#day six

You figure, all these fields must belong to someone, and given you don’t remember passing any farmhouse down the road, there must be one up ahead. And so, slinging your backpack over both shoulders and struggling your suitcase out of the trunk, you begin trekking. Not at all dressed for the walk—wearing dusty Converse with soles thin enough to feel the rubble underfoot, summer socks leaving your legs bare leading up to a pair of short, tattered demins, and a flannel you’d tied up into a knot about your belly button, stolen from the boyfriend you were running away from.

No, he hadn’t really done anything to deserve such a thing. You just couldn’t be tied down. He wanted kids, marriage, you by the stove in an apron. You were still too young for such things. All your life, you’ve only seen the town you grew up in. Hell, you've never even been this far out, and you still haven’t reached the outskirts of the county. How can anyone expect you to settle down when there’s a whole world out there and you’ve only experienced the backyard?

You switch to using your other arm. With all your life stuffed into the chest, it’s no wonder your shoulder’s being pulled off—stupid wheels getting stuck on every pebble. You kick a larger rock and huff.

You’re going to the city. And if your car won’t take you, then someone else’s has to. You’re a pretty girl, not like some other straggling hitchhiker, who wouldn’t give you a ride? You’re sure whoever’s at the end of the road will be more than glad to help you.

Yeah, if luck were kind enough to have it, you should have said, and not had fate lead you straight into whatever hell it was you’d arrived. It was as if someone had grabbed you by the hair on your scalp and tossed you into the spittle-thick dregs of a bottle of moonshine.

The old farmer who owned the place sat propped on the porch in a rocking chair, shotgun in hand, looking like he came straight out of an old western. No, really, he had the old boots of a cowboy, a hat to match, and a yellow-stained beard that very nearly reached the floor. His wife was a similar bag of bones, looking like a garbage raccoon rummaging through your suitcase like it was a bin sale at the mall, pulling out all your neatly folded clothes, among them your very favorite white Sunday dress, and was madly dancing around with it barefoot on the gravel, laughing like an old witch summoning the devil.

And you’re sure he was there bearing witness. Because just like your suitcase, ripped and tussled and pulled left and right, so were you, caught between their three big-boned sons like the last scrap-piece of meat you’d throw to the dogs to watch them fight amongst themselves.

You scream, but all the way out here, you doubt anyone’s around to hear, not for all those miles you walked and the other hundred you drove without passing a single soul. Still, you pray, calling out for help with tears streaming thickly down your face.

“Drink some ‘shine, filly—that’ll cheer you up,” is all the answer you get.

The bitter drink is poured all over your face with how much you flail, and you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the sting, coughing through it while one of them pinches your mouth open and the other keeps pouring. Most of it ends up raining on the ground, and yet you feel the burn of it going down your throat, settling like white heat in your belly—the type of liquor that’s more reminiscent of wiper fluid than anything you’re accustomed to.

They seem to sling it back like water, licking the spillage off your neck and cheek while they tear the clothes off your body like they’re unwrapping their sole gift on Christmas morning, pawing at your soft bits in rough tugs while keeping your arms bent harshly behind your back.

You kick around fruitlessly, but they’ve all got the build of someone who’s been moving haystacks single-handedly since they first hit puberty, and between the three of them, you stand no better chance than a newborn calf.

There’s a mattress placed just shy of the porch steps for only god knows what reasons, bare of a clean sheet, and visibly taken by rain of multiple seasons, riddled with stains of green, yellow, and black. They force you down on it, face-first and knees deep with your ass in the air, grabbed and molded against a dirty pair of overalls belonging to the eldest, while the two younger ones keep each of your arms pinned.

Undoing the buckles, he bows down, bearing over you until his stiff chin stubble bites the soft belly of your tear-sensitive cheek, grunting gruffly, “It’s okay, little filly—our arms are always open to all new farm animals that come out our way.”

Unleashed, the skin of it is hot against yours and fatter than anything you’ve felt before, resting heavy in the cleft of your cheeks before dropping through towards its target.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head no more—we’ll take real’ good care of ya’ from now on.”

♡ BNHA – ShigaDabiHawks, DenkiKiriSero,

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist