."Você sorriu.

"Tommy, querido, traga as caixas do armazém."

Alguns momentos de silêncio se passaram antes que você ouvisse um baque distante.

Passos ecoaram como um terremoto pela sala, e da sala dos fundos, um homem enorme em uma camisa manchada e avental emergiu com pacotes empilhados em seus braços fortes.

Jesus Cristo.

O homem foi construído como um trator.

Luda Mae se referia a ele como uma criança, mas não havia nada de infantil em sua composição.

Você olhou para ele hipnotizada.Seus cachos escuros rebeldes cercavam seu rosto forte e masculino e caíam sobre seus ombros maciços.Até que ele se virou para sua mãe.Então você viu.

Havia uma máscara escura e grossa que cobria a parte inferior de seu rosto.Isso despertou sua curiosidade e de alguma forma tornou sua figura mais atraente e misteriosa.

"Este aqui é meu filho Thomas, ele é um amor, ele não fala muito, mas ele pode cuidar de você muito bem de qualquer maneira. Thomas cuide da senhora e de seus... amigos. Eu preciso fazer uma ligação para seu tio." .Ela disse lançando um último olhar para você.

Sua boca estava seca.O homem descarregou a mercadoria no balcão e se virou para você, esperando.Alguns momentos se passaram enquanto você inconscientemente estudava o rosto dele, até que ele estreitou aqueles olhos azuis para você.Você se castigou pela ação invasiva e se recompôs.

"Ah sim, prazer em conhecê-lo, Thomas."Você olhou para o chão de linóleo com vergonha.Ele deve ter interpretado mal a sua curiosidade.Você estava preso com sua falta de reação e sua aura intimidadora.

Sim, um amor, com certeza.

"Eu só preciso de um daqueles pacotes de água mineral... por favor," você adicionou nervosamente.

Em um ritmo experiente, Thomas pegou um dos pacotes e o embalou para você.O estrondo das vozes de seus colegas cessou por um momento, até que você se virou e percebeu seus olhares e sussurros dirigidos ao bruto de um homem no caixa.

Thomas parecia ignorá-los de propósito para terminar de atendê-lo o mais rápido possível, para que você pudesse sair da loja logo.Mas logo um deles, John, falou:

"Ei cara, o que há de errado com seu rosto?"

Merda.

"Isso é para cobrir seu nariz gigante ou algo assim?"Disse outro com um sorriso de comedor de merda.Sua namorada soltou uma risada nasal.

Thomas enrijeceu, mas permaneceu em silêncio.

"Vamos lá, você acha que é bom demais para falar com a gente?"

Um silêncio esmagador tomou conta do lugar.

Thomas estava de cabeça baixa, tentando organizar calmamente o resto de suas compras em sacolas.

"Animal".João terminou

Thomas cerrou os punhos.Ele estava se segurando, você viu, a fúria em seu rosto vermelho obscurecida por seu cabelo rebelde.Era melhor intervir antes que algo acontecesse.

"Você pode parar? Qual é o seu problema?"

"Ah vamos lá gatinha."John passou o braço em volta dos seus ombros."Não me diga que você vai ficar do lado dessa coisa sobre nós. Somos sócios, não somos?"Você estremeceu de repulsa.

Você olhou para Thomas sem palavras, ele olhou em seus olhos assustados, antes de abaixar a cabeça novamente.

Você estava prestes a responder quando alguém interrompeu.

"Bem, o que temos aqui?"

Era um xerife, o nome "Hoyt" escrito em seu crachá.Seu sorriso era pálido e forçado enquanto avaliava os jovens à sua frente.

"A quem pertence aquele carro estacionado lá fora?"

"É meu".Evan falou.

"Estamos fazendo uma viagem de faculdade, xerife."João concluído

"Ah, então você pode me explicar isso."Ele estendeu um pequeno pacote no ar.

"Droga, Evan."A garota, Cindy, murmurou para o namorado.

"Não sabemos como isso foi parar no carro, xerife."Eles se olharam nervosamente.

"Bem, eles devem saber, já que há maconha por todo o maldito carro."Ele grunhiu."Vocês vêm comigo."Ele chupou os dentes em arrogância.

"Espere, não podemos ser presos, sim...

Hoyt apontou uma arma para Evan, interrompendo seu apelo.

"Quer que eu exploda seus miolos, garoto?"Evan balançou a cabeça."Melhor ir então."

Você arriscou um último olhar culpado para Thomas antes de sair, mas ele se foi.Ele deve ter ficado muito chateado com você.

Você foi escoltado por Hoyt até sua viatura.O desconforto de estar enfiado no carro como uma lata de sardinha, sufocando, mas ninguém disse uma palavra durante toda a viagem.

Mas, em vez de uma delegacia, você foi levado para o casarão em uma área deserta.Hoyt jogou você para fora do carro.Antes que alguém pudesse protestar, o barulho de uma serra elétrica cortou o silêncio e, de repente, uma figura alta se aproximou do carro.

Thomas

O som das correntes cortando a carne humana era perturbador.Você o viu assassinar brutalmente cada um deles.Você o viu se aproximando de sua figura indefesa.E de repente, escuridão.

Você se lembra do porão escuro e úmido em que foi mantido por dias, lembra-se de reconhecer Luda Mae quando foi chamado para participar de um jantar de "família".

Era isso, não era?Você era considerado parte da família agora.

Exceto Tomás.

Ele ainda tinha aquela desconfiança e aquela afeição recente por você daquele dia na lojinha de Luda Mae.

Falando dela, outro ponto despertou o ressentimento de Thomas: Luda mencionou que gostaria de ter uma "filha".Então, como você foi apenas educado e gentil com a família, ela viu esse papel como perfeito para você.Não ajudou que você sempre foi disciplinado e ajudou Luda nas tarefas domésticas.

Uma garota de ouro, disse ela.

Ela te mimava, te oferecia vestidos e mimos que ela comprava na loja.

Thomas ficou furioso.

Como eles poderiam acreditar em você tão cegamente?Você era como aqueles pedaços de merda que vieram com você.A simples menção de seu nome o fez ranger os dentes.

Com o tempo você se adaptou.Ele aprendeu a rotina da família e como se comunicar com Thomas.Você o observaria sinalizando ou gesticulando para a mãe quando ela lhe perguntasse algo.Ele tinha maneiras diferentes de falar, então você entendeu.

Você tentou abordá-lo várias vezes, mas ele esnobou você.Era só fingir, pensou, você esperaria ganhar a confiança da família o suficiente para fugir e chamar a polícia.

Você não tinha o direito de invadir a vida deles e se estabelecer como a filha preferida deles.Era sua casa, sua vida, sua mãe.

Ele odiava você, mas não conseguia nem colocar as mãos em você como fazia com as vítimas que fazia.A última vez que ele reagiu aos seus avanços gentis com grosseria, sua mãe o repreendeu e o mandou para o quarto.

Que porra.Ele não era uma criança.Ele NÃO deve ser tratado como uma criança malcriada e insolente.Isso foi a sua culpa.

No final, você também se cansou.

Cansado de tratá-lo com gentileza e gentileza apenas para ser ignorado e pisado.Você estava cansado de receber olhares de desaprovação e rosnados quando saía de seu caminho para fazer algo para agradá-lo.Você se cansou dele.

Então você combinou seu comportamento com o dele.Sim, era infantil.Mas enquanto Thomas o tratasse com desgosto e ódio injusto, você retribuiria na mesma moeda.

Tornou-se um jogo entre vocês.Vocês dois seres se recusaram a vacilar um ao outro e ceder à derrota.

Seu orgulho e teimosia tão altos quanto os dele.Nenhum dos dois recuaria.

Mas ainda havia algo crescendo, algo que vocês dois negaram compartilhar.

A maneira como Thomas olhava com carinho para sua mãe fazia seu coração doer, a diligência que ele tinha com seu trabalho despertava sua admiração, sua preocupação com o bem-estar de sua família o fazia acreditar que ele era algo mais do que um bruto.sem compaixão, seu jeito atrevido quando olhava para você de forma desafiadora.

Mas... havia algo mais carnal também.Um sentimento cru e desenfreado que crescia em você dia após dia.Você olhou para as mãos dele e imaginou como elas se sentiriam em seu corpo, você pensou em seu corpo enorme em cima de sua figura muito menor, seus olhos azuis cruéis e intensos focados em você com interesse genuíno.Isso fez seu núcleo vibrar.

Estava errado.Fora dos termos estabelecidos entre vocês.

Você estava chateado porque, mesmo sem tentar, Thomas estava fazendo você perder.

A única maneira que você encontrou para aliviar seus pensamentos é em sua cama à noite com os dedos enterrados em sua boceta.Não parecia o suficiente, mas você teria que se virar.A culpa cresceu enquanto você perseguia seu orgasmo, tentando pensar em qualquer coisa, qualquer coisa que não fosse Thomas Hewitt, mas era inevitável.

Thomas também não estava melhor.Ele estava confuso e indignado com o sentimento fervente que você despertou nele.

Ele ficou cada vez mais interessado em suas peculiaridades e comportamentos peculiares.Você seria rude com ele também, mas nunca como os outros foram.As desconsiderações de você nunca seriam por causa da aparência dele, ele percebeu.

"Thomas me deixou sair."Ele te empurrou e bloqueou a porta."Eu preciso das minhas coisas que estão no carro, Luda Mae disse que eu poderia pegá-las." "Não".Ele grunhiu."Sério, Thomas. Eu não vou fugir mesmo se eu quisesse. O carro não funciona desde que Hoyt estragou tudo."Ele não saiu do caminho.Você bufou e reprimiu um grito frustrado.O dia foi estressante o suficiente, sua época do mês o deixou mais sensível e emocional.Você não ia chorar, ia?

"Droga, Thomas, você é tão..."

Ele ergueu as sobrancelhas desafiando você a continuar.E daí?Feio?Um monstro nojento e assustador?Ele queria que você dissesse, queria que você ultrapassasse aquela barreira para que ele tivesse um motivo para...

"Irritante".Você completou com um suspiro.Você desiste de sua busca e sobe as escadas, deixando Thomas parado na porta.

Às vezes ele se pegava olhando para você, imediatamente se condenando pelo ato.Ele observaria seu rosto de perto quando você estivesse distraído ou focado em alguma tarefa, seu sorriso agradável direcionado a alguém que não fosse ele.Ele olhava para suas mãozinhas mexendo nos talheres durante o jantar, imaginando como elas se sentiriam envoltas em outra coisa…

Porra.Foi demais.

Freqüentemente, ele teria que se retirar da mesma sala em que você estava apenas para esconder sua crescente ereção.Fazer você imaginar que era apenas uma reação à repulsa que ele sentia por você, algo que você estava acostumada, mas ainda doía.

Constantemente ele teria que se isolar em seu quarto, a mão envolvendo seu pênis, masturbando-se em um ritmo frenético até que a única coisa em sua mente fosse a névoa pós-orgasmo.

No final, vocês dois carregaram tanta culpa que não conseguiram nem se encarar por dias.

Vocês não estavam cientes do efeito que causavam um no outro.Por você, Thomas ainda o odiava com paixão, por Thomas, você não suportava nem olhar para o rosto dele como fazia antes.

Mal sabia você que os dois perderam.

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

Você deu uma última olhada em Thomas antes de sair da varanda, indo direto para a cozinha para se servir de dois copos de suco.

Você saiu de casa, indo em direção ao celeiro.Você se aproximou dele e quando viu Thomas, você o considerou por um momento.

Sua respiração pesada revelava o quanto o trabalho acumulado do dia o havia esgotado.O celeiro não estava nem parcialmente vazio, ele não terminaria tão cedo.

Você sentiu aquela pontada de pena crescendo em seu peito.Thomas trabalhou como um burro de carga e nem foi reconhecido por isso.

Uma ideia surgiu para você.

Vamos s/n, apague esse pensamento, vocês são como arquiinimigos.Você nem deveria ter vindo falar com ele em primeiro lugar-

"Aqui".Você entendeu um dos copos para Thomas que se virou para você e, com um breve momento de relutância, aceitou sua oferta.

"Não está envenenado, se é isso que você está pensando"

Ele rosnou e fixou os olhos em você por precaução.

"Vamos garotão, eu não ganho um obrigado?"

Ele bufou novamente com desdém, então engoliu a bebida gelada com avidez.Você assistiu avidamente o pomo de Adão balançar a cada gole que ele tomava.Uma gota traiçoeira escorreu por seu queixo, deixando um rastro úmido em seu rastro.

Ele estava tão suado.Alguns cachos úmidos balançavam pesadamente enquanto outros se agarravam à testa e por toda a pele quente.Seus dedos coçavam para tirar o cabelo do rosto.Ele deixaria você puxar o cabelo para trás e prendê-lo?

Comporte-se s/n, obviamente não.

Thomas suspirou de contentamento e alívio.Mas então ele notou sua expressão pensativa e seus olhos fixos em seu rosto.Ele retribuiu o olhar e logo você tentou disfarçar a situação com um olhar petulante.

Foi até engraçado.Aquele seu olhar audacioso não combinava com você, seu tamanho minúsculo o lembrava de um gatinho enfurecido.Você constantemente lutou contra sua própria timidez apenas para desafiá-lo.Bonitinho.

"Você ainda não terminou?"

"O que você acha?" Ele gesticulou.

"Bem, seria bom terminar logo."Porra, você não poderia simplesmente dizer o que queria, poderia?

Ele estreitou os olhos para você.

"Vamos, só vim oferecer ajuda, não fique tão orgulhoso."

Ele bufou em zombaria.

"Olha, duas pessoas são melhores do que uma para acelerar o trabalho. Só estou tentando tirar uma carga de sua bunda."

"Por quê?" Ele levantou uma das sobrancelhas em questão.

"Bem, porque... Vai chover em breve e Hoyt odiaria ver essas coisas encharcadas quando ele voltar. E você sabe que ele é um pé no saco com todo mundo quando fica bravo."

Você sempre foi péssimo em dar desculpas.

Ele não insistiu, apenas cruzou os braços e balançou a cabeça.

"Não?".Você meio que já esperava esta resposta."Tudo bem. Mas quem disse que eu pedi sua permissão?"

Você colocou o copo de lado em uma superfície mais próxima e passou por Thomas antes que ele reagisse.

Você começou selecionando algumas peças e logo removeu alguns itens do celeiro.Thomas suspirou impaciente, sabendo que não adiantava forçar alguém teimoso como você.Assim, com a ajuda dele, começou a recolher os materiais e selecionar aqueles que seriam guardados em um galpão, a salvo da água.

Mais 2 horas de trabalho e pronto.O celeiro estava quase vazio, exceto por alguns fardos de feno e um ancinho, que permaneceriam no lugar.Ele tinha que admitir, sua ajuda economizou muito esforço e algumas horas extras de trabalho.

Mas é claro que ele não iria admitir isso para você.

Você.

Ele não ouviu uma palavra sua desde que você começou sua missão para ajudá-lo.

Ele caminhou de volta para o celeiro, os olhos examinando ao redor.

Até que ele sentiu sua pequena figura bater em seu peito nu.

Você corou e tentou franzir a testa

"Qual é o seu problema, você não me viu aqui?"

Ele tentou retrucar com uma provocação (algo sobre o quão alto você era), mas logo notou seu rosto vermelho e sua respiração ofegante.Você estava superaquecendo, mas não era por causa do calor.

Ele não entendeu.Thomas puxou você pelo braço e o fez sentar no feno, ignorando seus protestos.Rapidamente ele foi até a mansão em busca de água, voltando em um minuto com um copo cheio de líquido e entregando-o em sua mão.

"Hm obrigado".Você bebe o conteúdo do copo, totalmente autoconsciente sob o olhar intenso de Thomas.

Você termina sua bebida e logo um silêncio desconfortável se instala entre vocês.E agora?

"Eu disse a você que era melhor ter aceitado minha ajuda desde o início."Você muda de assunto.

Ele ignora seu comentário, percebendo que você provavelmente está bem de novo.

"Um obrigado seria apreciado"

Ele resmunga em desacordo revirando os olhos.

"Por que você tem que ser assim?"Você suspira: "Você não pode ser legal nem uma vez?"

Ele lhe lança um olhar mordaz.

"Só estou dizendo, você deveria tentar pelo menos ser grato.

Ele não te dá chance de terminar antes de se aproximar de você, te puxar e te empurrar com força contra a parede.

Lá.

Ele usou apenas uma de suas mãos gigantes para segurar os dois pulsos juntos acima da cabeça.

Agora o rosto dele está a centímetros do seu, o hálito quente fazendo você se encolher.Azuis cerúleos olhando profundamente para eles com fúria desenfreada.

Ele está lhe fazendo uma pergunta, você vê.

"Quem devo agradecer? Você?".

"Qual é a porra do seu problema, Thomas?"

O aperto em sua mão aumentou e você se contorceu de dor.Seus pulsos estariam machucados amanhã com certeza.

Sua paciência estava no fim, sua pequena atrevida teria o que merece.

Ele aperta sua garganta com força, espremendo a maior parte do ar para fora de seus pulmões.

É aqui que você morre?

Você morreria em um velho celeiro em alguma propriedade fora do mapa, nas mãos do único homem que você amou em toda a sua vida, aquele que sempre o odiou em troca de sua bondade?

Tanto faz, mas você não vai morrer sem dizer a verdade, sem jogar tudo na cara dele.Você queria machucá-lo como machucou você, você queria que ele se virasse à noite pensando em como ele acabou com a vida da única pessoa, além de sua família, que mostrou compaixão a ele em vida, que ele teve a chance de ser amou, mas jogou tudo fora.

Bem, foda-se, aqui vai

"Eu tentei Thomas."você sufocou

"Você sabe que eu tentei. E-eu, eu tentei ser legal com todo mundo, até f-para você."Ele desafia você a continuar, mesmo quando ele aperta sua traqueia.

“Eu tentei, u-ghh, t-tentei chamar a atenção dele, desde que te conheci.Ele está em choque.O aperto na garganta diminui e você respira fundo.

"Mas você... Você tosse. "Você me machucou o tempo todo.” Droga, por que você começou a chorar tão facilmente?

Você era fraco, fraco e patético.

"Não adianta tentar ser legal com você quando você age como um idiota comigo, odeio que eu ainda tente te ajudar porque ainda sinto algo por você, odeio o fato de você estar sempre tentando me deixar infeliz quando tudo que sinto por você é admiração".Ele estava olhando para você mortificado, mas você ainda não terminou.

"Eu odeio ter que aguentar esse maldito sentimento que sinto quando tudo que eu queria era te odiar completamente. Eu não quero me sentir tão confuso. Eu não quero me sentir atraído por você. Mas eu me sinto."Você soluça.

"Eu não quero ter que desejar você por perto quando você é apenas mau para mim. Eu me odeio ainda mais por imaginar você na minha cama à noite. Mas foda-se, porque você nunca esteve lá."

Você não podia simplesmente calar a boca, o turbilhão de coisas dentro de você fazendo tudo sair de uma vez.

"Então, se você quer Thomas, você pode me matar agora, isso me faria um favor também-

O beijo brutal o interrompe.Língua carente e faminta invadindo sua boca agressivamente.A confusão e a surpresa de sua mente se transformam em uma poça.Você não entende.

A realidade da situação está lentamente surgindo em você.

Você se recupera do choque momentâneo.Você tenta acompanhar com sucesso Thomas com a máscara no caminho, mas é ele quem domina o beijo.

Logo o oxigênio desaparece de seus pulmões, obrigando-o a se separar.Lábios inchados e úmidos de desejo.

O olhar faminto de Thomas sobre você é quase animalesco.Um lobo encarando sua presa.E você é apenas um coelhinho prestes a ser comido.

Seu vestido é o primeiro a sair, botões e costuras se esforçando na pressa de Thomas para despi-la.Seu sutiã é puxado para baixo descuidadamente por uma das mãos dele.Ele desvia o olhar de seus seios recém-expostos, um de seus mamilos é rapidamente levado pela boca dele, sugando com vontade e desleixo.O outro seio negligenciado é massageado por sua mão livre, arrancando uma onda de suspiros de você, encorajando-o a continuar seus cuidados.

Seus joelhos estavam fracos e Thomas, observador como sempre, guiou você de volta para um dos montes de feno ao seu lado.

Ele abriu suas pernas e se apertou contra você, entrando no calor contra sua boceta vestida.Suas mãos avançaram, mas ele se conteve e as manteve ali, pairando sobre sua calcinha.Ele olhou para você em questão.

Você acenou enquanto choramingava

"Por favor, Tommy, foda-me. Você gemeu

Essa foi a gota d'água para Thomas.A impaciência tomou conta dele, então ele agarrou o cós da sua calcinha com as duas mãos e a rasgou, jogando-a em algum lugar do celeiro.A picada doentia em sua pele o lembrou de quem estava em cima de você.

Um homem bestial, um bruto, cuja força o excitava o suficiente para molhar o interior de suas coxas.

Agora totalmente nu, cada centímetro de pele era vulnerável ao olhar voraz de Thomas.A rara timidez que você tinha perto dele estava de volta com força total, fazendo você fechar as pernas para se esconder.

Mas ele não teria isso.

Ele agarrou seus joelhos e os forçou a abrir, revelando sua boceta molhada para ele.

A visão deixou seu pênis tão duro que doeu.Ele queria saber como caberia, você era tão pequena comparada a ele.O ajuste seria muito apertado, talvez.

Mas ele queria te provar primeiro, chupar a essência da sua boceta como sempre fantasiou quando estava sozinho.

Ele se lembrou de algo, então apontou nervosamente para seus olhos.

Ele ia tirar a máscara?

"Por favor, Tommy, deixe-me ver você, por favor".

Ele hesitou.

Era muito delicado para ele.

O arrependimento tomou conta de você e você sentiu que estava pedindo demais."Tudo bem, eu não vou te forçar se você não quiser."Você deu a ele um olhar compreensível.

Não.

Era o mínimo.

Você sempre foi tão bom.Era o mínimo que ele poderia fazer por você depois de tudo que ele te fez passar.

Ele agarrou os cordões da máscara atrás da cabeça e puxou.

E por Deus.

Era o rosto mais bonito que você já viu.O maxilar forte, as cicatrizes espalhadas pela pele, lábios carnudos e vermelhos, sobrancelhas grossas que pareciam permanentemente franzidas, nariz deteriorado, bochechas pálidas contrastando com a testa desbotada pelo sol.

Ele olha nervoso para você, esperando sua reação.Quando ele parece não ter resposta, ele decide que basta, seus olhos desapontados, corpo pronto para se levantar.

Mas você para Thomas.Você segura o rosto dele e puxa o cabelo suado da testa.

"Idiota. Você não tinha o direito de esconder um rosto tão bonito de mim."

Ele fica vermelho.É a primeira vez que você o vê tão vulnerável.E ele é tão fofo quando está envergonhado.

Ele dá um beijo em suas mãos, antes de se lembrar do que estava fazendo antes.

Seu rosto se aproxima até ficar a apenas alguns centímetros de sua boceta encharcada, estudando com curiosidade e entusiasmo cada pedaço escorregadio de carne rosada que só ele tem o direito de olhar.

Só ele.

Você era dele desde o começo, você sempre foi dele.A emoção consumiu seu peito e logo sua boca ansiosa estava em você e ele gemeu com o gosto.Você geme com a sensação desconhecida, todo o sangue correndo para o sul.

A falta de prática de Thomas foi compensada por seu entusiasmo.Sua língua quente correu para cima e para baixo em sua fenda, como se ele estivesse curioso para aprender, mas não sabia por onde começar.Seus dentes irregulares cutucando você adicionaram uma pontada de prazer, sua língua circulou brevemente seu clitóris e você gemeu.

Thomas pareceu notar, pois um momento depois começou a pressionar a língua com mais força na área, os lábios carnudos se fecharam em volta do broto e chuparam.

"Fu-uuck".Merda, isso era tão bom."T-Tho-mas, use seus dedos."Você geme.

Ele pondera.Você agarra a mão de Thomas e segura um de seus dedos contra sua entrada."Assim, bem aqui."

Você guia o dedo dele dentro da sua boceta apertada.A sensação de suas paredes apertando seu dedo o fez se perguntar como seria seu pênis dentro de você.

Você gemeu.Droga, a sensação de seu dedo grande é boa o suficiente para envergonhar seus pequeninos.

Thomas começou a puxar o dedo para frente e para trás, testando seus limites.Ele te chupa enquanto bombeia o dedo em um ritmo crescente.Você suspira.

Seus quadris tremeram de prazer.Thomas colocou um braço sobre seu estômago, segurando-o firmemente no lugar.Ele te deu apenas um olhar: "fique quieto".

O calor em seu núcleo só aumentou.

Naquele momento ele era um homem faminto tentando aproveitar seu banquete.Ninguém iria impedi-lo, nem mesmo você.

A boca dele está imediatamente de volta em sua boceta, sugando descontroladamente, como se o néctar de sua excitação fosse o nirvana na Terra.

"Tomé!"

Ele suga sua boceta como se não conseguisse beber o suficiente, como se quisesse engolir você de uma vez, consumir você inteiro e ainda assim não se cansar de você.você vê estrelas dançando em sua cabeça enquanto seu orgasmo se aproxima cada vez mais rápido.Você cobre a boca com uma das mãos para conter o gemido, a outra mão agarra o cabelo dele, as mechas longas e gordurosas entre seus dedos puxadas com força, fazendo Thomas gemer.

Com um gemido alto, você goza forte.Sua visão fica branca.Você pulsa ao redor do dedo de Thomas, convulsionando enquanto ele tenta resistir ao forte orgasmo que atinge você.

Você geme de superestimulação e tenta avisar Thomas.

"Thommy, não mais. Não posso."você tentou puxar a cabeça dele para longe de você.

Apesar de seus apelos desesperados, ele não para.Ele suga vigorosamente sua boceta inchada, tentando obter mais e mais do seu mel.

Ele acrescenta mais um dedo e bombeia com força.A tipóia dele circula tudo o que ele pode alcançar de sua boceta latejante.

Logo você está perto de gozar novamente.Você levanta a cabeça para trás, os olhos estreitados e a boca aberta em um prazer ardente.

Você goza com um esguicho na boca de Thomas, seu rosto, sua mão pingando.

Ele lambe alegremente seu doce prêmio.

Você está acabado, pele nua coberta por uma fina camada de suor.E ele ainda nem terminou com você.

Ele se levantou e encarou sua forma desossada.Você era como uma deusa sob ele, bochechas rosadas, cabelos desgrenhados, peito arfando.Era a coisa mais linda que ele já tinha visto.

Você mal se recuperava e já queria mais, puxou a cintura da calça dele para baixo em movimentos fracos, na tentativa de incentivá-lo a tirá-la.Thomas entendeu a mensagem, e logo ele estava tirando as últimas peças de roupa, libertando seu pau pesado de suas restrições.

você engasgou

Seu pau era grosso, enorme.Algumas veias se destacavam ao longo de seu comprimento absurdo.A cabeça roxa babou uma gota de pré-sêmen.Ele estava duro, inchado e com raiva.

Você jogou.Sua mão envolveu seu comprimento.Foda-se, seus dedos não podiam nem tocar, a circunferência grande demais para caber em seu punho.Você tinha que envolvê-lo com as duas mãos para compensar a falta de espaço.Thomas gemeu ao seu toque, empurrando os quadris em suas mãos.

Thomas queria te foder, queria deflorar sua boceta até você gritar e gritar de prazer, gemendo o nome dele para que todos ouvissem a quem você pertencia.

Ele se separou de seu toque e gentilmente empurrou você para que você fosse deixado.Thomas se posicionou entre suas pernas e aproximou seu pênis de sua fenda gotejante, molhando-a com sua excitação.

Ele iria despedaçar você.Sua flor intocada por outro homem, ela não teve treinamento ou experiência para suportá-la.

Assim que ele conseguiu encontrar seu pequeno orifício, você o deteve.Ele olhou para você com expectativa, os olhos nublados com um prazer sombrio.

"Er-m Thomas II nunca d-fiz isso, eu quero tanto isso, mas não sei se posso... você sabe, você é tão grande e e eu..." Você gaguejou rapidamente.

Ele empalidece.Então você nunca... ele pensou que...

Você era... virgem?

Ele também não tinha estado com mais ninguém, só conhecia sexo por Hoyt e as besteiras que falava sobre as vítimas femininas que passavam pela propriedade, as revistas imundas que forçava Thomas a olhar.As coisas que ele viu na internet, no celular de uma vítima que ele roubou e aprendeu a usar sozinho.

Fora isso, ele nunca teve contato sexual com ninguém.Ele nunca se sentiu atraído por ninguém além de você e ninguém jamais se sentiria assim por ele.

Ninguém queria tocar em uma aberração, um monstro desfigurado.

Mas você?Você era linda aos olhos dele, uma musa, uma deusa imaculada e perfeita que apenas os mais dignos deveriam admirar.Ele não.Você deve ter vários homens perseguindo sua atenção.

Mas foi ele quem você escolheu, aquele que iria marcá-la e saboreá-la primeiro.

Você era uma criatura rara, uma alma inocente que ele aceitaria com prazer.

E sua deliciosa boceta guardada só para ele...

Seus olhos escureceram com desejo e necessidade desenfreada.Ele teve que se conter.Você precisava que ele fosse cuidadoso.

Ele te acalmou, segurou seu queixo e ergueu seu olhar tímido de volta para ele.Seus olhos eram como um oceano azul e negro, a pupila cobrindo a maior parte da íris.Ele estava tentando colocar autocontrole sobre seu desejo.Ele seria cuidadoso com você

Ele precisava de autocontrole para não te machucar.Apesar da urgência de estar dentro de você arrasando.

Ele olhou para você com carinho.Um sorriso suave no rosto.

"Não se preocupe"

Você suspirou e balançou a cabeça.

"Está tudo bem, eu confio em você"

Ele assentiu agradecido.

Thomas forçou a cabeça de seu pênis em sua entrada, empurrando lentamente, parando ocasionalmente para deixá-lo se recuperar.

Aos poucos, mais da metade de seu comprimento entrou em sua vagina.Ele queria manter o controle.Mas era muito para suportar.

Sua boceta era tão, tão apertada.Ele sentiu como se fosse gozar apenas pela sensação da resistência de suas paredes aveludadas ao seu redor.

Você tomou grandes goles de ar na tentativa de manter sua frequência cardíaca estável.Ele nem estava totalmente dentro e você já estava se sentindo sobrecarregada, tendo que esticar as coxas ao máximo para sustentar a circunferência da cintura dele.Assim que você se ajustou, aquela centelha de coragem apareceu."

"Thomas, mova-se, por favor."

Você não precisava pedir duas vezes.

Seu ritmo lânguido contra você permitiu que você se ajustasse à dor, que logo foi substituída por um prazer crescente.Ele acelerou.O pau cada vez mais fundo, até que ele foi enterrado em você.Quadris pressionados contra os seus.Ele lambeu a costura do seu pescoço e chupou uma pequena área que a fez formigar, o prazer de adicionar mais calor ao seu corpo em chamas.

A nata de sua boceta facilitou o deslizamento de seu pênis em sua boceta.Thomas estava batendo em você com velocidade.Ele olhou para seu rosto contorcido de prazer e manchado de lágrimas.Seu pênis latejava.

"Mais rápido, Tommy. Mais, mais, mais".Você chorou delirantemente.

O ritmo que ele estabeleceu foi brutal.Você o agarrou, os tornozelos cravados em suas costas, a mão atrás da cabeça, o rosto enterrado em seu pescoço. Ele te fodeu impiedosamente.Você gritou tão alto quanto uma estrela pornô barata.Se não fosse pela chuva que já caía lá fora, Monty certamente teria ouvido você.

Lágrimas grossas escorreram por suas bochechas aquecidas.

Ele rosnou sons abafados em seu ouvido.

Os gemidos de prazer dele se misturaram aos seus.Uma sinfonia que vocês dois compartilharam nos ouvidos um do outro.

"Esse tempo todo você queria me foder grandalhão, hmm?"Você gemeu no ouvido dele."Quer enfiar esse pau grosso na minha boceta até eu não conseguir andar?

Merda... Você sabia como falar sujo?A garota educada e inocente de que Luda Mae se gabava?Se ela ouvisse essas palavras saindo da sua boquinha linda...Oh não, ela teria um ataque.

Ele geme.Ele te foderia como a puta que você é.Sua atrevida, s/n.

Ele coloca o poder total.Seus quadris eram como pistões, desenfreados e poderosos.

Você viu estrelas, antes de sentir seu terceiro orgasmo se aproximando.Ele não parava, a sensação de sua boceta mastigando era demais para ele.Ele sentiu como se fosse gozar a qualquer minuto.

Ele colocou a boca sobre sua orelha e rosnou.

"MEU" Seus olhos se arregalaram.Você nunca o ouviu falar, e agora ele estava dizendo isso.Apenas para você.

Você sentiu a bobina apertar.Em um ato desesperado, você mordeu a curva do pescoço de Thomas.Ele gemeu forte.Foda-se, você ia gozar em todo o pau dele.

Sua voz grossa e retumbante retumbou como um terremoto em seu peito: "CUM, S/N!".

Com um último olhar acalorado de Thomas, você veio.

Seu clímax atingiu como um trem.Seus olhos reviraram atrás das pálpebras dele, cabeça jogada para trás em êxtase.

Seu orgasmo rasgou o de Thomas.Pussy ordenhando-o com fervor.Cordas grossas de esperma disparando dentro de você em quantidades absurdas que não cabiam dentro e transbordavam a cada estocada.Seus quadris gaguejaram em seus últimos impulsos.Até que ele caiu em cima de você, seus antebraços se prepararam para não jogar todo o peso do corpo dele em sua forma menor.

Vocês ficaram lá, curtindo o calor um do outro e a agradável névoa pós-sexo.

Minutos se passaram e logo você quebrou o silêncio

"Desculpe"

Ele olhou para cima.Pelo que você estava se desculpando?

"Eu não deveria ter sido tão imprudente, eu deveria ter dito alguma coisa naquele dia na delegacia. Eu deveria ter te defendido daqueles idiotas, mas agi como um covarde."

Você não teve culpa de nada, o único que deveria estar se desculpando e implorando pelo seu perdão era ele.

Ele te olhou com determinação

"Você não" ele tentou novamente

"S-desculpe, s/n. Eu fui mau, não você." ele disse com olhos lacrimejantes.Você avaliou ele, doeu falar?Ele estava se torturando só para se desculpar com você.

"Thomas, pare".Ele olhou para você com pesar.Olhos tristes e culpados encarando os seus com relutância.

"O que aconteceu não importa agora, ok? Você estragou tudo, eu estraguei tudo, éramos dois idiotas brigando por algo inútil. A única coisa que eu quero agora é que você e eu tentemos nos conhecer, ok . Eu quero te tocar e poder falar com você sem todo esse rancor. Eu quero que você me toque e fique mais perto de mim, não fuja como você costumava. Eu quero ser amigo antes de qualquer coisa. Eu quero ser sua namorada, amante, o que você quiser. Se você quiser quer."

Ele considerou você por um momento, sua expressão era de pura surpresa e deleite.Ele balançou a cabeça em afirmação.

Sim, s/n!Ele seria tudo o que você pediu.Ele não queria mais te amar em segredo, queria poder tocar no seu rosto, no seu cabelo, queria acordar e te encontrar na cama dele com o cabelo bagunçado e olhos sonolentos.Ele queria ter aqueles momentos suaves de provocação, queria ser capaz de observar abertamente o seu sorriso sem ter que observá-lo à distância, queria tomá-lo em seus braços e beijá-lo…..

Sim, sim e sim.

Ele queria compensar aquela pontada de culpa sofrendo por todas as vezes que ele te machucou.Ele tentaria compensar com cada gesto de amor que pudesse lhe dar.Ele daria a vida por você.

Você sorriu e beijou todo o rosto dele, a testa, as pálpebras, as bochechas com cicatrizes, o nariz danificado e, finalmente, a boca.Ele segurou seu rosto nessa posição e roubou seus lábios em um beijo lento e profundo.

Você se separou e descansou sua testa contra a dele com um suspiro feliz.

Mas então você sentiu a palha seca do feno formigando desconfortavelmente em suas costas.

"Então. Que tal correr para casa na chuva? A cabeça dele balançou em negação."

"Bem, eu ia dizer que vocês poderiam tomar banho juntos quando chegarmos lá, mas se você não quiser..."

Ele levantou a cabeça e abriu os olhos.Você olhou para ele com ousadia.

Garota safada.

Ele te deu um selinho.

"Ah, então isso é um sim?"Ele riu, mas acenou com a cabeça, combinando com sua diversão.

"Eu te amo Tomás"

Ele tocou seu lábio inferior com o polegar, beijou sua bochecha e sussurrou na concha de sua orelha.

"Eu também te amo S/N"

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Essa é minha primeira história, espero que tenha gostado🌼🌼

Pode haver porque esse é um texto de teste pouco editado, mas vou postar em breve um texto editado em versão inglesa.

Mas você pode achar a versao editada e em inglês pelo ao3 @amycarter

#thomas hewitt x reader #long reads #enemies to lovers #hate sex #The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2006 #one shot #smut #lemon

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love-toxin · 4 months ago

Text

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

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