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#massacre tw
one-time-i-dreamt · 1 year
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reflections-of-mobius · 2 months
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[ @bornofgamma | DM'd for a starter!]
It could hardly be called a massacre. But it was tempting- tempting to call this utter destruction something so vile, but so true. He hadn't really thought about it when he'd left Sanden- left his world- today, to explore far-away places. Not until it was too late, and he was left, nonexistent lungs choking on ash and fumes as dull green hues examined the wreckage before him.
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It may have once been a massive sphere of metal and wires and bolts- but now, it had been unceremoniously cracked. Black oil flowed like wine from the obliterated construction, an entire continent's worth of land reduced to a scrap heap...he was quite sure, deep down, that this world was dying.
Beneath that scrap, nearly like a second layer, was so much water- drowning the deepest depths of what had once been the world below. Once tall skyscrapers were now little more than broken shards of concrete and pipework, sticking jaggedly up into the sky if they stood at all.
He would have cursed his luck,- but this wasn't his world. A pang of guilt coiled around his chest as he took a step towards the mass of twisted metal and destroyed buildings. A robot rose from the destruction to attack him, sparking and whirring, monotone voice uttering something about 'Egg Empire'- only to immediately receive a blast of raw Chaos Energy through its core. The single optic it had went dark as the creation fell back into the heap behind it.
The heap broke away from the main pile- tilting downwards...and rolling into the oceanic waves far below.
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He continued to walk- making his way deeper into a nation of smoldering metal and ash, broken concrete and destroyed brick. Murk couldn't turn back the clock on this one...I wish I could, though.- No, if he did...this disaster- this marked moment in this Mobius' history- would never come to pass.
One cannot appreciate the highs without also suffering the lows.
But how much it pained him to see an arm sprawled from under a section of rubble, limp and cold- to not hear a single noise of distress...just the crackles of dying fires, and the rumbles and clacks of this destroyed place. This wasn't his world...he couldn't interfere--- but Chaos, each step was a further torture.
At least they cannot feel it.
I used to relish in this, it thought somberly as it trudged through the destruction. Sure- he could have floated. He could have easily meandered over this pointless destruction, turned an eye...but some part of him- perhaps remnants of his sadistic impulses from when he craved the Flame- kept him walking. He teleported between jagged cliffs and long-lost camps, the faintest signs of life long past.
Walking, that is, until he found something else in the rubble. The closest Murk could place it to would be one of Eggman's old robots- red paint chipped...a massive hole in its center, from which oil dripped and sparks hissed.
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Maybe...
At least one could live.
Murk raised a hand- feeling his disguise falter and fade, drifting as smoke around him before disappearing into the rapidly-forming crystalline structures of his true body. He gathered some of his power- a very small portion- and watched as it slowly coalesced.
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"...please...be better than your creators." Or predecessors- for all Murk knew, this world may have been one full of metal and oil, instead of flesh and blood. But he didn't tarry long on the thought, instead slowly lowering his hand into the compartment- allowing the solid, dark-purple crystal of Chaos Energy to float there for a moment...before it began to reach out, slowly growing into the broken wiring and chassis, forcing the frame to hold together as Chaos Energy was pumped into the robot. "...can you hear me...?"
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transexualpirate · 1 year
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there have been threats of massacres ans school shootings all around my country recently. theyre putting a metal detector in my little brothers school. hes eleven. there was a graffiti saying "we'll kill you all, hitler lives" in a college near me, which my cousin actually goes to. im scared. im so scared all the time.
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and cnn claiming they were allowed like they shouldn't have asked or wondered about doing so in the first place where these fuckers from the us originally i wonder cause they look white white white to me, what's with whites constant fetishization and sensationalism when it comes to non white countries, like i know nothing's going to happen to them fucking creeps
@vague-humanoid
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niteshade925 · 1 year
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Again, with these Americans--yes, I'm not going to even beat around the fucking bush anymore, I don't care if anyone doesn't "like" me talking about this--Americans on this true crime podcast called Morbid talking about the Vietnam War as if it wasn't a fucking crime that permanently damaged people in Vietnam and US. Let's see, there was fucking Richard Ramirez (no I'm not going to address him by his "cool" little nickname), who had pictures of war crimes (killing and raping of Vietnamese women; this podcast would not call it a war crime, which is really telling) shown to him by his older cousin who was in Vietnam committing these war crimes, and he grew into a fucking inhuman monster who raped and killed girls. Like what a fucking surprise! The podcast says "oh yea many people grew up in horrible environments and were fine", like oh yea obviously, obviously many people also had older relatives who proudly boasted to them of the war crimes they committed in another country, yea obviously everyone had that growing up, ha ha. And then now there's William Bonin who joined the US army and participated in the Vietnam war as an aerial gunner, who went on to commit horrible murders and was literally remorseless.
And now here is a direct quote from this podcast, please enjoy:
"So off he (William Bonin) went to serve in the Vietnam War. Which was probably...not gonna be great for him, but we'll see. So he went in there, and he became an aerial gunner. And he actually was doing great. He actually received medals for conduct and actually saved a fellow soldier's life, and received an honor for that. Like risked his own life to save a fellow soldier. And you would think that maybe that gave him some new sense of purpose or a feeling that life was precious, but it did not. And again, Vietnam was...hooo...like you would hope that saving a fellow soldier would give you something to latch onto, but then the other stuff that he saw, I'm sure was just like a constant... Now during his enlistment, he actually ended up assaulting two fellow soldiers, he literally like tied them down and raped them. Yea. At gun point. So he like already started this bad reign of terror. I think he was there for like a 5 month tour, so 1968, he was honorably discharged. And he was quoted as saying that his time in Vietnam made him feel like 'human life was overvalued'. So, not great."
Like what the fuck did you expect, ma'am? You think being in a war where your side was raping and torturing people and killing entire villages in another country would "give him some new sense of purpose or a feeling that life was precious"??????? What drugs are you on ma'am????
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quasi-normalcy · 2 years
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nymfaia · 2 years
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ALTA ; GARLEAN VERSE.
    It was the soldier’s curiosity that had the airship hesitate, and the realization that a small child was hidden among the entrails and blood that had it lower among the stone clearing.
   In the early, foggy morning after the Dotharl slaughtered the Hotgo, a Garlean airship cut through the dawn on their way to Castrum Fluminis.
From above land, the sunrise caught the sheer viscera painting the Hotgo tribal lands.
   With nothing to lose, the traumatized child is hoisted upon the airship. Either they would succumb to the wilderness, left alone to die, or the child could become a soldier.
    Lacking the Echo in this verse and without the support of the Kha tribe to keep her afloat, Alta is taken back to Garlemald and adopted into a family of lower-rung nobility who were desperate for redemption. They took in the silent child, voice captured by the sheer loss she had experienced days prior, and gave her a new name.
    And so Aeliana came to be.
   Over her time in Garlemald, Aelie proved her affinity toward healing magicks and medical knowledge. As she matured, she slowly grew out of her aan title, evolving to dus and further. By the time A Realm Reborn occurs, Aelie is twenty-four and well on her way to a medicus position within the Garlean forces.
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spellwound · 2 months
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zynth hears it more than they see it.
back turned to the rest of the fight, taking on true soul nere and his sergeant thrunn, everything in the warlock turns cold as ice as he hears the last choking cry for help from someone who their heart had grown ever close to. it was not a whimper, not a plea, it was a desperate bloody wail for help & everything in the once cold warlock curdles sour and then bitter like bile & blood.
without thinking, they scream ──
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"GALE! NO!"
only for his love's body to hit the ground, bleeding out.
the blood still left in them pounds in their ears, a burning of cold flame of the stars & icy depths of space fills them with a rage they have not known in so very long now. they think of the smile that gale shared when they both channeled a bigger part of the weave together. they think of the way gale laughs so big, and smiles as if he's forgotten how to ( & still looks beautiful while remembering ). they think of the way that they might not get to tell him that he lo─
something in zynth SNAPS.
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"You're getting IN MY WAY."
nere, down to two blasts, last breath being a poisonous one. thrunn, down to a slash across the throat and being tossed into the lava. archers shot into lava with a repelling blast from their eldritch inclinations. mages burned alive with unholy fire by a sibling cackling madly for but a moment as she realizes that they've finally pushed zynth to CARE ( & not in a way that favors them ).
astarion, perched on the edge of the watchtower, stands up from his hiding position and watches with wide eyes as a warlock almost seems to... spread wings through use of misty step, through use of haste, through use of spells that they shouldn't be able to use.
it was almost as if...
these two could truly kill a god.
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"Gale, you fuck, don't go dying on me now!"
astarion can't help the chortle as the battle dies as quickly as it began. ( he's heard that passionate anger before - heard that love in the wrath before. these next days will be fun. )
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attyattlaw · 3 months
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like hiring a horse to dogsit
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villains4hire · 8 months
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@deathinfeathers
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"Well~ Aren't you just d-i-v-i-n-e, but are you a fan of mine? Or are you here to get in my way? I'd LOVE to wreck such a pretty face and see you beg for your life... but I think I'd like to chit-chat as well, to get to know each other and that cute little head of yours, babycakes," Miss Heed had her goons as usual, super-powered and numerous for a job as serious as this. She'd sacrifice them with care while needed but not exactly sparingly, but had developed an art of just using the lesser ones as fodder as bodies littered the area, buildings of the target she was assigned on fire and smoking. Lute would feel her mind under invisible jaws, practically able to feel the phantom drool on them at... whatever she was staring at resisting the temptation to snap them shut- all hidden behind an unnatural smile for a 'human'.
They were a unique piece, she wanted them, but willingly.
At least even while merciless? Civilians were being picked up by force, family and all rushed and practically thrown to safety. As they were in the way, but they were bonus points to keep alive.
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one-time-i-dreamt · 2 years
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I woke up in my parent's town, there was a thick dense fog everywhere, there was a politically sanctioned massacre going on in the town square, and it was Christmas.
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toxicanonymity · 14 days
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The Spread
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PAIR: Thomas Hewitt (Leatherface) x f!Reader
WORD COUNT: 3.5k | MASTERLIST
SUMMARY: You hide and don't get slaughtered. Tommy secretly keeps you. He's kinda sweet if you're good.
WARNINGS: I8+ Canon-typical violence (implied) & setting, captivity, dark caretaking, manhandling, sleeper hold, oral f receiving, noncon unsafe piv, finger gagging, dark fluff, tommy has a praise kink, stockholm syndrome vibes. NO human skin mask: leather partial mask shown in photo. He is feral and naive due to his family. No use of Y/N. Divider by gasolinerainbowpuddles.
SIZE KINK - Reader is much smaller than Leatherface, can be carried and maneuvered. He is 6’5”, thicc and STRONG.
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You barely escaped the so-called law man, and your friends weren’t so lucky. They got chased right into the lair of a chainsaw-wielding giant.
“C’mon, Tommy,” the Sheriff encouraged the giant, “Just like the slaughterhouse.”
Heavy chains thrashed, and one of your friends groaned.
“Attaboy,” the Sheriff praised.
While they were distracted, you ducked into a nearby woodshed. You didn't dare go far – you had encountered too many hazards on the property to trust your footing, and couldn't risk calling attention. Instead, you sat there in the shed, paralyzed, listening to your friends get butchered. One by one, their squeals turned animalistic until a wet thwack or rev of a motor cut them off.
Finally, there were no more screams.
Huddled in a corner of the woodshed, you tried to keep your wits about you. The shed was about the size of a small dorm room. There were stacks of wood all around–some freshly cut, some rotted–and hay covered the floor.
You were in a tank top and Daisy dukes with cowboy boots that made you feel like an idiot. You had sap on your knees from crawling over the wood. Taking deep breaths did nothing but fill your nose with cedar - it was only a matter of time before you’d meet your fate. You picked splinters out of your hands as you replayed the chase in your mind. You began to feel sure “Tommy” had seen you run into the shed. If that was the case, you didn't know why he let you go. You could only guess he already had his hands full.
“Think we got’em all, son?” The Sheriff asked.
Tommy grunted.
“That’s my boy,” the Sheriff concluded.
-
Dusk was approaching. Not long after the Sheriff left, heavy footsteps crunched louder and louder toward the woodshed. Your heart pounded harder with each step. The rickety door busted open with a plume of dust. Tommy’s silhouette consumed almost all the daylight that remained.
The door frame would’ve been tall enough for most men, but Tommy had to duck on his way in. He carried an ax. Each step he took shook the entire structure. His breathing was loud, his mouth hanging open below the leather that covered his nose. The partial mask covered his chin too, but not his mouth. It was fastened with two straps behind his head nestled in thick, chestnut hair that came down around his shoulders.
He approached you cautiously and paused when he was an arm’s length away. You whimpered, knees held to your chest. He sniffed around like an animal. Then he brushed a stray section of hair out of his eyes, and you saw a glint of uncertainty in his gaze. You tried to compose yourself, wondering if your fear could trigger him.
He knelt down to get a better look at you. He reached for you, and you jumped. He grumbled and held up a massive finger less than an inch from your mouth, telling you to be quiet.
Something possessed you to reach for his hand. He let you move it.
You put his palm on your cheek and watched his chest heave in confusion.
He tilted his head and stayed crouched there for a moment, staring at you with his brown eyes softening above the leather.
“Attaboy,” you whispered, repurposing the Sheriff’s words.
Tommy huffed, then abruptly stood. He left the shed, ax slung over his shoulder. He ducked again on his way out.
He didn't return for a while. You finally dared to open the door just enough to look out, but not for long, startled by an older woman’s voice calling, “Tommy!!! Time for supper.” You shrunk back into your corner, afraid you had been spotted.
You sat there frozen, afraid to run.
-
Sometime later, you heard a squeaky wheel approach the shed. The door opened more quietly than it had the first time. The hulking silhouette was backlit by a buzzing floodlight in the yard. The man seemed to be more careful and quiet this time. He had brought a few blankets. One of them was tattered, pale yellow bordering what used to be white, and it had Care Bears on it. He put the blanket over your body, coming all the way up to your neck, and patted your head. Then he took a bundle of newspaper out from under his arm and handed it to you like an offering. It smelled like barbecue.
As he turned to leave, you whispered, “Tommy.”
He dropped his head and looked back.
“Thank you,” you said.
Looking at the wall, Tommy offered a short nod before leaving. Then he locked the door from the outside.
After he left, you opened the newspaper. It was too dark to see, but the contents felt like a charred bone with bits of flesh hanging to it. You weren't hungry anyway.
You wrapped yourself tight in the blanket, and to your discomfort, your heart fluttered at the man’s softness with you. You replayed the day’s harrowing events in your mind’s eye and saw him differently than you had at first. Maybe he was nothing but an attack dog. You began to doubt he would've hurt your friends at all if not for the older, more wicked man in uniform.
Maybe Tommy was as much of a prisoner as you were. You wondered if he could talk. You felt sure he could listen.
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After sunrise, you awoke to some commotion and heard a vehicle drive away. After a period of silence, you tried to open the door to the shed, but it was securely locked.
Soon, Tommy came back and unlocked it. He moved swiftly toward you with purpose in each heavy step, crouching slightly. The mass of his body strained his shirt. You'd never seen forearms like his. He could surely snap you like a twig, but something told you he wouldn't. Still, your heart raced when he lunged toward you. He reached over a wood pile and used both massive hands to force you onto your feet. He wrapped you in the blanket, then put you over his shoulder like a potato sack.
He put you into his wheelbarrow, then nestled some firewood around you. He looked around furtively as he did it. Then he covered you with another blanket and wheeled you across the bumpy ground, onto a smoother surface. He rolled a garage door down behind you and left you covered in the wheelbarrow as he rummaged around the garage.
You peeked out from the blanket and saw him placing shackles on a table. Your heart raced. You glanced behind you. The garage door was still lifted by a small margin. Maybe big enough to fit through.
You watched in terror as he brought out a mallet. Finally, your body unfroze.
You lowered yourself out of the wheelbarrow as carefully and quietly as you could and crawled toward the narrow opening. As you began to wriggle under it, your ass hit the door, making a noise far too loud to go unnoticed.
Within a split second, his massive hands were firm around your ankles, pulling you toward him, dragging you roughly across the concrete.
He manhandled you like a doll. He forced you onto your back and shook you, then wrapped a massive hand around your neck. Your life flashed before your eyes, and you kicked him. He grunted and grabbed you roughly by the shirt, then sat back on his knees. He held you with your back against his enormous thigh. Your Daisy dukes did nothing to protect your ass from the cold concrete. You thrashed, and he put the crook of his elbow around your neck, then everything faded.
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When you woke up, you were chained to the table, with cold, metal shackles on your wrists and one ankle. You were bottomless, and the air was cool between your legs. Your feet were bare. All you had left was your tank top, which you wore without a bra.
You didn't dare move. A foul dust in the air made you sneeze, then Tommy came into view. He was wearing a butcher’s apron, and the sleeves of his dingy, button-up shirt were rolled up to expose those big, hairy forearms. He held the mallet. His eyes were industrious.
“Please don't hurt me,” you begged.
He laid a heavy hand on your shin, and you flinched. He gently placed your free ankle in a shackle, then nailed it shut.
“Please,” you begged.
He laid a hand on your thigh and looked you in the eyes.
“What are you going to do to me?” You asked.
He huffed and put the mallet away.
You were relieved until he returned with a meat cleaver. You tensed and squirmed. He laid a hand on your stomach and his searing eyes told you to stay still. He slid the cleaver under your tank top, and you held your breath and looked at the ceiling. Your nipples hardened at the feeling of his knuckles between your breasts.
He violently sliced upward through the fabric, turning your wifebeater into a vest which burst open, freeing your breasts. He inhaled sharply at the sight and discarded the meat cleaver with a metallic clatter on a nearby shelf.
“Please,” you begged again, then he stuck his fingers in your mouth and peered in. His thick digits tasted like charcoal and salt. Three fingers were enough to stuff the orifice completely. When you stopped whining, he abandoned your mouth.
He cupped a breast, then cupped both of them. He hummed a curious “mm,” Then dragged his thumb down your sternum before stepping away to survey your body.
You felt like a cadaver sliced open for examination. As he slowly stalked around the table, it dawned on you that's what he was doing. He was studying you.
He stopped at a long side of the table – your left side. He brought his face–his leather mask–to your skin, just below your ribs. His hair fell onto your body, and the light brush of it tickled. He paused to loosen the strap at the back of his head. Then he dipped his face to your abdomen again. He turned his head and dragged his cheek, and the leather, over your bare stomach, to your breast. You could hear him desperately sniffing and wondered why he didn't take that thing off.
Lips, hair, and smooth leather dragged across your skin as he wiped his face along your chest. Then his face made its way into your armpit, where a dart of his tongue made you flinch and shiver. His tongue darted out again. He sucked the delicate skin slightly into his mouth before releasing it with a soft grunt.
He paused and pulled away. He pivoted to stand behind your head, then brought his hands to your breasts. Helowered his mouth to your neck and licked you. His hair fell on your nose and smelled like smoke and metal.
He seemed to savor the taste of your skin. He licked longer, harder, the strong slippery muscle of his tongue nudging your jugular. You felt a rush of arousal and shame. He tasted the other side of your neck and hummed in satisfaction. The throbbing between your legs made you wince.
He dragged his tongue down over your chest to lap at your breast. He flattened his tongue to lick your nipple, then began to suckle at it. One thing was clear - this was not for your enjoyment. He was entirely absorbed in what he was doing. He didn't even glance at your face. Whether it was for his pleasure or curiosity, you couldn't be sure. He moaned into your nipple and you knew you must have been gushing onto the table.
After a few seconds, he pulled away from your tit and began to sniff the air. He stalked around the table some more and paused at your shackled feet, staring up between your spread legs. He found the source. His hands dwarfed your thighs as he pushed them further apart. Then he dabbed a thick finger, only grazing your folds as he picked up just a taste of you from the table and brought it to his mouth.
“Mm,” he hummed quietly, staring between your legs. He licked his finger again and his eyes searched the air curiously. Then he grabbed your upper thighs and anchored his thumbs on your outer lips, spreading you open. His heavy gut rested on the table between your feet as he leaned forward. As he lowered his mouth to your cunt, you twitched and felt another rush of shame.
His breath was hot on your cunt, then he dipped his tongue, and you tensed.
He lapped at your entrance, and the physical pleasure made you exhale and relax, while your fear remained. He licked and sucked, and your moan echoed before you could try to cut it short. Your chest was hot with embarrassment, but if he heard the sound, he ignored it.
He fed on your juices like a starved animal. He sucked and slurped, and dug his lips and tongue in, searching for more. The squelching and gurgling sounds were obscene between your legs. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into your hips as he feasted.
The leather mask nudged your clit and made your hips lift into his mouth. He brought a hand to your lower belly to hold you still. Then his tongue plunged into you. You whispered, “good boy,” and your whole body felt weak with shame.
He paused and glanced up, then repeated the action. It was true, some part of you welcomed this, as afraid as you were. In any case, the heat and pressure building in your gut would have to release at some point.
He fucked you with his tongue, nudging your clit with the smooth leather, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. You'd never been eaten so voraciously. He moaned into your cunt and the tension was too much to hold. You whimpered as you began to pulse and twitch. His tongue paused as you clenched around it. Then he continued. Your back arched as he sucked it all out of you, swallowing every drop he could find. As your climax waned, you took slow, deep breaths.
Finally, he slowed down. He looked flustered for a moment, then his hand disappeared from your thigh. He pulled his face away, and the leather mask was soaked and shiny. Then he took his apron off. When he stood to put the apron aside, the protrusion in his pants made your breath hitch and your asshole flutter.
Your cunt spasmed once around nothing, and your insides churned as though making room for a massive guest.
You couldn't peel your eyes away. He adjusted himself, then palmed the bulge. His shirt had come untucked. The bottom button wasn't fastened, and his midsection strained the other buttons as his whole torso heaved. He eyed the mess between your legs as he palmed himself.
He seemed to be considering the possibility of stuffing your cunt with whatever monstrosity hid in his pants. He could take anything he wanted, but he didn't look proud of it. This didn't feel like something he did every day.
You decided not to fight back. You told yourself it was for survival, but you also twitched at the thought of him wrecking you. You looked at his crotch, then down between your legs, still gushing at the sight of him barely contained by his pants. The way his whole body wanted to bust out of his clothes made you weak in the knees. He was so solid and strong. You looked again from his crotch to your own, as though your eyes were instructing where to put it in defiance of your better judgment.
He grumbled as he picked up a hammer and approached you, making your heart nearly stop.
He pried the nails out of the shackles, and you cursed yourself for the way your heart fell. Your disappointment was quickly replaced by relief. A man this size, with these capabilities – he could have done serious damage to your body.
“Thank you,” you whispered. You laid on the table patiently looking at the ceiling as he went down to your feet and unshackled your ankles.
Then he grabbed you by the thighs and yanked you toward the end of the table, making you yelp. Your naked crotch came to rest flush against the bulge in his pants, making you ache with arousal. Your thighs trembled in fear.
You looked down toward him and he forced your chin upward, making you look at the ceiling. You pinched your eyes shut. You were at war with your body’s desire. He might kill you. He might actually split you in two. The dying squeals of your friends echoed in your mind. But his hardness swelled against you, and oh, fuck.
His hips backed up and you twitched at the loss of his warm package against you.
With your eyes still pinched shut, you heard his clothes jostling, then he spread your lips apart while he notched his tip against you. It was too big. He held your thighs again and pulled you toward him with a forward thrust and a grunt.
Being impaled with his cock felt like being split open. The girth burned as it stretched you, and you whimpered as your body tried to accommodate him. He stayed inside, and he sighed. You'd never felt so stuffed. He leaned forward, and the contact with your clit provided some relief as your body spread itself more. But still, your heart raced at the prospect of him moving. You prayed he would be gentle.
When you didn't stop whimpering, he stuck his fat, smokey fingers in your mouth again. He placed his other hand on your chest to hold you still, with the crook of his thumb close to your throat. You gagged on his fingers and he removed them. He wiped your saliva onto your nipple before kneading your breast.
Thankfully, you were wet and getting wetter. He held you down and slammed into you. The fullness pushed your thoughts out of the way along with your guts. You kept your eyes shut as he speared into you again.
His breathing and grunting seemed to echo through the room with every snap of his hips. His unholy girth twitched against your walls. He grabbed onto your hips and brutally pounded you. He used you like a sleeve until his moans were drawn out and his breath became ragged. He pulled you back hard and leaned forward, the weight of him resting on your lower abdomen. Your cunt fluttered in anticipation of his climax, but he paused. Your hips lifted, seeking friction for your front.
He pulsed once, making your chest flutter with pleasure, but then he swiftly slid out. He left you twitching for more as he finished coming outside. His cum painted your folds and inner thigh, and he grumbled and turned around. You lowered your chin to look just in time for him to release onto the wheelbarrow and floor. Then he stood there with his broad back heaving as he looked around.
You closed your eyes again and opened them when you felt fabric on your inner thigh. He was wiping you off with the bottom of his shirt. His face and neck were blotched pink, and he had fixed his pants. He was looking at you, chest still heaving when his ears perked up at the distant sound of tires on gravel.
He quicky put your shorts back on and gathered you off the table, nestling you in the wheelbarrow once more. He swaddled you in the old blanket, now wet with his cum, and opened the garage before quickly wheeling you back to the shed.
He placed you in the corner where you had been, just in time for the truck to park. As he turned to leave the shed, you said “Tommy. Can you bring me some water?”
He hesitated then gave a short nod before locking the shed again behind him.
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He came back later with a jar of water and a metal bucket. You were shivering in the corner when he came in. He set the bucket down next to you, then placed his hand on the crown of your head and gently moved his fingers as he looked around. Then he abruptly began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled you up from the corner to put the shirt on you. His chest was hairy and broad, and his entire torso was thick, just massive.
“Good Tommy,” you said as he finished putting the shirt on you.
He paused and left it unbuttoned. His eyes were big and brown. He held you by the sides, looking you up and down in the oversized shirt and Daisy dukes. Then he put you back where you were and locked the shed behind him.
The shirt was filthy, cumstained, and reeked of sweat, but it didn’t smell as bad as it should've. It didn't make you sick like it should've. When he left, you wrapped it tight around yourself, then looked in the bucket. There were apples.
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Thank you for reading and engaging! Love you guys 🖤
If you want more, please interact about it. I do have more thots! Feel free to send yours.
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ayo-edebiri · 5 months
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The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) dir. Tobe Hooper
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suturaura · 7 months
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sayruq · 27 days
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Click on the link to watch the video itself (it's not an easy watch)
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horrorfilmgifs · 1 month
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THOMAS HEWITT The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006) dir. Jonathan Liebesman
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