#thomas hewitt image

[milkteahood]

texas heat

Thomas Hewitt x fem!reader

Warning: smut! minors dni!!!

Summary: basically a smut with a plot

Sweat broke on your forehead as you wiped it still half asleep. It was terribly hot to even rest. As your eyes opened and started to adjust to the darkness around you, thoughts about the whole situation were still fresh in your mind. How long has it been? You thought to yourself. A few months maybe? 4? 5?

You stopped counting the days after the first few weeks. What for anyway? It wasn’t like you were ever leaving.

***

“Come on boys! We are completely lost!” your friend spoke, gesturing with her hands.

“It’s fine! It’s all good. A little detour” the driver laughed without a care in the world.

“That’s right Sam! Stop being so difficult. Look, Y/N isn’t saying anything” the other guy talked from the passenger’s seat.

At the mention of your name, you looked up from your book, and then quickly got back to it. You weren’t actually reading, but they weren’t paying attention to that. If they did, they would’ve seen you didn’t turn any page in the last 5 minutes. Pretending was just a good excuse to be out of this circus of conversation.

You didn’t consider any of them your friends. And you were sure they didn’t think of you as that either. They were Sam’s friends. And Sam was your friend out of convenience, just as you were to her. You wanted to travel, and she didn’t want to be the only girl on the trip.

“Come on Y/N!” Sam started “whose side are you on?”

“Maybe we should stop and ask for directions” you finally raised a point.

“Yeah? And where the fuck would we stop for that?” the driver asked “there is nothing around here!”

A sigh escaped your lips and you finally put the book down, looking out the window. Then, suddenly, you pressed your finger on the window, gesturing in the distance “there, it looks like a house”.

Little did any of you know this was the beginning of a whole new chapter in your life.

***

Rubbing your eyes, you looked at the little clock on your nightstand. 11:30 pm it said. It wasn’t that late, yet you couldn’t remember when you fell asleep. Realistically, the only one still awake was Thomas. The thought of that made you freeze in place. Oh yes, you thought to yourself again the summer isn’t the only reason I can’t sleep.

Another sigh left your lips. You didn’t think you would end up in this situation. Spared by a bunch of cannibals for the sole reason you smacked the driver when he started insulting Thomas.

***

“Hello?” the driver’s friend… Jason? Jack? Jeremy? J something. You couldn’t remember. Your name memory was never your strongest suit.

“Hello?” J began knocking again. And a second time. Just before knocking for a 3rd time, a woman opened the door.

“Yes? Who are you?” she spoke.

“Oh hello ma’am!” Sam approached “we are completely lost. We were wondering if you could give us any directions”

Luda Mae looked all of you up and down before speaking “come inside. You will die of the heat before you get any directions”

The boys looked at each other and you looked at Sam. But ultimately decided to follow the lady inside.

***

The memories were still fresh and you were sure they would be for the rest of your life. As you lay on your back, looking around the room, you felt your heart skip a beat as another thought made itself apparent. Thomas. Or better said. Your crush on Thomas. In the past month or so, you tried your best to get close to him. You offered to help with everything and anything he needed. Yet, he did his best to avoid you. You weren’t dumb, you knew exactly why. He was absolutely terrified at the idea you’re just fucking around. Lying. Being nice to him so he wouldn’t kill you.

“For fucks sake Thomas. I was nice to you even before I knew you butchered people for a living” you whispered yelled alone, in your room.

***

“So kids, how did you end up here?” Luda Mae asked, trying to see if you would make a good addition to the Hewitt meat supply. Were you going somewhere? Was someone important waiting for you? What was the chance of people coming to look for you? Those were important questions that needed answers. They couldn’t risk killing someone that could potentially lead the police to them.

As the conversation was unfolding, the driver and J became more and more impatient to leave, and your head cocked when hearing some footsteps. Before you realized it, this massive man was sitting in the doorway, breathing heavily, not saying a word.

“Oh Tommy! Look! We have guests” Luda Mae said, looking at her son. Thomas was tall, a huge man, his apron covered in blood.

“Oh fuck! What the fuck is that? He looks like—” the driver said but didn’t get to finish whatever insults he was going to spew because you smacked him.

“Just shut up. For once. Not everything revolves around you and your daddy’s money. You can’t just speak this way to people” you said, while he looked you completely shocked. No one has ever dared speak to him that way. Let alone slap him.

And that was the moment Luda Mae decided you would be the only one left alive.

***

The floor was cooler than the bed. You stood up and looked at yourself in the mirror. It was so dark you could barely see, only managing to make out your silhouette. You stood there for a while, thinking of what you should do.

You liked Thomas from the moment you saw him. You tried to befriend him but all he did was ignore you. On the occasions he actually had to interact with you, he looked so tense, like he was on the verge of exploding. You tried to give him space, but it wasn’t really helping. And now you were pacing around your room, unable to sleep because all you wanted was Thomas. The man who killed your “friends”.

What the fuck is wrong with me… he’s a murderer, his whole family is crazy.

Yes and so are you. I mean, you’re not running. You think he’s hot. This man could dismember you in a heartbeat and you think he is attractive. Talk about fucked up.

You frowned at your own thoughts. Thomas wasn’t a monster. He did what he had to. Yet what was your excuse? Falling for him?

Your heart started racing. Yes, you were falling for him.

After what seemed like an eternity, you went out of your room, down the stairs and into the living room. You stopped in front of the basement stairs and listened. Thomas was definitely still down there and it was now or never.

In the basement Thomas was still butchering some meat, not hearing you walk in over the sound of his cleaver. He didn’t like you coming there, he always thought you would judge him, mock him even.

“Thomas” you spoke, your voice making him stop with the cleaver still in the air. He lowered it and turned to you, not saying anything.

“It’s late Thomas. Maybe you should call it a day” you spoke softly, almost afraid to startle him.

You didn’t get a response. Then, he just turned around and continued what he was doing.

This made you frown and it hurt a little. Maybe he was not liking you as much as you liked him. Maybe he didn’t like you at all. However this couldn’t be further from the truth. He did like you. A lot. Which is why he was so scared to be around you.

You bit your lip, a little too hard, and decided to approach him. The second your hand touched his arm, Thomas completely froze. His body was incredibly tense and all he managed to do was look at you.

“Did I do something to upset you?” you tilted your head “you always seem to ignore me. I’m sorry if I upset you at all”.

Thomas’s wide widened. You were apologizing to him? What for? You thought he was mad at you? But how could he? He grunted back at you. In the beginning it was very difficult to understand him, but now you could make up the words he was saying. He said no.

“Well then what is it?” you pressed him, gently rubbing his arm. His eyes looked like they could come out of his head, immediately shifting his gaze away from you, almost shaking.

“Thomas, Tommy, oh no” you reached for his other hand which was still tight around the cleaver. Gesturing for him to let it go, you managed to turn him so he’d face you. “You’re ok. Everything is ok” you said, looking at him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. I’m sorry. I will go upstairs” you gave him a bit of a sad smile and turned to walk away. Yet, you didn’t get to take two steps before he stopped you. As you turned to him, he gave you another grunt. Stay. This one meant stay.

Both of you were blushing. Your brave girl facade paled the moment you felt his hand around your arm. Compared to him, you were incredibly tiny and for that, he treated you as if you were made of glass. Because to him, you were.

You stepped in front of him, both of you looking at each other. You learned to be gentle with him, maybe even more gentle than he was with you. Because unlike you, he never had people not be terrified of him.

Smiling, you cupped his face in your hands, which caught him off guard, but he didn’t stop you. For whatever reason, you were here, you didn’t try to run away, and you were kind to him. Before he knew it, he was leaning into your touch.

“Tommy?”

He opened his eyes, waiting for you to continue.

“I really like you, Thomas”

His now open eyes were widened, staring at you, almost looking through you, waiting to see any shred of dishonesty. But there was none. You were genuine. He then couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with you. How could you like him? No. He didn’t care. You liked him. And he was going to take it.

He didn’t realize some time passed without giving you an answer, which caused you to mumble another apology. He, however, didn’t let you finish. You soon found yourself in a hug. A very tight hug. Which you happily reciprocated.

After pulling away, you both looked at each other and without much of a second thought, you pulled the other into a kiss. It was reckless and full of built up frustrations on both parts. You were the first to pull away.

“Thomas.. it’s difficult to kiss you with that mask on”

He didn’t say anything and looked away. He didn’t want to show you. There was finally something he had and showing you his face might ruin it. He grunted a no.

“Please..” you pleaded while cupping his face again.

He damned himself for being so weak around you. You looked sad and a little disappointed. He let out a huge sigh and slowly took off his mask, letting it fall on the floor and completely avoiding your gaze. Whatever disgusted face you made, he didn’t want to see. Only if he looked to see it was not disgust but love.

“Fuck me you’re handsome” was all you said before pulling him in and kissing him again. He looked like a deer in headlights, but quickly melted into your kiss, picking you up and placing you on his workbench.

Your legs were wrapped around him, your hands pulling at his hair while he was tightly holding you by your waist. You felt his erection press against you, so you pushed yourself closer to him, which caused Thomas to grunt and moan into the kiss.

Thomas was the one to pull away this time, spending some time admiring you. Slowly, you started to unbutton his shirt “you can help me with mine if you want” you said a little flustered.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Once you felt his excitement, you knew Thomas was coming out of his shell. Soon enough yours and his shirts were thrown on the floor, and you were making out on the cold and hard workbench. You didn’t care, you also didn’t care that his grips wound leave bruises. You just wanted him. He cupped your breast, gently squeezing, earning himself a moan from you and the confirmation that he is doing it right.

“Please Tommy” you whined between kisses, tugging at his belt.

He wanted to so bad. But what if he hurt you? He had no what what he was doing. But how could he resist you? His whole body was shaking, you were begging him to have sex with you. Him. He pulled away from the kiss and quickly undid his belt and pants, making himself moan as he pulled his cock out. Your heart skipped a beat seeing Thomas naked in front of you. You look off your underwear and pull him into another kiss.

You didn’t think much before starting to palm his length, causing him to moan into your mouth. Thomas started thrusting as you were stroking him. He could cum just like that, but you wanted more. And he did too.

As your back rested on the cold table, Thomas climbed on top of you, neither daring to break the kiss. You couldn’t even wrap your legs around him, a detail he found really cute. He pulled away from the kiss only to look at your expression again. Was this really ok? Is this really what you wanted? You looked so beautiful and so turned on. Rubbing yourself against his erection was all the confirmation he needed before slowly starting to push his cock into you.

Feeling him inside you completely knocked the air out of you, immediately kissing him again, moaning into his mouth. Your figure, your voice, your shaking body were making Thomas go feral. His grunts on the other hand made your whole stomach feel hot. Thomas was thrusting into you, firmly holding your waist with one hand and supporting himself up with the other. Your arms were wrapped around his back, face buried into his neck, trying to muffle your moans.

He was hitting all the right spots, causing your mind to go blank and your nails to dig into his skin. Once his voice became shakier, you knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Oh fuck…” you moaned and he responded by thrusting even harder. It was almost as if your every moan was making Thomas go more feral.

His rhythm was becoming more erratic, signaling that he was getting closer.

“It ok Tommy” you said between moans “I want you. Fill me up, please Tommy”.

Saying that was enough to push him over the edge. After a few more thrusts he came with a low, guttural moan, completely intoxicated by you.

You were both panting and looking at each other afterward. He couldn’t believe what just happened. Were you a dream? No. You were there, smiling at him. Did that mean you were his now? Yes. Most definitely.

He picked you up off of the table, squeezing you close to him. He was still panting and so were you, yet, both happy and finally content.

[small-sinclair]

Telling Him You’re Pregnant

Bo Sinclair || Johnny Sawyer || Rusty Nail || Thomas Hewitt || Rz!Michael Myers

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

He kisses you sweetly. “Tell me again,” he whispers. “Say it.” He’s nervous. He’s never nervous.

Tears fell as you held his cheeks, whispering again, “We’re pregnant.”

His rough, calloused hands touched your stomach gently. He felt like he was going to drop to his knees but didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to be strong enough for the both of you. He’d be damned if you got hurt because he was too weak.

“I love you,” he says in your hair, kissing you on the forehead then lips. “I love you.”

He held you a bit tighter that night and made sure his knife stayed by his side of the bed.

[dukestags]

Warmth in the Shadows

Thomas Hewitt (Leatherface) x Gender-Neutral Reader

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

warnings: Dark Romance, Horror, Slow-Burn Obsession, stalker

Summary: a killer who stalks a person who starts treating him with gentleness.

(made for my bestieee. Also they made the picture @won11luvs)

The Texas heat clung to everything like a second skin, and out on the edge of Travis County, silence ruled. You’d always wanted to get away from the city—away from the noise, the rush, the eyes—but this? This was too quiet. Not even the bugs chirped near the Hewitt property line.

And maybe that’s why you noticed him so quickly.

It started with the sounds.

Rustling in the brush when you went to bring the laundry in. Heavy footsteps behind the barn that vanished when you turned your head. Then came the sightings—brief, fleeting. A towering figure at the treeline. A shadow ducking behind the tool shed. Once, you woke up in the dead of night and saw a large silhouette standing just beyond your bedroom window… not moving. Just watching.

Your first instinct had been fear. Then anger. Then something... else.

Curiosity.

Loneliness.

Empathy?

He never tried to break in. Never made a sound when you screamed into the dark. He left no messages, no harm. Only… gifts. A carved wooden figurine. A smooth stone polished clean and warm like it had been held for hours. A jar of honey, half-full, and sealed with old wax paper. You knew the stories—everyone in town had one—but none of them prepared you for this. For him.

He was always there. Quiet. Steady.

And, in a way, you realized… so were you.

It wasn’t until the first cold front blew in that you made him something.

Banana bread.

You’d always baked when anxious—an old coping habit. That day, your hands had shaken too badly to fold laundry, so you turned to flour and eggs instead. When it was done—crisp on the edges and soft in the middle—you stared at the loaf cooling on the rack and thought: Why not?

You cut a slice, wrapped it in wax paper, and walked outside at dusk.

“I know you’re there,” you said softly to the trees. “I don’t… I don’t want to be scared of you.”

You knelt and placed the bundle on a flat stone near the fence line, where you’d seen his shadow last.

“I made this for you.”

You didn’t expect a response.

But when you looked the next morning, the bread was gone.

That became a routine. Once a week, sometimes more. Cookies. Cornbread. Even a pie once, when you were feeling brave. Each time, you left a note. Never asking questions. Just… simple words.

"Hope you’re safe."

"This one’s still warm."

"You must get lonely out here too, huh?"

And, over time, the forest answered.

He left you things. A single crow feather, perfect and black. A rabbit's foot charm. Flowers—ugly and awkwardly bundled but picked with care. And one night, you found a folded page torn from a child's coloring book, colored in with shaky lines. Crayons. Red and yellow and blue.

It made your chest hurt.

Then came the night it rained.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but when thunder cracked and woke you, the power was out. The house was pitch black—except for the back porch, where the lantern you’d forgotten to take inside flickered weakly against the storm.

And someone stood in its light.

You froze. Heart in your throat.

Thomas.

You’d only caught glimpses of him until now, but this was real. Raw. Massive and soaked, his leather mask glistening with rain. His hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He looked—hesitant. Afraid.

Not of you.

Afraid he would scare you.

And for some reason… that broke something inside you.

Slowly, you reached for the door.

“Wait,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t go.”

He flinched but didn’t move.

You stepped onto the porch, bare feet cold against the wood. The rain hit your face in soft drops, and still, he didn’t run. Just stood there, looming and silent, the very image of a nightmare.

But you didn’t scream.

You held out your hand.

“I… I saved some cornbread from earlier,” you said. “It’s probably cold now, but… do you want it?”

Thomas stood still as a statue.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

You never invited him in—not at first. You didn’t have to. He stayed close. Close enough to touch, but never did. He listened when you talked, even if you rambled. He crouched just out of view when you read aloud from your favorite books. Sometimes you’d hear soft huffs of breath, like laughter. Other times, he’d disappear into the night like a ghost. But when you left food, it was always gone the next morning. When you tripped over a root and scraped your knee one day near the woods, a few hours later you found a jar of some old antiseptic and a roll of gauze left neatly on your porch. He watched.

He cared.

In his own, twisted, silent way. You still didn’t know what to call this… thing between you. Friendship? Obsession? Something more? The fear hadn’t disappeared completely—it lurked in your ribs like a coiled spring. But so did something else. Something warm and strange and desperate.

He didn’t have anyone else. And maybe… neither did you.

So, the next time you left out cookies, you left a note too.

“If you ever want to sit with me… I won’t run.”

That night, you heard footsteps on the porch. He didn’t come in. But he sat there for hours. You heard him breathe. And somehow, you slept soundly for the first time in years... and slowly.. he came around but.

You hadn’t said anything at first.

Not when you hugged him one night and your eyes watered from the sour, meaty stink clinging to his clothes. Not when you buried your face in his shoulder and immediately regretted it. And definitely not when the flies started showing up—only a few, lazy and circling, but persistent.

You’d grown used to a lot about Thomas: his looming silence, his possessive hovering, his tendency to appear without warning and vanish like mist. But the smell? That was harder to overlook.

So, one evening, when the summer heat clung like syrup and the humidity made everything heavier, you took a chance.

He was sitting out back, on the rickety wooden bench under your porch light. His giant hands rested on his knees, still as stone. The mask made it hard to read his expression, but his shoulders slumped like a child being scolded.

“Thomas,” you said softly, stepping outside with a towel draped over your shoulder and a clean shirt in your arms. “I wanna show you something.”

He tilted his head, slow and unsure.

You offered a small smile. “It’s okay. I just… I wanna take care of you for a little while. Will you let me?”

A long pause.

Then, a slow, reluctant nod.

You guided him inside, to the small bathroom at the back of the house. It was old, like everything here—cracked tiles, foggy mirror—but it was clean. Warm. Safe.

The tub creaked under his weight as he sat, fully clothed, too big for the space. You let the water run, warm and gentle, steam fogging the edges of the mirror.

“You can keep the mask on,” you said quickly when you saw his hands twitch near his face. “I don’t need to see you. Just… let me do this.”

His hands stilled.

You knelt beside the tub and reached for the shampoo.

The moment the warm water hit his hair, he flinched.

But you hushed him gently. “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You worked slowly, fingers threading through thick tangles and caked dirt. The water turned a murky brown as you rinsed out layers of grime and old blood. His breathing was shallow at first—sharp little gasps through the mask—but as you continued, something shifted.

You felt it.

His shoulders eased. His neck went slack under your hands. And then…

A sound.

Low and rough, barely there—but unmistakable.

Purring.

Your fingers paused for a second in disbelief.

“Thomas,” you whispered with a tiny smile, “are you purring?”

He grunted softly, embarrassed, and tried to shift away.

You gently pulled him back. “No—no, it’s okay. I like it.”

And you did. God, you did.

You’d never seen him this soft. This still. He was always the looming shadow, the watchful thing in the trees. But here, in your bathtub, he was something else entirely—childlike, vulnerable. Human.

You hummed a little as you brushed through the last of his tangles, fingers slow and tender. His hair was much longer than you realized—wild, thick, and dark. You washed it twice, careful not to tug too hard. Each time the water rinsed clean, you caught another low rumble in his chest.

He sounded like a damn cat in the sun.

Afterward, you helped him out of the tub, handing him a towel and turning your back to give him privacy. When he emerged, still masked but wrapped in clean fabric, you handed him the fresh shirt—a soft, oversized one that smelled faintly of your laundry detergent and home.

“You clean up nice,” you teased, heart fluttering.

He didn’t respond, but you saw the way his head dipped slightly, like a shy animal not used to compliments.

You hesitated only briefly before stepping close, reaching up to touch his damp hair. “Can I…?” you asked softly.

He didn’t move.

You began brushing again—slow, gentle strokes. He made another low, content sound, swaying slightly toward your touch. You swear, if he had a tail, it’d be flicking lazily.

“I don’t know what they did to you,” you whispered. “Or what you’ve done. But I see you, Thomas. I see the parts they tried to break. And I’m not afraid.”

That made him stop. His entire body froze like a deer caught in headlights.

You touched your forehead to his chest. “Not of you.”

He didn’t purr this time. But his arms came around you—big, trembling things that barely knew how to hold something so delicate—and pulled you in like you were the first thing that had ever truly belonged to him.

And in that moment, maybe you were.

[targaryenfelikayt]

Could you write about Thomas Hewitt admitting to Luda Mae, just one random day in the kitchen that he got a woman pregnant? Like no context before it, just straight on admitting it as he told her not to panic. He has been seeing somebody, didn't know what he was doing because his education on intimacy is severely lacking. And he dosen’t know what to do about it.

Big boy. |Thomas Hewitt|

wc: 532 summary: the moment when Luda Mae realizes her boy has grown up. tags/warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, family dynamics, domestic, slice of life. Notes: who would have known that Thomas has such a big fan club🤭

part II.

The afternoon was unbearably hot: the few hens had hidden in the barn, and the old radio played static on each of the three available stations. Luda Mae kept herself busy by washing the breakfast dishes. Her baby Tommy hadn’t shown up by morning.

Lately, he’d been leaving the house more and more without explanation, only scrawling clumsy notes telling her not to worry. Thomas was certainly a grown man by now, but in her motherly eyes, he was still a little boy who used to gulp down two bottles of formula at once. Seeing his untouched plate, she could only sigh quietly. First, he would be gone for a couple of hours, then longer and longer, until his absence stretched beyond two full days.

His appearance had begun to change too, from combed hair to clean shirts he specifically asked her to wash more thoroughly. It wasn’t hard to guess her son had fallen in love. People in the area had always been cruel, oh, she knew that all too well from her own experience, until they either died out or left in search of a better life.

The front door opened, and the old floorboard creaked under his weight. The younger Hewitt stepped inside, peeking into the kitchen.

“Oh, Tommy, baby, I’ve been waiting forever. Are you hungry?” the woman wiped her hands on the towel resting on her shoulder, checking him for cuts or other signs of trouble.

But he only gripped her wrists tightly and led her to the table, urging her to sit down.

Luda Mae didn’t resist, she could tell something was wrong. Silent as ever, Tommy avoided her gaze, like a guilty kitten, just as he used to when he knocked over a cup or scraped his knees bloody.

“Did something happen, Tommy?” her voice softened. “You didn’t… you didn’t do anything bad again, did you?”

He shook his head and stepped back. A few seconds. His back to her. Then, still silent, he reached for the drawer, pulled out a scrap of paper, a pen with dried ink, and began to write. Slowly, messily, crossing out letters and starting again. Finally, he awkwardly handed her the note.

“She’s pregnant”.

For several long seconds, she stared at the paper as if she couldn’t comprehend the words. No, it must be a mistake, a mix-up — anything, even aliens in flying saucers, but not this.

“What?” she finally whispered. “Tommy, what are you saying?”

The younger Hewitt crouched in front of her, placing his large hand on her trembling knees. It took her a moment to breathe properly, her hand landing on his head. Images flashed through her mind: little Tommy, scraped knees, Tommy clinging to her chest with bits of blanket… And now, Tommy, a man. And now, a father.

“Sweetheart… who is she? Did you… did you really…?”

Another nod. Firmer than all the previous ones. Suddenly, everything made sense: the frequent absences, the requests for clean clothes, the dreamy look in his eyes that Hoyt always scolded him for — her boy, no longer so little, no matter how much she wanted to keep him that way.

He scratched another word onto the paper.

“Mine”.

Dear ladies, let's chat a little so you understand what awaits you next: another portion of headcanons, a drabble with Bo and a possible series of wedding one-shots. That's all for me, thank you🥰

[taeaura]

Thomas Hewitt x Plus Size Reader

this was requested, but also something I often thinking about 🫀

this took so long for me to post omfgggg

TW: Body Image Issues, Hoyt/Monty {how fun}, Implied Physical-Intimacy {though not explicitly said}, Tommy is a sweetheart <3

Tommy loves his sweetheart very very much {obviously}

_____

First of all: He's a big guy himself, so I doubt he'd mind {if not prefer} a bigger partner. The majority of the women in his life are plus/midsized {his momma, tea lady.} Essentially, the women with the most maternal influence {in his life} are plus/midsize :)

No one in the family would mind - Contrary to popular belief, I don't think Hoyt or Monty would say anything {hateful}; Considering their sister{s} have some more weight to them.

Now, that doesn't mean they won't comment other things..

One benefit{?} about your size {in the way the family views it}, they don't view you as 'frail', physically. That means more work, less physical restrictions. This also means Thomas is willing to get a bit rough with you {in many ways}.

He doesn't care how heavy you are, he's gonna carry you at least once. He'll help you up {if you need it}, carry you places, carry your things, anything that can show off his strength, really.

He doesn't want you to lose weight for image-related purposes. If you want to lose weight for health purposes, he's fully supportive of that {he wants you to bet as healthy as you can}. He finds your body to be empyrean - Something delicate that should be preserved, protected. If you did end up losing weight {or discussing it} for image purposes, he'd start becoming a bit self-conscious; What if you want him to lose weight too? Does he need to lose weight?

{He'd also affirm that you never need to alter your appearance, only your health.}

--

{If you're fem-presenting, or happen to wear dresses} Thomas likes seeing you in sundresses, especially ones that accentuate your figure ;) Luda Mae would love this aspect too - She'll bring out dresses from her younger days and have you try them on {she's just trying to bond with you, it reminds her of her youth}. If you like jewelry, she'll bring some of that out, too.

--

Being with someone of similar stature, Thomas would feel more comfortable with himself compared to being with someone skinnier. He knows that being bigger comes with ridicule and societal pressure, especially with clothing and presentation {which he too, struggles with}. This similarly almost provides a subconscious understanding between the two of you - In turn, decreasing his anxieties over his looks {around you}.

Although, he won't automatically show his face to you - Or anyone, for that matter.

--

He'd do this with his partner regardless, but during moments where he's {surprisingly} sappy, he likes to give you gentle, scattered kisses along your face and body - It's his way of showing that he loves you🫀

Expect plenty of nibbles and cuddling to go with it {he's gonna pass out cold on top of you...}

Thomas also likes holding you whenever you both feel comfortable. Even if it's just holding your waist from behind whilst your doing something - Or becoming your bra {he doesn't give a shit if you have breasts or not, he's doing it anyway}

He's seen plenty of bodies, but none of them captivate him quite like yours. He likes soft bodies, ones where he can trace the stretch marks with his finger - Though, he likes tracing bones on thinner bodies as well. Thomas has a loft of stretch marks, most he got during his adolescence - He doesn't mind them much, and seeing yours makes him mind them less. Even if yours aren't too visible, he likes the textural difference against his hands.

--

Overall, Thomas loves having a mid/plus sized S/O. I wouldn't necessarily say he prefers it, but he does like your figure {I headcanon Thomas as someone who likes harmony amongst features over individual features themselves - But he does really really like eyes}. Thomas focuses on personality most !! He likes not having to worry about you as much, but he's fully willing to worry.

To all my {fellow} plus/mid sized creatures, you're empyrean 🫀

Please give him hugs n kisses - He needs 'em

[charliedawn]

How the slashers and the Hannibal fam would react to reader having nightmares 💙🌙

Love your AU and writing 🌟

Jason Voorhees

Jason had noticed your shivering long before you awoke. He’d been sitting near your bedside, carving a piece of wood absently when your breath hitched. When you shot up with a small gasp, Jason gently placed the carving down and tilted his head. He didn’t speak, of course, but he did lean in—just in case you wanted a snuggle buddy. When you leaned into him without thinking, he didn’t hesitate. His arms enveloped you, protective and steady. He held you until your shaking stopped, then offered the little carving—it was a baby rabbit.

Michael Myers

You’d woken up sweating, heart hammering in your chest. Michael was standing in the corner of the room, silent as always. He didn’t speak, only scribbled a note in the tiny notebook he always kept clipped to his jacket. When he handed it to you, it read: You’re safe. Then he sat at the edge of the bed to hold you and didn’t leave until you fell asleep again.

Thomas Hewitt (Leatherface)

Thomas had rushed in when he heard you cry out. He looked wild with worry at first, machete forgotten somewhere along the way. When he saw you trembling, he sat beside you and offered his hand, surprisingly gentle. He didn’t know how to comfort with words, but he placed your hand in his and pulled out a small tin music box, one you’d once admired. He turned the crank until the music lulled you back to sleep.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba had panicked at first, waking up to your distressed murmurs. He made soft, frantic noises and rushed to your side with his mask slightly askew. Once you were awake, he cupped your face in his warm hands, tilting his head to try to read your emotions. He began mimicking soft cooing sounds and pulled out a tattered teddy bear he’d kept since childhood. He gave it to you with a big, uncertain smile.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy had already seen the nightmare—you didn’t even have to describe it. You awoke with a start, his name already in your mouth. When he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and sarcastic as ever, he muttered, “Next time, just invite me in—I’ll rewrite the whole damn thing.” But beneath the barbs, he looked shaken. Freddy sat by you and, after a long pause, said, “Nightmares are only scary when you think you’re alone. You’re not.”

He then pressed a hand against your forehead and disappeared…

You had no more nightmares that night.

Norman Bates

Norman had already put the kettle on by the time you wandered out of your room with a blanket around your shoulders. “Bad dream?” he asked softly. He handed you a cup of chamomile and gestured for you to sit beside him on the couch. “Sometimes I wake up and…Mother’s voice is still in my head,” he confessed gently, offering companionship without pity. You two sat in comfortable silence after that, the soft clink of spoons in mugs your lullaby. You didn’t even feel it when he kissed your temple and gave you his shoulder to sleep on.

Bo Sinclair

Bo heard you cry out and burst into the room with his shotgun in hand, thinking there was an intruder. When he saw your tear-streaked face, he paused, slowly lowering the weapon. “Damn, darlin’. You scared the hell outta me,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, he added hesitantly, “You want me to stay a while?” He lay down beside you—on top of the blanket—and told you a ridiculous, half-true story about a gator he once caught to keep your mind off the fear.

Vincent Sinclair

That night, when your whimpers pulled Vincent from sleep, he climbed from his cot and silently sat beside you. He offered you his sketchbook and a pencil. You both sat drawing quietly for an hour, until your heartbeat calmed. He drew a small image of you sleeping with a protective hand around you—his—and tore it out to leave on your nightstand.

Lester Sinclair

The moment you screamed, he barged inside with a baseball bat—ready to fight. But then a realized you only had a nightmare. He left and you thought he had gone back to his own room when he came back in your room with fruit juice boxes and snacks. “Nothin’ like a full stomach to make ya feel like everythin’s a’right.” He then put on the TV and you watched cartoons while having your midnight snack.

Pennywise

Pennywise heard the nightmare forming in your mind, the scent of fear blooming like steam in the air. When you awoke, gasping, he was already at your bedside, crouched like a gremlin with furrowed brows. “You dreamed of being eaten,” he told you, almost offended. “By me, no less.” Then, with a theatrical sigh, he produced a balloon animal. “You know I’d never eat you. I’d miss you far too much.” You laughed in spite of yourself, and he beamed.

Penny

Penny had crawled into your room like a curious cat, nose twitching. “You had a bad dream?” he asked, as though it were a puzzle. You nodded. “I have one too, sometimes. There’s a big bird that pecks at my heart,” he whispered, snuggling under the blanket with you uninvited. “But you’re not alone, little birdy. I’m here now.” He hummed a tune until your eyelids fluttered again.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms had been watching from the crawlspace. The moment he heard you whimper, he emerged in eerie silence, face pale and mask clutched in his hand. “Did someone hurt you?” he asked, voice quiet and a little too calm. You shook your head, breath still ragged. He sat beside you and took your hand. “I don’t like when you’re scared,” he whispered. “That’s not allowed.” He lay beside you and insisted you face him while you slept again, “so the dreams can’t find you.”

Jack Torrance

Jack woke up at the sound of your nightmare and sat up in bed like a man struck by lightning. “Dreams’ll get ya,” he said, almost to himself, eyes wide. But then he looked at you, truly saw you, and softened. “Hey…hey, it’s just a dream. It’s not real. You’re here. With me.” He wrapped his arms around you, and even as he trembled from his own ghost memories, he held you steady. He told you about his favorite book as a kid, and somehow, you both calmed down by chapter two.

Hannibal Lecter Sr. (1991)

He entered your room as soon as he sensed something was amiss—he had an uncanny way of knowing. He sat at your bedside with a glass of warm spiced milk and asked, “Would you tell me what frightened you?” His voice was low and soft, words carefully chosen. As you explained, he nodded, never interrupting. “Dreams are but mirrors of the self. You were brave to wake up.” He kissed your forehead and stayed beside you, humming a lullaby in a language you couldn’t place.

Hannibal Lecter Jr. (2013)

You awoke to find him already seated beside you, reading a book. “You cried out,” he informed you calmly. “You might find it helpful to speak about it aloud.” His fingers rested lightly on your wrist, pulse under his touch. When you told him, he merely nodded and offered interpretation. “That creature in your dream? That may be fear, my dear. But you having nothing to fear. For I will protect you. I promise.” Later, he brewed jasmine tea and you fell asleep to the rustle of turning pages beside you.

Morgan Hannibal

Morgan had barged in, all clinical concern and blazing eyes. “Nightmare?” he asked quickly, already checking your pulse and brushing your damp hair from your face. “Your cortisol levels must be through the roof.” He didn’t speak much after that—just pulled you into his arms, letting the silence say what his pride wouldn’t. He didn’t let go until you felt safe enough to sleep again.

Kevin Hannibal

Kevin had been painting and didn’t notice until you stumbled into his studio, shaken. “Bloody hell, what happened?” You told him, stammering, and he softened. “A nightmare, huh? You poor thing.” He set his brush down, wrapped you in a giant knitted blanket, and started doodling your dream monster on a scrap canvas—only it had clown shoes and googly eyes. “Not so scary now, huh?”

Peter Hannibal

Peter had been crying over a sad movie when you found him, so when you came in teary-eyed too, he opened his arms immediately. “You had a nightmare too?” he whispered. You nodded, and he buried his face in your shoulder. “Let’s protect each other then, okay?” You curled up on the floor together in a pile of pillows and dreams, whispering stories until your fears fell away.

[morimemichael]

Calling the slashers/killers ‘pretty’

Head cannons on how slashers/killers would react to reader calling them pretty. Includes OG! Michael Myers, RZ! Michael Myers, Ghostface (Stu and Billy), Pyramid Head, Thomas Hewitt and Mark Hoffman (SAW series)

OG! Michael Myers

You notice him stalking you throughout the week, and it was needlessly to say you found it oddly interesting.

Of course you knew who he was, and apparently, for your brain, that was ‘attractive’ enough to wonder about him

So, the night he decided to break in to obviously kill you, you took action

Somewhere between all the struggle you made, his unexpressed latex mask flew off, somewhere around your kitchen floor

The light that came from outside was enough to see his face, and boy, you find him attractive

He panic at the fact of not having his mask, and quickly look for it and successfully found it. With a single swift move his mask was back on. He was ready to kill you when you spoke

“Y-your pretty Michael, you know that?”

He tilted his head at your statement, you couldn’t see it, but his cheeks were blushing. He didn’t know what hated the most, the fact that he couldn’t kill you now or the fact that he actually liked you calling him pretty

His hand holding the knife stutter for a second before letting you go and giving you his signature head tilt again

It’s not necessary to say that since that night he came to your home every night and took off his mask in front of you so you can call him pretty again

And this time you do see him blush

RZ! Michael Myers

You were a childhood friend of his, and the crush was mutual

Tho when you were like around 9yo, you moved to another town so you never found out about Michael killing his stepdad and sister, or at least you had no idea until many years later, when you moved back to Haddonfield

What he did was horrendous, yet you couldn’t stop feeling bad for him somehow

So this night you were getting ready to go to bed, brushing your teeth you notice a man standing behind you

You could see his reflection through the mirror you had in front of you

You knew Michael was, well a killer, but you didn’t know how he looked like, so many years have passed and the last image you had of him was completely different

Non the less, that didn’t stop Michael from recognizing you

You were about to scream when he got closer and covered your mouth with his enormous hand. By now you were struggling and panicked

Michael noticed this and with his free hand took his mask off, revealing his face. He was different but still you knew it was him

“Michael…?”

He didn’t answer, instead he moved his hand from your mouth and gently turned you around, slowly looking at your form head to toe

From the moment you saw his eyes you knew he didn’t have to answer, he was Michael indeed, how couldn’t you recognize his beautiful blue eyes?

“Michael!” You say happily

He stays silent, but a small almost invisible smile formed on his lips

You cupped his cheek with your hand, and rubbed his skin with your thumb

Smiling you tell him “We haven’t seen each other for over ten years and still your the pretty one” You smile

His hole face turned red when he herd the word pretty

You always wanted to tell him how you felt, but never got an actual chance for it

Once you told him how you’ve felt all this years, his reaction was the sweetest

He gave you a bag hug and swing you in the air, he was beyond happy

Ghostface (Stu)

“You know, you’re…pretty Stu…”

You were in his house, music as loud as it could be, you were hoping he didn’t hear you, cause you just kinda declared to him

He gave you a ‘what did you said’ look, waiting for you to answer

“Nothing…just forget it”

YEAH, YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS GOING TO WORK? Well it didn’t

He took you by the hand and made you fallow him upstairs

When you asked him why upstairs he gave you a lame excuse

“I didn’t catch what ya said down there” he said moving closer to you

“I said you’re pretty…” you look at him straight in the eyes

“Oh…I know, I heard you. I just wanted to have some…privacy” He had a mischievous smile on his lips

You grin before he pull you down to his bed

(Billy)

You two were having a heated kiss by the window of your bedroom when you herd footsteps coming up the stairs

You assumed it must be your dad or your mom

“Billy, you should go…someone’s coming”

He pouted and gave you his puppy eyes

“Pleaseeee?…” He asked

As much as you wanted to tell him ‘yes’, you knew better than to piss your dad or mom

“Come on pretty boy, you know I can get in trouble..”

He blushed a pale tone of pink at your words, he was staring at you like you left him dumb or something like that

He then snapped out of it “Okay, okay…see you tomorrow?” He asked

“Yeah pretty boy, see you tomorrow…”

He giggled and stumbled at the word ‘pretty’

Pyramid Head

Did you just called him pretty? No way, he must’ve herd you wrong

Oh…apparently he didn’t YOU DID CALLED HIM PRETTY

Now it’s stuck in his head and it’s all he can think about

He likes it tho

And definitely expect him to want you to call him pretty all the time

With time he even let you adorn his pyramid with cute little pink stuff

He won’t say that he likes it but trust me HE LIKES IT

Specially if you call him your ‘pretty monster’

He’ll definitely want you to call him pretty during segsy time too 😏

Thomas Hewitt

You called him pretty? Why tho? Haven’t you seen him?

That’s what he thought the first time you called him that

Immediately you receive the princess treatment

Cause why not? You treat him well, he wants to do the same with you. You’re his love after all

Expect him to giggle a little bit whenever you call him pretty or beautiful or what so ever

And if you kiss his unmasked face while you call him pretty? You’ll give him a heart attack

He loves it

He’ll make sure you feel loved and pretty as well

He’ll make you dinner and give you flowers every now and then

Basically anything you want, you get

Definitely expect him to want you to call him pretty 24/7

He’s like a child OK!?

Mark Hoffman

He thinks you’re joking, you must be joking

Nobody calls him pretty, and you wouldn’t be the exception, right?

Ha! Liar….deep down he loves it, and not just because you bust his ego, but also you make him feel loved….somehow

He thinks he’s unlovable, I mean, he’s a monster right?

Well, that doesn’t stop you from loving him or calling him pretty

The first times you would call him that, he would show no emotion or reaction whatsoever

But once you get to his, somehow, ‘tender’ side, he’ll slowly start reacting

Maybe a ‘you’re pretty as fuck too’ or maybe even a peck to your lips

And consider yourself blessed if you see him blush….cause he rarely does

And if you happen to see him blush..? Well you didn’t

Cause how could he blush right? Him? He’s mean and bad, he doesn’t blush

You even reacted once, to his blushing

“If-if you ever, you wouldn’t-Ahgg, please don’t tell anyone” He said, as he blushed even more, the tone on his voice defeated

You just laugh since you found him cute

“You’re little…pink secret is safe with me, detective” You told him

You kissed he blushed cheeks and called him cute

“Hey! I’m not!”

“Yes you are!” You said as you walked away

“I love you so much….” Mark said, knowing you weren’t around to hear it

Cause you would have died right there in the spot

Well, I hope you enjoy this!! I’m also working on a Ghostface x Michael x F!reader fic, so stay tuned 😏

[black-cats-crossing]

The Hewitt Boy-The Summer of ‘57

ao3

Next Chapter

tw: physical violence, bullying, blood, trauma, suicidal ideation, abuse, emotional neglect, body horror themes, Southern Gothic tone. 18+ advised

Chapter One:

The Last Day

—

Once, the Hewitt name meant something.

In the heart of Fuller, Texas—a town stitched together by the steel veins of the railroad and the blood-soaked legacy of cotton—stood the Hewitt plantation. Grand, sprawling, and infamous, it had once been the pride of East Texas. The family that owned it, the Hewitts, were pillars of the community, their wealth built on the backs of enslaved labor, their influence stretching into every corner of town like creeping vines.

They buried their dead in marble, baptized their children in rivers stained red with clay, and sat at the front pew every Sunday morning. But behind closed doors, the house was filled with whispers—of beatings, of hauntings, of things best left unsaid.

When the old world crumbled—when slavery was abolished and the South was forced to reckon with its sins—the prosperity of Fuller began to rot from the roots. The railroad diverted. The soil dried. Bol weevils came. The men drank. The women prayed.

By the 1930s, the plantation house had sagged into itself like a grieving widow. Paint peeled. The veranda slouched. Fields lay fallow where cotton once bloomed white as bone.

And with every passing generation, the Hewitts slid further down the rungs of power and respectability. What had once been a name that commanded fear and reverence now earned only pity—or worse, disgust.

Most of the Hewitt bloodline fled to cities, trying to outrun the stench of their crumbling legacy. But a few stayed behind. Stubborn, quiet, and tucked into the decaying bones of their estate, they clung to the old ways like bones in dry earth.

The house remained. Not grand anymore, but looming. A mouth with too many teeth, watching the town decay with it.

People said the Hewitts were cursed. Maybe they were right.

May 24, 1957

The road stretched ahead like a dried vein—split and scabbed, lined with brittle weeds and half-crushed beer cans. Every step Thomas took ground dust into the cracked soles of his boots. The sun burned low and white behind a veil of clouds, but it still bit at his skin like ants. And his face—God, his face—it was open to the world, stinging raw with every breeze that licked across it.

No mask.

His hands fluttered up unconsciously, hovering just above his cheeks as if he could still feel it there—soft, creased leather, curved to his shape. But there was nothing. Just skin, peeled and blotched from old surgeries, and the swollen, split places where fists had landed earlier in the week. A fresh scab tugged near his right nostril every time he squinted.

He used to walk this road with his head down for shame. Now he did it because even looking ahead felt like too much.

The sunlight was cruel. Every gleam bounced off metal or glass, searing his eyes and reflecting his image back at him in broken glimpses—truck bumpers, drainage ditches, the dark ripples in someone’s windshield. He saw himself in pieces. Always in pieces.

The air smelled like tar, old manure, and something scorched. Asphalt heat. Summer rot. His shirt stuck to his back in damp patches, and his jeans itched from where dried blood flaked inside the seams. A fly landed on his temple and he jerked, smacked it away. Two more circled. They never left him alone. Buzzing like tiny judges, always circling the dying thing.

Behind his eyes, the heat began to pulse. A tension headache. It started in his jaw and crawled up to his scalp, wrapping tight. He tried not to make a sound.

A rustling in the brush startled him—a pocket gopher darting between dry stalks. He flinched anyway. Every sudden thing made him feel seen.

His hands dropped back to his sides, and he clenched them. Not in rage. In defense. In longing.

Because it wasn’t just the exposure. It was the absence.

The mask. His mask.

He could still remember how it felt—the way it hugged his face, muffling the world like cotton in his ears. When it was on, he could breathe easier. He could pretend he wasn’t real. That he wasn’t a thing people pointed at. He could just be… covered. Contained.

He had made it himself.

Twelve years old. A July afternoon. He remembered the way the barn smelled—sweet hay and metal and the faint sourness of goat shit. He had found an old scrap of saddle leather beneath a pile of junk. It was cracked and sun-warped, but it was thick, pliable. He worked on it for days in secret, slicing it with a whittling knife, punching holes with an icepick, stitching it together with strips of twine he twisted from feed sacks.

He didn’t make it to look like anything. It wasn’t a costume. It was armor.

Luda Mae hadn’t known at first. Then she saw him with it one day—just standing in the yard, watching the chickens—and she flinched. That hurt more than anything. But she didn’t take it away. She said nothing, and so he wore it. Everywhere. He added a second strap when the first started to fray. Adjusted the nose flap. Softened the edges with oil from the barn tools.

The other boys called it his dog mask. Said he looked like a freak in a muzzle. But he didn’t care.

It was his.

And now it was gone.

Ripped from him three days ago behind the schoolhouse. A boy had grabbed him by the shoulder while the others laughed, and someone yanked the strap so hard it snapped. They’d flung it over the chainlink fence into the drainage ditch, hooting while he scrambled in the mud, fingernails bleeding, trying to find it.

He never did.

Thomas blinked hard, willing the image away. He kept walking, slower now, as the schoolhouse came into view up the hill. The brick building crouched like a waiting thing. Its windows were dark eyes. Its bell was a mouth.

He wanted to turn. Hide. Crawl under a porch and never come out.

But he couldn’t.

Home was no safer than school. And if he didn’t show up, it’d be Charlie waiting for him by the mailbox, fists already itching. Or worse—Luda Mae standing in the kitchen, wooden spoon paused mid-stir, her face blank, already disappointed.

So he walked.

Down the long, sun-sick gravel road, face bare and burning, like a wound that refused to close.

The mask was gone.

But the world still saw him.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. The growl of tires on gravel.

It came low and steady, like thunder that hadn’t made up its mind. Thomas felt it in his spine before he heard it in his ears. A dull vibration through the soles of his boots. He knew that sound.

He didn’t turn.

He started walking faster, but not enough to run—not yet. Running would make them chase. Make it worse. Make them laugh.

The truck roared behind him, closer now, a cloud of dust beginning to bloom around its wheels. The engine revved as it came alongside, too fast, too close.

He stepped off the road just in time.

Tires spat gravel. A rock the size of a walnut struck the back of his calf, sharp and sudden. He grunted but didn’t cry out.

Glass shattered behind him—beer bottles flung from the bed, exploding like gunshots against the road.

“Looks like one of the slaughterhouse animals got out again!” a voice jeered from the back.

Laughter followed. Not wild, not giddy. Practiced. Rhythmic. A pack howl they’d done a hundred times.

Thomas kept walking.

A sting on his arm. He looked down. Blood was already sliding down his wrist, thin and bright. His good shirt. His only decent pair of jeans—patched, but presentable. He bit the inside of his cheek. If they got stained, Luda Mae would be furious. She always said you had to try, even when no one else would.

He ducked around the back of the schoolhouse and made for the old pump.

The rusted handle shrieked when he worked it. Cold water burst from the spout, stinging as it hit his arm. He knelt and washed the blood away in silence, grit biting into his knees through denim.

In the puddle below, he caught his reflection—and hated what he saw.

Swelling above his brow from a punch earlier that week. Discoloration beneath both eyes. The puckered seam of a surgery scar stretching from his cheekbone to his ear. A face stitched together wrong and left to rot.

He looked like something that ought to live in the dark.

He was still half-boy, half-beast—long-limbed and sinewy, like a hickory sapling after a storm. His arms were cut from labor, not vanity, and his back held the tension of someone always ready to bolt or brawl. He hadn’t filled out yet. But he was getting there.

He was tall now. Taller than most of the men in town. Broad from work on the farm, with hands thick and cracked from hauling hay and feed. But strength didn’t earn him respect—it just made them meaner. Like they had to prove something.

That Hewitt boy, they whispered in diners and barbershops. That thing.

Thomas heard it all.

And worse—he believed it.

Thomas leaned back against the wall of the schoolhouse, still wet, still aching. The pump dripped behind him. He pressed the heel of his hand into his thigh where the bottle shard had cut him and stared at the grass until the sting faded into a dull throb.

He didn’t want to go in. But he couldn’t go home.

So he sat.

He let the world move around him. The slam of lockers. Shouts from the far side of the building.

And he waited for the day to be over.

But they weren’t done with him yet.

Not even close.

His arms looped around his knees, head bowed low, trying to disappear into his own body. A swarm of flies buzzed around the nearby trash barrel, and the occasional gust of wind kicked up dust, stinging his eyes.

Inside, kids laughed. Slammed lockers. Said goodbye like it meant something.

No one said goodbye to him.

The bell rang. A dull, distant clang that meant he could go. He didn’t wait. He stood too fast, knees aching, and started walking. Fast. Toward the back road that led home, where the fields stretched long and dry.

But they found him. They always found him.

The engine came first, whining in the heat like a wasp. Then the tires. Gravel spitting.

He ran.

He didn’t think. Just bolted toward the edge of the field, where tall wheat swayed in the wind and maybe—just maybe—could hide him.

But the ground was rough. Unforgiving.

His foot caught something—stone, root, maybe just luck turned sour.

He fell.

The impact knocked the wind out of him. He hit hard, chin scraping dirt, rocks biting into his palms. He scrambled up, panic flaring, but it was too late.

The truck found him. Squealed to a stop a few feet behind him.

He stood up looking at his escape options but soon realized he was trapped.

Dust swallowed everything for a moment, turning the sky ochre and thick. Then the passenger’s door swung open.

The first boy out was broad-shouldered and sunburned, with a chaw stuffed in one cheek and a look of slow, steady meanness. His name was Louie. He always went first. The enforcer.

Behind him came Sonny—all around golden farm boy with blond hair and always smirking. He moved like someone who’d been told since birth the world belonged to him. He carried the switchblade. Always had. His hands were never dirty, not really. That was what Louie was for.

Two more slid from the truck bed. One held a cracked broom handle, the end duct-taped and split like a blunted spear. The other, Jesse, hung back.

Thomas noticed that. Jesse didn’t laugh. Not this time. He just stood there, eyes flicking between the others. Not scared. Not sad. Just… somewhere in between.

Louie stepped forward. “Well, look what we caught.” He grinned like it wasn’t even personal. Like he was reading from a script.

Thomas stood still, arms at his sides. He stared past them. Past the road. Past the wheat.

“Oh Hewitt. You done scaring our girls, freak?” the third boy muttered. “Oughta put you down.”

Thomas didn’t respond. Not even a flinch. He knew how this went.

Louie struck first. He always did.

The broom handle came down on Thomas’s ribs, fast and flat. Not hard enough to break anything—just enough to sting. To fold him.

He staggered. Breath punched out of his lungs.

Then came the quirt—a short lash of leather, cracked and stiff, swung with the casual cruelty of someone feeding a pig. It snapped across his shoulder blade and curled around his upper arm, biting deep. Thomas made a noise in his throat. Not a cry. Just a sound.

Another hit. His thigh this time.

Another. Behind his knee.

They circled him like dogs working cattle, steering him backward, waiting for the collapse.

It didn’t take long. Especially with a swift hard kick between the legs. They jeered.

He dropped to his knees, not by choice but by instinct—trying to protect his middle, trying to shield the soft places.

Then Sonny approached.

He moved slowly, like he had all the time in the world. His boots crunched glass. The cigarette in his mouth had gone cold, but he didn’t toss it. Just let it hang there like punctuation.

He crouched in front of Thomas, flipping his switchblade open with a single practiced snap.

The sound was clean. Bright. Surgical.

“He’d make a great steer!” one of them yelled. Sonny’s smirk turned into a devilish grin.

“Hear that, Hewitt?” he said, voice low, almost gentle.

The blade caught the sunlight. It didn’t shine. It shimmered—like oil, like something alive.

“Not like he’s ever gonna use ‘em. Gotta make sure we don’t need more their kind around!”

“You wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t carry around all that… junk between your legs.” He gave a half-smile. “Just think. If we fixed you up, you might even get a job dancing at the fair.”

More laughter. More jeering. But quieter now. Tense. This part wasn’t routine. This part was Sonny’s.

Jesse shifted behind them, eyes narrowing. Thomas saw it—just for a second. Their gazes locked.

And Jesse looked away.

The knife came forward.

Not deep. Not brutal. But enough.

Sonny dragged the blade across Thomas’s upper thigh—just below the groin, just high enough to humiliate. A shallow, curving slice. The fabric split first, then skin. Blood welled up, hot and fast, soaking into denim.

Thomas jerked back and screamed.

Not words. Just noise. A howl. Something animal and betrayed.

“Now you’ll remember us,” Sonny whispered.

Thomas curled into himself, arms over his head, legs shaking. Dust filled his mouth. The world spun.

They left after that.

A few more kicks—half-hearted, like an afterthought. Someone spit on the ground beside him. The truck roared back to life. Tires peeled out.

And then it was quiet again.

Thomas lay in the wreck of himself, thigh leaking blood, ribs aching, ears ringing. His fingers dug into the dirt like claws, like roots. Somewhere inside him, something had been carved loose—not just skin. Something deeper.

The cut burned. The sting of it wasn’t in the flesh—it was in the meaning.

They hadn’t done it to hurt him.

They’d done it to mark him.

To claim the power to remake him.

And for the first time, in the silence that followed, Thomas thought not about running, but about cutting.

He pictured the knife.

He remembered the way it glinted.

And he wondered what it would feel like in his own hand.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

He lay curled in the dirt like something half-born, the wind bending the wheat stalks around him in slow waves. A cicada whined somewhere in the trees. Sweat and blood soaked into the leg of his jeans. Dust caked his teeth. His thighs trembled from the blow. The pain between his legs pulsed deep, nauseating and raw.

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t cry. Not out loud. Just breathed through clenched teeth, shallow and shaky. Every inhale burned.

Sometimes, he wished they’d just kill him. Not in a dramatic way. Just quick. Quiet. Final.

But they never did.

They just left him half-dead. Over and over again.

Eventually, the shadows began to lengthen. He uncurled himself with slow, jerking movements. His whole body ached. His ribs screamed. His jaw felt loose on one side.

One eye was nearly swollen shut. His lip split again. He didn’t check for broken bones—just tested if he could walk.

Two miles.

That’s how far he had to go.

He limped toward home.

The road shimmered in the heat, warped like something not real. Each step sent shocks of pain through his legs, and he adjusted his gait to spare the wounded thigh. Blood had soaked down to his sock, crusting at the edge.

He passed a fence half-swallowed by tall weeds. A buzzard circled overhead, drifting slow as a bad thought.

The wheat thinned. The road straightened. A rusted mailbox leaned sideways like it had given up. The wood line deepened to his right. The smell of something rotting came with the breeze—maybe roadkill, maybe not.

Then, the creek.

It was barely a trickle now, late in the season. Algae floated in patches on the surface. The banks were cracked and dry except where deer had come to drink. He paused at the edge.

In the water, he saw himself.

Barely.

The reflection was warped, a shimmer of bruised skin and swollen features. Blood streaked the side of his face. One nostril was packed with dirt.

He didn’t recognize what looked back.

It wasn’t just the damage. It was everything. Like he’d been worn down over time, carved out bit by bit. Less a person, more a patchwork of bruises and silence.

A thought stirred—low and mean.

What if I just walked in and didn’t come out?

The water was too shallow, of course. He could kneel and press his face in, maybe. But that would take time. And courage. Rope? He didn’t have any. A gun? They wouldn’t trust him with one. Just thoughts. Heavy, shapeless ones. Ones that sat behind his eyes and whispered when it got too quiet.

He turned away. Not out of hope. Just out of habit.

By the time Thomas reached the farm, dusk had fallen.

The sky glowed purple and bruised, a long bruise stretching from treetop to treetop. The horizon softened, like the whole world was holding its breath before dark. Smoke drifted from the chimney in a lazy spiral, mixing with the scent of cooked beans and cornmeal. It smelled like home. It smelled like pain.

The house sat hunched behind a lean fence, flanked by a lopsided barn and chicken coop, each weathered and grayed like old teeth. Weeds curled up through the porch steps. A tin wash bucket sat overturned by the back stoop, rust leaking down its side. Nothing here looked new. Nothing here ever would.

Thomas cut behind the barn, limping toward the side door. He didn’t want them to see him yet. Not like this.

His body screamed with every step, but he didn’t stop.

Work first.

That was the rule. If he looked busy, people asked fewer questions. And if the chores got done before someone noticed the limp, the swelling, the blood… maybe tonight wouldn’t end with shouting. Or silence.

He mucked the stalls, slow and stiff, fighting to stay upright. Each shovel of soiled hay felt like lifting a log. His back threatened to seize. His thigh throbbed like a second heartbeat.

He hauled water from the pump and refilled the troughs. The goats bleated lazily as he passed, their eyes glassy and dumb. One nudged his hip for food, and he flinched, then muttered under his breath. He tossed feed to the chickens and latched the coop.

His vision swam once when he bent to secure the gate. For a second, he saw stars.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

If he didn’t finish before she saw him, she’d ask questions. She’d get that tone. The one that dropped her voice to a flat drawl and stripped it of warmth. Worse than yelling. Worse than a belt. That tone meant she didn’t see you. Not really. Not for a while.

By the time the porch light flicked on, Thomas’s shirt was soaked with sweat and smeared with blood. His limbs trembled, legs quivering from overuse and trauma. The back of his neck was sticky with grime.

He climbed the steps slow, one at a time. Each board creaked like it might give way.

At the top, he paused at the screen door, his heart thudding like a hammer in a locked box.

He waited.

Counted to ten.

Then opened it.

Inside, the house was dim. The kitchen light glowed faintly, casting long shadows along the hallway. A radio murmured from the front room—low gospel, crackling under the hum of static.

Pots clinked gently on the stove.

Luda Mae looked up from stirring beans. “That you, Tommy?”

He stepped just far enough inside to be heard, not seen.

She didn’t turn.

“You finish up with the goats?”

He swallowed, then made a sound in his throat. A grunt. The same one he always used when words failed him. Mm-hmm.

“Good,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Wash up. Come eat.”

He nodded once, already edging down the hall toward the bathroom. Still hugging the wall. Keeping his face turned away.

She didn’t see him.

Didn’t see the split lip. The bloodstained jeans. The quiver in his step.

She didn’t ask.

He shut the bathroom door behind him and locked it.

The light above the mirror buzzed faintly, a flickering moth-colored glow. He stared at himself again. Only now it was worse. Dried blood crusted at the edge of his ear. His eye had puffed nearly shut. The cut on his thigh had bled through, seeping down to the cuff of his pants.

His face didn’t look like a face anymore.

It looked like a punishment.

He didn’t wince.

Just turned on the faucet.

And scrubbed.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Like if he did it long enough, he might vanish.

The water ran pink in the basin, circling the drain in slow spirals.

Thomas didn’t look up again.

He scrubbed until the skin around his fingernails turned red and raw, until the blood on his arms thinned to faint streaks and the worst of it disappeared down the pipes. But nothing inside him felt clean.

He turned off the tap.

Stood there in silence, dripping.

Outside the window, frogs and crickets had begun to their nightly chorus.

[amomentsescape]

Eldritch monster anon here! So to answer your question, yep that image you shared is what I have in mind ^^

Slashers with Reader Who's Secretly an Eldritch Horror

Slashers x Reader

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, Bo, & Lester

A/N: I'm not super confident I wrote Reader correctly, and I didn't go into too much depth about what they look like or everything they're capable of, so I hope you still like it! You can find the original request here.

Freddy Krueger

He can't help but fantasize of the damage you two can cause when together

He sensed something was a little different about you from the beginning

But he didn't think it would be quite this drastic

What's funny though is that he thinks you don't know that he's found out about you

He's dead wrong

But it's kind of a game to you, and you're having fun with it

He's "secretly" caught you distorting the people and things around you

And he admires that fact since he does the same thing in his Dream World

You were hoping he'd catch on sooner

But oh well

It's just more fun that way

Michael Myers

He somehow doesn't know already, and you kind of want to keep it that way

Michael has this thing with power

He knows he's unstoppable, chaotic, and deadly

And he likes it that way

If he ever found out about the things you're capable of...

It would not be good

Your partnership would go from providing to battling

He wants- needs to be the monster in the relationship

And although you have the upper hand on him, he would not go down without a fight

He knows there's a darkness brewing in you

He just doesn't know quite what it is

And let's hope it stays that way

Jason Voorhees

He honestly learns about what you are pretty early on

He didn't really assume anything was off about you, but he was so open and sweet to you that you felt comfortable enough to tell him about everything

And knowing that he's not the most dangerous being around is somewhat... nice

He really admires your power and strength

And it feels good to be able to leave for a while and not worry that something will happen to you

You are more than capable of protecting yourself, and that lifts a huge weight off of Jason's shoulders

Perhaps he's too trusting, but he doesn't worry about you turning that dark power on him

You've only showed him genuine love and care, so he feels like he has nothing to worry about

Thomas Hewitt

Perhaps he's being a little naive

The way you immediately ate his "dinner" without so much as a question

The sudden increase of people coming by the house and being captured

How you come out of the most dangerous areas unscathed

There is clearly something about you that isn't... normal

But it's not his place to question it

He loves you, and you love him

End of story

Even if he did start to question what's really going on, he wouldn't press the matter

He figures you'll open up to him whenever you're ready

And if that's never, then so be it

Bubba Sawyer

He's just a sweet, naive man

You could literally show your true colors right in front of his eyes, and he'd still have no clue

But it doesn't really matter

He loves you for you no matter what you look like or what you're capable of

As long as you still care for him like this, you can do whatever you want

He will admit that his family has had a much easier time getting "food" than ever before

And those that do come by are really easy to capture since you've been with him

But those are just coincidences, surely

You're his sweet angel

He has to protect you

Little does he know that you really can handle yourself...

Brahms Heelshire

He has found it a little odd that the food still arrives on time without so much as a word from Malcolm

And he hasn't seen a single soul since you began to staying with him

But he's very happy with all of this, so he doesn't question it

He can sense that you're a little... different than other people

But that's part of the reason he likes you so much in the first place

He only realizes the true extent to this theory when you somehow force him to bed without so much as a touch

He was completely flabbergasted at this, but he didn't dare question it

Safe to say that he has no intention on giving you a hard time again

Norman Bates

He doesn't question a thing

If anything, you're his good luck charm since all of these good things started to happen when you showed up

The motel business is booming

Any issues he was dealing with seemed to disappear in plain sight

Everything seems to be going his way for once

Mother keeps telling him there's something off about you, but he ignores her

What does she mean?

You're his sweet and perfect partner

There's nothing else to it

You want to show him the truth at some point, but he just seems so happy right now

Maybe you'll tell him later

Billy Loomis

Billy straight up demands for you to tell him what's going on

Unlike a lot of people, Billy follows his gut instinct

He's known something was up with since you two started seeing each other

His world was just too... perfect

And he swears that there's this dark aura that surrounds your head at all hours of the day

It's only after his latest kill went too well that he interrogates you

When you tell him, he asks you to prove it

The look on his face when you showed him just what you were was enough to send you into a fit of laughter

To be honest, Billy is a little bit scared of you now

Knowing that you're capable of literally taking him out of existence is intimidating to say the least

Best believe Billy is going to do his best not to get on your bad side

Stu Macher

Stu is true golden retriever energy

Meaning, he is very sweet and loving towards you, but there's not much else going on inside that brain of his

He doesn't suspect a single thing with you

You are his perfect partner, and that's about it

Sure, his killings with Billy have been going super well, and he always comes out unscathed

Yeah, that person who shushed him in the movie theater was found completely mutilated the next day

What about it?

You wouldn't have anything to do with it

Stu just thinks that you are made out of 100% innocence

And you kind of like it that way

You'll tell him when you're ready

Until then, you just appreciate Stu treating you like a person and not some powerful God

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent has been finding himself with a new sense of inspiration for his wax art

He dreams of this ethereal yet terrifying being he has never seen before

He's told you about the dreams, and you always respond with a soft smile and a "that's interesting"

Vincent as no clue that you're the creature he's been seeing

And you must say, his art is pretty damn accurate

You didn't have any intentions on telling him the truth, at least not right away

But the way he sees this version of you as his muse makes you want to say something sooner

He's basically idolizing you, and he doesn't even know it

Not that he doesn't act this way with you normally

But how fun it could be to see his reaction once you tell him the truth

Bo Sinclair

Maybe he suspects something is going on, but he doesn't say anything

Ignorance is bliss

And although he's usually one to demand what he wants to know, he doesn't quite feel comfortable doing that with you

There's something in those eyes of yours that tells him he may be better off not knowing

Plus, things for him and Ambrose have been going suspiciously well for him

He literally had some random man run up to him begging to become one of the wax figures

This is all just odd

And he knows you're hiding something by the way you smile at him

But everything is so perfect that he doesn't want to ruin it

So for now, let him be ignorant

Lester Sinclair

He's never really been in a relationship as passionate as this one before

So you best believe any single thought or doubt that goes through his head is immediately thrown out

He loves you, and you're so nice to him

There's no way you could be hiding something from him, right?

I mean, it's a little odd how you seem to appear from thin air, and your hair never has a single strand out of place

There was something that feels... not real

But that's just crazy

He probably only feels that way because of how perfect he thinks you are

Until you explicitly stand before him in your true form, he's going to just ignore these thoughts

[calmcoldevening]

(not a second request :000) Bo, Micheal, Thomas, and Brahms with valley girl stereotype! Male reader

I don't really understand this style, I just judge by the guys from TikTok. Correct me if I'm wrong.

Bo Sinclair

• He finds you strangely cute. You're so... unusual. So much so that when you arrive at Ambrose, Bo doesn't have the desire to turn you into another figure in the museum. No, he does have the desire to keep you here forever, but it would be a great loss.

• Bo meets you and immediately tries to appear strong and interesting to you, so that you might also be interested in a possible connection or even a relationship with him.

• He laughs at your way of speaking, but he actually finds it terribly cute. You just have to teach him to express his emotions normally.

• When you're already a kind of couple, you're always complaining about his mess in the workshop, about his lack of some more neat style (but in a formal suit he's damn sexy, agree). Just he goes all day in the same and doesn't even wash these things, you try to tell him that it's disgusting. But he just rolls his eyes and gets you dirty with some paint or gasoline, and then laughs when you scream and curse at him. Your dramatic reactions amuse him, and he finds you cute.

• But if you're in danger or some victim is bothering you, he becomes damn serious and protective, and then goes back to his dirty jokes and teasing.

Michael Myers

• For him, you're like a constantly screaming but cute kitten that he's been left to look after. You're constantly talking, chatting, gesturing, and complaining, and he just watches and... gets excited. He's touched. This man has a strange glint in his eyes, and it's even cute.

• You're trying to fix his confusing image. Sure, you like him, but at least you could wash that weird jumpsuit! "Mikey! OMG, like, this jumpsuit is a total fashion disaster! Let me give you a proper makeover, 'kay? You’ll be, like, sooo slay!" And he listens. Well, he just stands there and does whatever you say. Then he goes to the shower under your supervision, if necessary.

• He likes the size difference between you two. It's like he can literally grab you around the waist with one hand and throw you over his shoulder. He loves the feeling of power and control. It also awakens his desire to protect what's his.

• You're the only one he won't stab. Well, almost. He might just corner you and scare you into silence. But if you get offended, he'll follow you around like a beaten dog all day and beg for forgiveness.

• Sometimes you don't notice him, and then you get scared, and man, it's so cute. He likes it. You scream so funny. "AAAAH! Ohmygod, like, you totally scared me! Ugh, Mikey, babe, stop being such a creep—wait… Like, don’t do that again, ‘kay? My heart can’t take it!"

Thomas Hewitt

• He doesn't understand even half of what you say, he just finds your words sweet and funny, he likes listening to it. Especially when you say his name so tenderly. "OH! Tommy?! Excuse you?! This is, like, literally the worst. The. Worst. I—ugh, I can’t. Fix it. Now." You're so sweet and emotional, he just listens and nods back, continuing to work on something. But if you call him some sweet word, he immediately looks down and blushes deeply.

• You constantly complain about the Texas heat, dirt, and unpleasant odors, but Thomas just rolls his eyes and mumbles something incomprehensible. However, he is now more cautious when examining the victims' belongings, so he gives you all the nice stuff. Clothes, accessories, and perfumes - everything goes into your hands.

• You try to teach him about "normal" life, but in the end, you get used to his peculiarities.

• If someone hurts you or the victim somehow manages to hurt you, Thomas immediately grabs a chainsaw and deals with it. And then you cry that he got your favorite clothes stained with blood, and Thomas apologizes to you and tries to fix it. He doesn't like seeing you sad, so he will try to repair the clothes.

• If someone from the Hewitt family looks at you sideways, Thomas will stand between you and frown. "OH! EM! GEE! Tommy, babe, that was like—literally the most badass thing EVER! You’re, like, totally serving psycho slasher vibes right now and I’m so here for it! Ugh, why are you, like, lowkey the hottest when you’re murdery?!" He just sits there, all red-faced and really pleased, carving something out of wood with an axe. He's such a shy boy, you have him wrapped around your finger. He's in love.

Brahms Heelshire

• He loves your emotional and dramatic side, because he's the same way. You both can have a meltdown over nothing, so you're not just lovers, but also super duper best friends.

• You're the only one who's allowed to break his rules. But only a little. Anything but a goodnight kiss. You have to kiss him. And then you have a passionate night.

• He loves your style. And one day you dressed him in similar clothes, but Brahms felt uncomfortable. He's used to wearing looser, baggier clothes because he's a self-conscious boy, so don't do it again.

• After someone visits you, whether it's Malcolm or your friends (he's jealous, so be careful), you spend a lot of time gossiping about everyone. He loves it. You look cute together and giggle, making him feel loved and needed.

• He steals your favorite things to get your attention or just to make you chase after him. It's so fun, come on!

• When he's around you, he gets a boost of your energy and warmth, and he loves it. He also enjoys hugging and kissing you. If you use lipstick, he wants to be covered in your lip prints.

[mauswyx]

old ties, new beginnings [ch.2]

Thomas Hewitt x f!reader: ch1 // ch3

TLDR: By chance, Thomas encounters someone from his past and gets to be treated like a normal guy for an afternoon–except he doesn't want the treatment to stop. [pt.2]

WORD COUNT: 1.9k

CW: mention of past trauma/abuse, slight nudity

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“I’m really glad you remember me...”

She was sitting with her legs sprawled out in front of her while she leaned back onto her hands, staring out over the lake-top as the warm breeze gently weaved through her hair. The lake was practically still, save for a few ducks that had flown down; she watched as they preened their feathers and dove for fish.

Thomas gave a low hum to let her know he had heard her; he was sitting cross-legged a meter or so behind her, pulling at the grass around him. The ever looming thought of what he’d have to do made him nervous. A part of him hoped you’d excuse yourself right now and leave; Hoyt would find you—take you back to the house and you’d just be cattle again. It would be easier that way. He could put on his face and you’d never know it was him…your dying thoughts wouldn’t be hate for him. The image of you dying caused a pain in his chest; the pain only worsened when the thought of you calling out for him, begging him to save you flooded his mind. Would your final words be his name on your tongue? To his horror, the idea excited him. You had been nothing but compassionate towards him–a beacon of warmth when all anyone else had done was treat him like an animal, a beast. And here he was, daydreaming about slaughtering you.

With a slight groan you pulled your stiff legs to your chest, snuggly wrapping your arms around them with a satisfied purr. His shirt rode up your thighs and rested around your hips, slightly exposing your bottom; with a grunt he darted his eyes away from your flesh. He didn’t deserve to look at you in such a way–not when he was going to be the one to wipe you from this earth. His fists clenched at the dead grass as the situation weighed on him; he didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t. He wanted to stay in this moment forever–wanted to live in a time where you wanted his company, content to sit in his presence without fear or judgment. In this moment you were alive. Alive with him. 

He looked to the sky, to whatever god Mama had long since given up on getting him to pray to, for an answer. No one else had ever done the things you had done and it had to mean something. It had to.

It had been him to stumble upon you, no one else, like you were a gift left by the heavens waiting just for him. His. Straightening his back and releasing his grip on the grass, the thought dawned on him. You could be his. Everyone else seemed to have their own company–be it sisters, pets, or working girls–so why couldn’t he? He could be good to you: he would treat you much better than a pet and substantially better than the way Hoyt treated his guests. 

He’d take care of all your needs–you’d be his responsibility, he was the one inaugurating you after all. You’d be well fed, he wouldn’t rest until you had a full stomach every night; you’d never get bored, sitting in with Mama and his aunt on their lunchins or more realistically tending to your own chores around the homestead; and though he, himself, didn’t really care for bathing, he figured a respectable woman such as yourself would, so he’d make sure you had every opportunity to stay clean; the house had many rooms but most of them were filled with clutter so you’d have to wait a bit before getting your own room. He pondered for a moment, thinking about what room would suit you best; he liked the idea of you having one of the rooms with the fancy windows that Mama once cherished. In the meantime, you’d have to stay in his room…have to share a bed with him too. His fingers twitched at the thought of sleeping next to you. He had to physically shake his head, when the thought of you waiting-up for him at night after a hard day's work–unable to sleep without him crept into his head; he couldn’t get distracted by such thoughts, there was still so much left to work-out.

You had sealed your fate upon entering the town’s border; in his heart-of-hearts, Thomas knew this was the only way to keep you alive and that’s all he wanted; that’s all that mattered. You’d definitely need some adjusting to their way of life–you were a saint but he knew not even you could understand right away why they needed to do the things they did, but you could learn. He’d keep you alive–even if it killed you.

The sound of a sniffle pulled him from his plotting.

You had hidden your face in the crook of your arms that now rested atop your knees, while he had thought out his plan. Oh no. What had he done? Did you finally realize how disgusting he was and were mortified to be with him? Had you said something personal and he had ignored you–too caught up in his own world? How could he be so selfish! He let out a whine as his thoughts ran wild with possibilities of what he could’ve done to upset you. It felt as though his very world was crumbling around him–keeping you needed the foundation of you not despising him.

“I’m sorry…” you huffed out, raising your head to wipe at your eyes, “I’m just…I’m sorry!” The tears began flowing freely despite your efforts to contain them. You felt pathetic for crying, you had nothing to cry about when it was Thomas who had been the victim.

“They were so c-cruel to you-ou,” you hiccuped through sobs, “and I did noth-hing!”

For years you had watched as they had treated him less-than the dirt beneath their feet and you had been too much of a coward to even defend him. To even console him. Having only been a child did little to console you: even at such a young age, you knew what they were doing was wrong and you still chose to turn a blind eye. You were no better than any of the other children who had run away from him or the townspeople who had mistreated him; you knew you deserved whatever punishment they had coming. Had he not only been just a child, as well? How was it fair for him to be treated like a walking-disease, merely for being different, while other children got to live normal lives at no cost at all. It was maddening and the guilt for not having done anything to prevent his abuse or ease it was tearing you apart. 

“Oh Thomas, I’m so sorry! You didn’t deserve-”

The words died in your throat as the sound of settling grass alerted you of his presence. He was kneeling next to you now, holding out an uncertain hand mere centimeters away from your face. His hand was formed as though he was intending to cup your face but wanted permission. His stormy eyes couldn’t keep yours as he shifted his gaze around nervously. How could he be so considerate towards you? He should hate your very being. You wanted to turn your head away from him, you didn't deserve his comfort. He should just leave you to rot! But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away; choking back a sob, you leaned into his touch–allowing him to bring you solace. He wasted no time in sweeping your guilty tears away with the pad of his thumb and gently massaging at your temple. His tender care only made you want to cry more.

Thomas couldn’t help but admire how bewitching you looked while you cried softly against his hand: wet eyelashes pressed against puffy-flushed cheeks and cherry-red lips turned into a soft pout. And when your eyes opened, to peer into his own–he hated to think it but you truly did look pitiful. Looking up at him like he was the only thing that could soothe your pain. The tight feeling in his chest returned. He didn’t care about the past, or rather he didn’t care about what you didn’t do in the past. He knew what you did do and that was enough for him. Everyone else’s actions had nothing to do with you so how could he fault you, the only person to ever treat him like he was worthy of some human decency? He had grown accustomed to the insults and the physical tormenting stopped when he hit his growth spurt; those that continued to pester him after which were no more significant than gnats buzzing in his ear. Even now when unruly cattle would hurl insults at him, he knew it was all meaningless. At the end of the day they were still just that–cattle. To Thomas, you had done nothing wrong and there was no need for you to apologize–it only crushed him to see you so distraught over something you had no control over.

Overcome with emotion, he leaned closer to you and let out a whine into your hair. 

The unexpected proximity was startling, Thomas had all but engulfed you into himself. Though you didn’t mind. He was warm and smelled of musk and something else you couldn’t quite place–it was almost metallic. The smell was comforting nonetheless. You leaned into him–absent mindlessly closing the small gap in between you–grazing your nose just under where his mask met his skin, trying to figure out what that smell was. The sudden contact must have startled Thomas as you felt him tense around you, but he made no move to remove himself from you.

“Is this ok?” you breathed out, not wanting to take advantage of his goodwill. You could feel the rumble in his throat and his hair tickle your face as he gave a singular-short nod.

With your new allowance, you leaned fully into him: tucking your arms in between you as you grasped at his stained-shirt, burrowing your face against his neck to ride out the remainder of your tears.

“I really am sorry…” you muttered against his skin, you could feel him shiver but you couldn’t bring yourself to move away. He was warm and the skin-contact was soothing. His breathing was heavy and you could feel another rumble pass through his throat as he just barely grazed against the now-dry shirt on your back–giving you time to push him away–before settling against you. You could feel as he moved to lean his own head against yours, his warm breath showered against your ear. You stifled another sob against him with a whine, this awkward side hug was far more than you deserved.

A fire burned in Thomas’s chest as he clutched you closer to himself. In this moment, with this small act, you had proven to him that he was correct: you were different and there was no doubt about it–you being brought back to him was so that he could make you his. And he would be damned if anyone tried to take you away from him. 

The sun felt warm against your skin and the heat that Thomas expelled only heightened it, your earlier swimming and recent crying fit had finally worn you out. Your eyes fought against the pull of sleep, but ultimately the rise and fall of Thomas's chest against you lulled you into the unconscious abyss.

[milkteahood]

unmasked

Thomas Hewitt x fem!reader

Warning: smut! minors dni!!!

Summary: more smut. But with a plot. This wasn't supposed to be a smut, but of course it is. Because that's just how I am as a person.

Living with the Hewitt family wasn’t always easy, but it sure had its nice parts, and the nicest part was Thomas. Oh yes, the reason you were still alive today was simply being a decent person to Thomas. Which slowly progressed to more, finding yourself in this limbo of having a huge crush on him, while he was still keeping you at arm’s length.

It was very strange to fall in love with a man whose face you never saw. Yet here you were, catching yourself staring at him again. Even though he warmed up to you, Thomas was still caught off guard whenever he saw you staring, so you tried to do your best to avoid him seeing you. That of course didn’t always work and today was one of those days.

A couple of seconds passed before you realized he was looking back at you.

“O-oh! Sorry” you said, smiling at him.

He’s been around you long enough to know you weren’t being malicious, but he still didn’t know what to make of it, so he just nodded and turned back to what he was doing.

You mentally cursed yourself for making him feel awkward, not that you could’ve helped it. Your heart ached whenever he walked into the room, yet the fear of being rejected was enough to put you back in place.

I can’t just keep living like this you thought to yourself once you resumed to cleaning the potatoes Luda Mae told you to.

Be thankful you’re even alive.

***

At supper you tried your best to keep your eyes off of Thomas, only making small conversation here and there. He would listen, and nod, occasionally tilting his head to the side. Each time, making your heart skip a beat and your cheeks turn red. You blamed it on the weather and the soup.

After supper, you helped Luda Mae with cleaning the table.

“You know sweetheart, my Tommy might be naive, but I am not” she said.

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

“Oh hush girl. I can see how red you get when you look at my Tommy. And I can tell he feels a certain way about you too”

You were so thankful she was old, because otherwise it would’ve been impossible not to hear your heart beat out of your chest.

“Just don’t break his heart”

“No. Never!” you protested before you realized what you just admitted to.

Luda Mae just smiled at you “you’re a very sweet girl. Go on now. I will finish here”.

And with that, you were rushing out to see what Thomas was up to.

You found him sitting on the staircase in front of the house.

“Hey Thomas!” you said, sitting down next to him.

He nodded to you, eyes softening at your sight.

“Did you have a good day?” you asked, earning yourself another nod. Thomas didn’t talk, but you did not mind. You’ve been around long enough to understand him.

“I can tell he feels a certain way about you too”. Luda Mae’s words echoed in your head, making you blush. Thomas tilted his head and pointed at your now very flushed cheek.

“I’m ok!” you tried to keep your cool “it’s just really hot still outside” you continued smiling. He seemed to take that.

“And since it’s so hot… say Thomas. Would you want to go hang out by the pond? I’m done with my chores”.

He just smiled at you from behind his mask and nodded his head.

***

“Oh come on Tommy! The water is amazing” you said, dress all wet because you didn’t care to take anything off.

Thomas tried to avoid your gaze, simply because his mama raised him better, and your dress became pretty see-through.

“Tommy? Are you alright?” you started to approach him.

Thomas lifted his hand, pointing at your dress. It took you a little to realize what he was trying to say, but once you looked down, a blush crept on your face. “Oh goodness”.

After he sighed, he took off his apron and handed it to you. You were swimming in it, and it was enough to cover yourself.

You knew Thomas wasn’t going to swim, he always preferred to hang out at the shore.

“It’s fine now Thomas” you chucked when he finally turned to face you. Both of you lay down on the grass, with you turning towards him. He was looking up at the sky, not seeming to notice you were looking at him.

“This is nice”

He glanced at you and grunted. This one meant yes.

“Isn’t it hard to always wear that mask Tommy? It’s so hot today”

He didn’t answer. But you could see him clenching his fists.

“I-I mean”

He turned his head to you, frowning.

“Sorry” you said and turned on your back. He turned away from you too.

“I just” just shut up. Don’t say it. Just don’t.

You looked at him. He was looking away.

With a sigh you decided that now was the moment.

“Whatever’s underneath that mask… it won’t change how I feel about you” you almost whispered the last part, but it was enough for him to hear.

Thomas turned his head towards you, eyes widen, looking confused and a little scared.

You just smiled and placed your hand over his. He tensed, but not for long.

“Even mama noticed” you said with a chuckle.

He looked at you for a while, and you were staring to get worried that you said something wrong, until he stood up, just enough to undo his leather mask. Yet he didn’t take it off, and he was no longer looking at you.

“Tommy?”

He didn’t respond, and while he was holding his mask up with one hand and his other was clenched in a fist, you were worried you might’ve upset him by pushing him into this.

“Thomas. It’s alright” you said, taking his hand in both yours “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to”.

When his eyes finally met yours, you could clearly see the pain in them, and something else. You could see a little bit of hope.

He sighed and finally let go of his mask. He was looking down, completely avoiding your gaze. You could swear his eyes almost popped out of his head when you cupped his face, got on his lap, smiled and called him handsome. His whole body tensed up at your words, almost not wanting to believe you.

“You’re so beautiful Thomas Hewitt” you repeated yourself, this time with an even bigger smile.

Meanwhile, Thomas was completely frozen. Were you making fun of him? But you looked so genuine. How could you be? Did it really matter? No. Not when your touch was so soft and you were smiling at him like that.

He finally snapped out of his trance when you kissed him.

He didn’t know what to do, but it didn’t take long for him to start kissing you back. It was inexperienced and needy and full of buildup emotions on both sides. His hands shyly rested on your waist, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, hands tugging at his hair as the kiss got more and more intense.

He started feeling your back up and down, while you pressed against him harder, earning yourself a moan when you brushed yourself against the bulge in his pants.

Both of you pulled away and just looked at the other for a while. Then, with a confidence you didn’t think you’d see with him, he pulled you into another kiss, holding the back of your head.

He worked on your clothes while you worked on his, neither wanting to break the kiss more than you needed to.

He then flipped you over and once he was on top, he stopped again, just looking and admiring you. Your hands exploded his chest while you kissed his neck, turning him into a moaning mess. He was intoxicated by your every touch.

Feeling his erection against your inner thigh made you moan.

“You can do whatever you want to me Tommy” you said while wrapping your arms around his neck.

He just whimpered, nuzzling your neck.

“It’s alright Thomas, I want you” you said gently stroking his hair.

He nodded against your neck before kissing you again.

You helped him adjust himself and before you knew it, he was sliding inside, both of you moaning into the other’s mouth.

The pace started slow, Thomas was holding your waist with one hand and using the other to support himself.

“Oh fuck… just like that” you moaned, nails digging into his back now.

The more you moaned, the more he slammed harder and faster into you. His face was buried in your hair, taking in your scent which was slowly driving him off the edge.

He was hitting all the right places, slamming into you so hard you knew you would have trouble walking afterward.

You knew he was getting closer because his pace became more and more erratic.

“Oh fuck Tommy, cum with me, please please cum with me”.

That was enough to drive him over the edge and with a few more deep thrusts he came, making your eyes roll back while you chased your own high.

Both of you stayed like that for a while, neither wanting to move. Thomas made sure not to let his entire weight over you, while you ran your fingers through his hair and planted kisses on his forehead.

“I love you Tommy”.

His eyes widened, and he looked like he just saw a ghost. The sight was endearing and it caused you to chuckle.

“I really do” you continued.

His lower lip twitched, and he immediately squeezed you close to him, making you smile even more. You knew he felt the same. There was no need for him to say anything.

***

The sky was full of stars as you made your way back to the house. Slowly, making sure not to disturb anyone, you made your way towards Tommy’s room. You gave him another kiss in the doorway before waking in, and finally getting to sleep in the arms of your now lover.

[small-sinclair]

I think about Thomas’s hands being to big, rough, and strong but he loves holding his s/o’s hand or kissing their knuckles just to feel like he belongs or he can show love. I think about how he would be so gentle when cupping their face. I think about how strong his hands are when he’s fighting to protect his beloved.

I think about how he just loves the feeling of their hands in his, reminding him how gentle the small the world can be.

[krysalla]

hide me from the cleaver, i'll hang with you forever! - iv

thomas hewitt x fat f!reader

part one | part two | part three

read on ao3

word count: 5.5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, kidnapping, restraints, body horror, body image, self harm mention, cannibalism, vomit and piss mention, inaccurate description of butchering probably, mutilation

what's behind the steel door?

There is a door of galvanized steel toward the back of the house. The room it is in is dark and empty. You can hear the door being pulled open and pushed closed on its track in the night, the grind of metal on metal reverberates through the house, all the way up the stairs and through the door of your new bedroom. What follows is the thump of Tommy’s steps as he climbs the stairs and stands outside your door. You hold onto your pillow tighter as you watch his shadows move from the sliver of space between the door and the floor. He opened the door once and you watched each other, you refused to breathe in case it would set him off, until he left, having gotten his fill of you. He has not tried to open the door again but he still comes to you in the night. 

You keep a chair posted beneath the doorknob anyway.

You are not allowed to explore what is beyond the steel door. Luda Mae forbade it. She dragged you by the arm when she caught you trying to follow Tommy down–he’s the only one that goes through that door–and she chastised you for your curiosity and your lack of respect for the house and the rules, which have never been explained to you. She calls you insolent, a troublemaker, barely worth the extra scraps of food at the end of the day. But she sighs and curls a lock of your hair around her finger and tells you how lucky you are that Tommy likes you, wants you to be his girl, and if you want to be his then you have to be good and listen. 

In exchange for this one rule, you have free reign of the house, all other doors are unlocked for you but you have no desire to see what Hoyt keeps in his room nor are you interested in whatever costume jewelry Luda Mae keeps on her vanity. You do not want to see more of the house except for what is forbidden because what is sweeter than that?

You do what you can to ignore the door and push away the need to know. But with your time as unoccupied as it is, that steel door is all you can think of. It itches at the back of your head and grows stronger, nails digging into your flesh the closer you get to it, like you are now.

You stare up at the little peephole in the middle of the door.

As far as you know, nobody is down there. It would be so easy to sneak through the door but the resulting sound of metal scraping would be enough to alert whoever else is in the house to what you’re doing. Would it be so bad?

You reach out to touch the small indentation at the side that your fingers can use to guide it open.

“Whaddya think you’re doin’, girl?”

You jump out of your skin when you hear Monty’s voice and snatch your hand back down to your side and turn to face him. He’s become a bit of an ally, you suppose, a friendly face amongst people who are either too hot or cold to you. Monty never punishes your transgressions against the family or the rules like Hoyt or boss you around and try to control you like Luda. He doesn’t touch you like Tommy does. He’s apathetic to the whole situation but still complicit nonetheless. You think he pities you.

At least he gives you cigarettes.

“Not doing anything, Monty.”

“Best be true.” He makes a face–upper lip curled in disgust and nose wrinkled. “You don’t wanna go down there.”

“Why?”

“Not your place to be askin’.” The dog barks in his lap. Monty makes a small circle in the room to turn out back toward the living room. He waves you over. “C’mon, gonna miss my program.”

-

Escape is far from your reach. Your foot is still tender and healing. Each step is agonizing but you should consider yourself lucky that it is healing at all. You hobble around barefoot all day on floors that you can’t be sure of the last time they were cleaned. Luda Mae took your shoes away from you, hid them somewhere in the house or burned them with your friends’ belongings, to discourage any escape attempts. She cites her poor, lovesick boy whose heart would be broken if you tried to run away from him after all he’s done for you.

There’s worse waiting out there for you than shards of glass. You saw Hoyt pile bear traps and snares into the trunk of the cruiser at the break of dawn, beating out the heat of the day. He made sure you were watching too, looked up at you where you stood at your bedroom window and gave you a shit-eating grin, settling the rifle over his shoulder and canting his hip out.

You think about the way Tommy handled the cleaver and the chainsaw. Would he just take your legs if you tried to run or sever your achilles tendon? Would you be able to feel the cord snap and run up through the back of your calf?

You think you’d rather take the bear traps.

Maybe someone will come knocking on the door, a sheriff with a revolver on his hip, looking for the group of missing friends, and find you and take you back home. Your arrival is long overdue.

Did your mother call the first time you missed a daily call or when you didn’t come home on time?

Time moves funny out here. The days are long and syrupy and the nights too short. Each day is the same, nothing eventful to mark the passage of time. You combed through the house looking for anything to help you–a calendar, a planner, a daybook, anything–but your search was in vain. What reason would they have for keeping time as cut off from society as they are? They don’t even watch the news. They know that the world is falling to shit, so why should they keep tabs on the rest of the world, not when they are fending for themselves out here. They must have been isolated in this ghost town a lot longer than you could imagine to be so unconcerned with others.

You keep track by carving tally marks into your bedpost with a sewing needle. The count is off by a few days. By the time you found the needle, you’d already forgotten how long the Hewitts have had you for. So far, your tally is at twenty. It has been more than twenty days of captivity. 

You lost time on that first day. There’s no way to be sure that was your first day there. For all you know, you had been asleep for a full day before waking up. Your head was throbbing, so whatever happened to you, something or someone hit you. Think… You know the answer, it’s there, scratching at the corners of your mind. An eclipsing shadow, the smell of cured meats and sweat and–

Tommy whistles at you.

And you respond like a dog being called by its owner.

Compliance is rewarded here.

You stand in front of him with your head bowed, limbs loose and pliant. He likes to touch you. If it was anyone else, you would consider it innocent. He only ever runs his hands over your arms, traces the slope of your jaw and neck with the tips of his fingers, pinches the apples of your cheeks, cradles the back of your neck while his thumb rubs circles right below your ear. He never goes further than that. He never crosses the line of groping your chest or your ass, fingers searching out for warmth under your clothes. He treats you gently like you will break or run out the door if he touches you too hard. 

He circles you, examining you with heady eyes, trying to find something on you.

Tommy pinches at the softness of your stomach, ignores your yelp of surprise, and grabs a handful of your flesh through your shirt. You screw your eyes shut. He is touching one of the most intimate parts of your body. Nobody is allowed close enough to touch it, let alone accidentally brush against it. Lovers in the past had tried, brushing their hands over your chest, further and further down until you stopped them and moved them back up. No one touches you there, only you can.

You know what others think of you, how they see you.

What does he think of you?

Why does it matter?

He makes a noise, garbled in his throat. His nails pinch into the soft skin of your stomach and relax before pawing at you again, his free hand joining in to lift and knead and grope. He doesn’t look you in the eye. He’s glued to your stomach. He stops and you’re being tugged by the wrist, pulled along rough enough to feel your arm pop as he brings you along with him, leading you into the kitchen. 

He pulls out a chair at the small table and turns to the fridge. The lock clicks. You are expected to be sitting by the time he turns around and it’s always easier to comply, no matter how much you despise it. He has never used a punishing, bruising force with you, just sharp commands that you have to scramble to understand, using only physical cues, before Tommy loses his patience. You have no doubt that if push comes to shove, no matter how much fondness he has for you, he will use force, beat you like a dog gone bad. 

“What are you doing?” you ask when he sits next to you, chair angled to face you. 

He pulls off a layer of foil from the plate he holds. It’s leftovers from last night. You look around. Is this a trick? Outside of meals together, you are not allowed any food. Luda Mae locked the fridge to make sure of it, not that you were seeking out seconds.

He grabs your stomach again like it will answer your question.

“Stop doing that!” You slap his hands away from you curl in on yourself. With the push of your foot, you get all but two inches away from him before he’s darting toward you and grabs the leg of the chair. He drops the plate of food on the table and drags you back to him, your legs slotted between his. He brings you close enough that the edges of both chairs dig into your calves. Again, his hands are on your stomach, pressing at the fat of your stomach until he hits the firmness of your muscles and organs and can’t push any further.

You look up at the ceiling. There’s a crack running across the plaster in the shape of an L. 

Your kidnapping is made worse by the fact that your captor refuses to speak to you. You cannot understand him. All the usual ways of communication are blocked for you. His mask blocks his expressions and most of the time, his eyes and mouth are hidden away by the shadows created by the mask he wears.

The movement of his hands begins to feel familiar. He takes the bottom of your stomach, that overhanging bit of flesh and pulls in up and presses it into you. Yes, you know that quite well. Hours wasted standing in front of your reflection sucking your stomach in and manipulating your flesh to see what you would look like if you could just lose the weight. Daydreaming about a person who would never be real and when it got bad enough, dreaming of a way to make it possible with a knife from the kitchen counter. It would be so easy but you were never brave enough to take the plunge and you thank your lucky stars for it every day.

The plate of food doesn’t make sense. 

He’s pushing and pushing and–

Oh. 

You wouldn’t have noticed the slight weight loss if it hadn’t been for the only pair of pants that fit your properly began to gap a little more in the back. It’s minor really, no doubt to do with the stress of trying to stay on everyone’s good side so you can live another day, but he noticed.

“You’re worried?” you ask. 

Tommy’s shoulders collapse under the strain of his own stress and he nods eagerly, pleased that you understand him. He leans back and reaches into the plate of meat and potatoes smothered in a brown gravy, a regular meal here, and plucks a cold potato out for you.

“Why?”

He looks at you like it’s the silliest question in the world. His eyes are soft.

You open your mouth wide for him. You smile around the sour, chemical taste the food has absorbed from the fridge. 

He lets out a pleased hum, lips puckering behind his mask. The skin of David’s face around the holes of his eyes and mouth have begun to shrivel and peel back. Tommy has stitched it back together with thick, black thread in places where it’s been torn. You can see his eyes and mouth better than you could that first time. 

What you don’t finish, he wraps back up in tinfoil and takes with him when he goes back through the steel door.

-

Nights are spent together as a family in the sitting room. Luda Mae and Hoyt sit together on the couch, Tommy in an armchair and Monty in the other, leaving no room for you except for on the floor by Tommy’s feet. He gives you a pillow to sit on. He keeps a hand on your shoulder or cups the back of your head, always touching you like he can’t stop. 

Luda Mae watches you close, accusing eyes waiting for some slip up or untoward drifting of finger when he’s touching you. Her gaze is leveled at you and never him. 

He turns on the television. Right in time for the 7 o’clock news. You perk up at Tommy’s feet, watching the anchor introduce his top story of the night. Today is September 27th

It’s been twenty-five days.

Hoyt changes the channel and Jack Lord and James MacArthur take over the screen.

You don’t often address Hoyt unless he speaks to you first. He’s old school, doesn’t believe a woman should talk unless being spoken to, should look pretty and smile, and you’ve come to figure out he punishes you just because he doesn’t see you as a woman. Or maybe he’s pissed that there’s a cunt he can sink himself into regularly but can’t because his nephew’s already got a claim on you. 

Simpering makes his aggression worse. He gets off on it, you think.

“Can you please turn it back?” you ask in a level tone.

He looks so smug, finally sunk his teeth in a prize piece of meat. He spits into an empty beer bottle, the brown sludge of his spit and dip pooling at the bottle. You shift on your knees. He made you drink it once. Plugged your nose up at dinner and held your head back as he poured it down your throat. You looked at him funny was his justification. He laughed and no one did a thing to help you. He sets the bottle down on the ground next to his foot.

“What you wanna watch the news for? Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on that you need to know about.”

You don’t answer him. 

“‘Less you think they gon’ be talkin’ ‘bout you.” He bends over at the waist to encroach upon your space. You have nowhere to go, Tommy’s calf stops you from moving away.

“That’s not–”

“Ain’t nobody out there lookin’ for you.”

That’s not true, it can’t be. You look back to the screen. Five people can’t just vanish into thin air. You have families, friends, people who will miss you. Maybe he’s right, it’s been long enough now, it’s possible you’ve all been entirely forgotten, the news cycle moving on to another tragedy that the world has no lack of. That doesn’t mean your family has stopped. 

You don’t notice the tears at first, not until the fall and soak your shirt. You hurriedly wipe them away before Hoyt can notice. In the reflection, you can see his lips curling. Too late.

“Don’t cry now, girl. Just got to face the facts. You been forgotten. No one is comin’ to save you. We’re your family now.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No, they aren’t. Your family won't forget you. Your mother waited up for you every night for you to call when you finally reached a motel. That is not the act of someone that would forget.

She must be worried out of her mind. Did she fall asleep curled up on the couch with the phone sitting on the side table and your dog’s head on her lap? How could you do that to her? Has she been able to sleep at all? Have your siblings descended upon her to take care of her or have they forgotten her already, too caught up with their own lives? You hope she’s sleeping. You don’t want her to worry.

God, your father. 

You hope he isn’t angry with you for worrying your mother and him. He’s going to yell at you and there will be nothing you can do but take it because it comes from a good place, the only way he can express the overwhelming amount of dread and relief and worry. If you see him again. His oldest daughter snatched up and left to rot in the Texan sun. He had such high hopes for you. 

A car crash. Smoke plumes climbing high into the sky. Red and blue flashing lights. You could barely stand. He was there. Your father was there and he wasn’t angry, just held you to his chest as the cop took your statement. No, that’s not right. That’s not him and there are no flashing lights and no cop taking your statement, just humiliating you. The chest you are pressed against isn’t your father’s, it’s broader than his. He isn’t furious. He’s holding you protectively, just as your father would, but there’s something possessive in his grip. 

Tommy’s hand flexing over your shoulder shakes you out of the feverish memory.

Hoyt laughs. 

“Leave the girl be, Hoyt,” Monty says between sips of his beer.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hoyt throws the remote back onto the coffee table and stretches himself out over the couch, smirk playing at his thin lips, and watches his episode of Hawaii Five-O. 

You press your cheek into Tommy’s leg, trying to hide away the shame of crying again. It seems like all you do is cry now. The tears are endless and your well will never run dry, you fear. It’s hard not to cry and anguish over your situation. This was all so preventable. If David had stopped off earlier for gas, you would have breezed through this shithole town and been home by now. None of them would be dead now. You still don’t know what’s happened to Bobby but you’re sure after all this time he’s long gone.

Your tears stain Tommy’s pants but he pays no mind, content to have you curled up around him like you are. You feel his eyes boring into the back of your head and his thumb rubbing what are supposed to be soothing circles into your shoulder blade. You wrap your arm around his calf, your hand resting atop his knee. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take these scraps of affection and hoard them, take comfort in the way he treats you. You’ve never had someone look after you the way he does. He may not stop the beating Hoyt throws at you but he’s always there to pick up the pieces, to coo and kiss away the marks and has Luda Mae wrap up any cuts or scrapes.

Could you be blamed for seeking comfort where you can?

Yes, you could. 

What would they think of you, your friends’ families? Some no good, cheap slut who would open your legs for anyone that so much as looked your way because what else are you supposed to be other than grateful that someone spared you a second of their time. Better to take what you are given without complaint because that’s all you will ever be worthy of. A slut, a double crossing, backstabbing bitch. Good for nothing, ugly, fat, whore who opens her legs for anyone that shows you an ounce of attention because what else are you good for? You have to take it where you can because no one else will love you.

Your fingers curl into his flesh and your nails catch on the loose threads of his pants. He can see your distress and he swoops in like a turkey vulture, hovering and smelling for the decay in your tissue. Hoyt chuckles when Tommy presses a kiss to the top of your head.

-

You stare at the steel door.

You’ve been watching now, keeping track of the coming and goings of the Hewitts. Your foot is healed now, with or without shoes, you’re getting out of this house. You have an idea of a plan. Monty’s old tow truck still works, the keys are kept in the sun visor. All you need is a quarter tank of gas. Every four or so days, both Luda Mae and Hoyt go out to the dilapidated ruins of Fuller and are gone the entire afternoon. Monty goes out on the porch every day just past noon with that mongrel of his to chain smoke and drink beer. Tommy is unpredictable most days. But even he couldn’t keep up with a truck pushing eighty. You just have to be smart about it which at this moment you are decidedly not. 

Luda Mae and Monty are talking out on the front porch. Only the screen door is closed. Tommy and Hoyt are nowhere to be found but you heard the steel door open and shut followed by the heavy thudding of Tommy’s steps. 

It’s as safe as it will ever be. 

You don’t think you can leave without knowing what’s behind this door.

It opens up easier than you thought it would. It catches on the track but leaves you enough room to squeeze through. 

The steps are steep and in the dim light you lose your footing, you catch yourself before you bust your head and fall all the way down, however far that is.

The smell is worse than anything you have ever experienced before. Heady and oppressive, all consuming. It’s blood and damp, mildew mixed with sulfur. Tommy is always the one to bring Luda Mae packages of meat and not once have seen meat kept in the overcrowded fridge in the kitchen. This must be where it is kept. You try breathing through your mouth in an attempt to filter out the smell, but you can taste the tang on your tongue.

You turn the corner at the bottom of the staircase and find the string pull switch.

Never could you have imagined the carnage you see. 

You break into a cold sweat at the sight of a human body strung up by its ankles, a metal rod threaded between the backs of the feet. The body has been flayed and cleaved in half, gullet to groin, and emptied of its organs, which sit in a bucket right beneath it, along with its head. It’s Anna. Her features are mangled and bloated by decay, but you know it’s her. Her red hair still shines beautifully when the light hits it just so.

Tommy is a butcher. You know that he used to work at the slaughterhouse. He would cut apart cattle five times the weight of an average person. It wouldn’t be so much harder to wrangle a human body up onto the cutting board and cleave them into nice, neat portions of meat, ready to be cooked. 

He’s been feeding you your friends.

Your stomach rolls and empties itself all over your feet. You catch yourself on the edge of a table as your tears begin to start. 

Each morning and night the four of them sat around you at that table and watched you eat the meat, taking without question because that ability was beaten out of you by Hoyt. They must have laughed and jeered secretly. 

You have to get out of here. 

You turn and catch the sight of another person–Bobby–on a work table, except it’s not really Bobby. Almost a month of starvation has changed him inexplicably. His abdomen and cheeks are sunken in, he’s used up all of his fat reserves, and the bones of his hips, his ribcage, his jaw, all of it pokes clean through his thin, dehydrated skin, defined so well. His right arm–what’s left of it–is flayed. Both his legs and his left arm have been amputated, just below the joints at the hip and shoulder, leaving only a small amount of tissue to be wrapped up with butcher paper and secured with twine. 

His right arm is cut just below his elbow. Through the mess of blood on it, you can see that his bicep has been opened up, layers peeled back in some sort of inquisitive exploration. The wound is held open by thick cuts of black thread, the same kind Tommy uses for his mask. You can see right to the bone.

It’s more shocking to find that he’s still alive.

His breathing is shallow, each breath a struggle and a losing fight. Saliva splutters out from his mouth as he exhales and dribbles down the side of his mouth. There will be no way he will live much longer, not with the stench of rot coming off of him in waves. His skin is red and inflamed, with swollen pustules that ooze a yellow-green pus. Infection has set in his wounds. Way out here with no hospitals around and the closest thing to medical attention you can get is Luda Mae’s first aid kit, infection is a death warrant. 

This is not the man you knew.

You back away from the table, unable to look any longer. There’s no use. You know everyone is dead. There was a reason for keeping you from coming down here and you should have listened. Luda Mae doesn’t want you to see Tommy as the beast he is. That small sliver of tenderness he’s shown you means nothing now. 

You hit a wall of flesh.

You hear the angry breathing behind you. Tommy grabs you by the shoulder and spins you around, quickly grabbing your chin to force you to look at him. His eyes are alight with fury.

He is at Bobby’s side in three steps and easily lifts him up by his underarms. Bobby chokes on his spit at the sudden movement. There isn’t enough time for him to even open his eyes before Tommy impales him on a meat hook hanging from the ceiling. The point of the hook goes through his eye and up into his cranium. Tommy makes it look like it is the easiest thing in the world, like it’s just second nature to him.

He turns on you, glaring through the gray leather of David’s skin, and stomps toward you.

Your legs are trembling and sweat is gathering in your hair, dripping down your face and neck. You’ve broken their one rule and you are going to pay the price. Your number is up. If you’re lucky, it will be quick, and you hope that whatever fondness Tommy has for you will save you from Bobby’s fate.

Heat blooms through the crotch of your pants and runs down your legs in rivulets.

His grip is hard. He doesn’t bother trying to lift you, just drags you along the short distance to the work table by your upper arm, and you can’t even fight it. There’s no use in denying your fate or lashing out–Tommy is stronger than you and has complete advantage of the situation. All you can do is cry and shake and hope that your family will be okay without knowing what happened to you. There will be no body, just a pile of bones with no marrow, but even then you’re sure Tommy could find a use for your bones. 

He hauls you up onto the table and arranges your limbs and rearranges them when you work yourself up too hard in a crying fit and squirm across the table. Metal cuffs encircle your wrists and ankles and each stroke of the hammer pushing the nails through the wooden table throws you into hysterics.

You are completely immobilized and at his mercy, muscles pulled taut by the way Tommy arranged you. There is no escape. All that time wasted trying to reveal the secrets behind that fucking door instead of finding a way out. You could have lived. You could have gone back home and been in your bed right now.

What you wouldn’t give right now to be held by your mother and have your father call you baby one more time. Isn’t this what everyone wants in their final hours–the comfort of their parents?

You can see only the fuzzy outline of him against your tears. The fluorescent lights halo him like an angel. You hate him. This angel of death wearing your friend’s face and holding the blade in a fidgeting hand. The blade of the knife glints in the light. He is going to leave you strung up on a hook and butcher you when he gets hungry enough to put in the work to cut you into bite sized pieces, he will eat you with fervor because this is what he likes and what he does best. All he has to do is cut deep enough into your thigh and it will be over. 

The sharp split of skin and hot gush of blood never comes.

He turns your head to the side to face Anna’s mutilated corpse and pushes your cheek into the table. The message is clear; do not look away, know that if you break the rules or try to leave, this is what will happen to you, there is nothing that will save you. If you are too unruly or too much work, you will be next on the serving platter. He is reasserting the pecking order. This is your one and only chance.

Tommy pulls one half of her off the gambrel and throws her onto a smaller workbench. He is quick in his work and brings his cleaver down with expertise, guides the small carving knife around the ball joint of her humorous and her femur, separating her into three neat sections. He strips her clean of the membrane that covers her bones and muscle and pulls the yellow fleshy bits of her tendons out, cleans the cuts of meat from any bone fragments. He breaks her apart efficiently. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between her and pieces of beef.

In no time he’s pulling her other half free and breaking her body down in the same steady handed, practiced manner.

The idea of hell has rarely occupied your thoughts. You know the classic version of fire and brimstone, endless torture against the damned souls, never a reprieve as they burn for their trespasses against God. You know better than that. Hell is here where human life has no meaning besides what meat they can provide and no one has ever escaped from hell or else you wouldn’t be here.

Even if you were to escape, you will never truly leave this place.

He hides you from the cleaver once more, even though it would be easier and safer to do away with you like he did your friends. You are a liability to him and his family. He must be confident in the fact that you won’t try to run after this display and he’d be right. You don’t want to disappear off the face of the Earth like that. You don’t want to be eaten.

When Tommy finishes wrapping up Anna in neat little portions and cleaning his workspace, he breezes past you as if you don’t exist. He knocks his shoulder into Bobby’s corpse and it swings back and forth on the hook. He’s closing up shop.

“Wait, Tommy. Please, let me go. I'll do anything! I’ll be good. I can be good. Don’t leave me down here.” You try to move against your restraints–it only ends in your muscles drawing tight and uncomfortable.

He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shuts off the lights and heads up the stairs.

[whatyadrawin]

The Fruit After The Flesh 18+ -Chapter 14

Minors DNI!

Masterlist

Approximately 4,989 words

Pairing: Thomas Hewitt (Headcanon) x AFAB reader

This chapters Warnings:  Sexual language and depiction of sexual acts, foul language, brief PTSD scene, mention of reproductive choices. This is Slasher smut, be mindful of that and use your discretion.

A/n: See the end of chapter for a special authors note since I dont want to spoil anything here. I feel pretty good about this chapter, the art has some sloppy work because I was passing out while working on them so please be nice, I hope theres no typos or weirdness in the edited writing either because I was also passing out for that. The censored image can be viewed raw on my google doc (By clicking that link you are consenting to seeing graphic adult imagery and you are over 18). Let me know if you want to be in the tag list. I update chapter progress on the masterlist whenever something changes.

Please enjoy this chapter! I worked very hard on it so reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated very much.

Tag List: @fan-goddess , @artxasa , @baybaybear1 , @amour-tae , @dij-ology , @jillian-mill

Chapter 14

                The day started with you getting a phone call from the contractor, he informed you that your house was fully repaired and ready to move back into; You immediately got changed and walked over, highly excited to see the finished work. You arrived quickly, opening the heavy wooden door where the smell of fresh paint and new wood filled your lungs. The sun’s rays lit up the rooms giving the home a cheery appearance, as if it was happy to see you.

You slowly made your way through the entrance to head straight for your room, when you passed through the doorway you felt a knot form in your stomach, the memory of the fire was making you feel fear as if you were experiencing it all over again. You let the anxiety hit you to really feel the emotions fully, you figured if you could handle the ghost of the past then you could strive to overcome it.

Within a few short moments, the feeling passed but the cortisol surge remained. You left the bedroom and sat on the couch in the living room exhaling deeply as you reclined. You looked out at the large storage container that you had yet to completely empty, it was costing you to keep it on the property and felt like a constant reminder of how new you still were to this country.

The entire day was spent emptying out the storage crate to fill up your home. Extra clothes and furniture found their place in every corner of the house, by nightfall you managed to get your bedroom and bathroom to look mostly normal again. The fire destroyed your bed and stained the wardrobes with soot, some floor lamps were melted and unusable as well as your window curtains.

-Looks like I need to buy a new bed and some furniture- You thought about how nice you could make your room, and what curtains to buy to cover the bedroom window with. -I think it might be good to invest in some security features too while I’m at it- Dover’s attack on you affected the way you felt when you were alone, it was now pertinent to have visibility from many angles and access to view them at any time in case someone tried to hurt you while you were unaware again.

After ruminating on your fears, you locked up and left the house, the moon was now high in the sky and you realized you hadn’t eaten all day. When you left and got to the end of your driveway, you saw headlights shining up the road heading in the direction of the Hewitts house. The driver gave a honk and when you squinted to look, you recognized the truck, it was Charlie.

He pulled up next to you and reached over to unlock the passenger door,

“Get in ‘fore you get ate by a coyote” he said through the open window.

You smile and hop into the passenger’s side of the truck; the seat is rough edged from wear and scrapes the exposed skin on your leg as you slide onto it. You shut the door and thank him for picking you up,

“Are there really coyotes around here?” You asked

He smirks, “Well now, ain’t a whole lot of wildlife really comin’ ‘round here no more.”

You wrinkle your brows, “Must be lucky then eh?”

He chuckles and raises his eyebrows, “Somethin’ like that”

You roll your eyes and give a tight-lipped smirk, you knew it wasn’t luck, if anything it was a whole lot of bad luck that accumulated on this land brought onto poor hapless victims taken from the outside world just to feed the starving Hewitts. This land really was a world of its own, it felt like you were existing in another universe, the remoteness didn’t help much with that either.

“What’s ‘at look for?” he was obviously trying to sleuth out your expression.

Your eyes widen and you quickly face the open window to prevent further incriminating looks,

“Nothing” you hope he would drop it, but he continues,

“You’re bein’ real suspicious ain’t ya? Somethin’ I should know ‘bout?”

You reply with a hint of annoyance in your voice,

“Oh my Goduh, nothiiiiiiiiing” -that should throw him off-.

Charlie laughs and changes the subject,

“You gon’ move back into Tilly’s house now that it’s fixed up?”

You continue to look out the window,

“Yeah, I have been bothering you guys long enough.”

He quickly replies, “You was never no bother girly, I know Luda Mae’s gon’ be real upset seein’ you less. She sure hates an empty nest.”

You didn’t think it would be that much of an impact, you felt like a total leech living there for as long as you did,

“I’m sure she will be relieved having less cooking and housework to do…she never let me help.”

Charlie laughs, “That woman? She’s been feelin’ like a mother again what with doin’ all the women’s work. Was always her happiest when she was carin’ for the boy. Obsessed with motherhood, guess it’s normal for womenfolk to think like that.”

You roll your eyes, you had become used to the way Charlie spoke about women in the time you lived with him, but it was still obnoxious to hear such outdated ideals in modern day.

Charlie puts his arm up on the bench seat, he gives you an inquisitive look, he asks,

“You think like her at all?”

You sigh, “Isn’t that a bit personal?”

He sucks his teeth and looks at the road, he continues,

“Shoot girly, it’s just a question.”

You remain quiet for a few seconds before responding, “No… it’s never really been a goal for me.”

“Huh.”

You replied, already feeling defensive, “What?”

“Just never encountered a ‘no’ from a woman regardin’ kids is all.”

Instinctively, you began preparing to hear the usual patriarchal bullshit thrown at women who choose a different reproductive path. You prepare the counter arguments in your head, you cross your arms and say,

“Ok, lay it out then, tell me how I’m going to change my mind someday or whatever. Let’s get it over with”

Charlie lets out a confused grunt, he turns to you laughing,

“Sweetheart, I couldn’t give two shits ‘bout you not wantin’ to get knocked up. Only reason I bring it up is ‘cus I heard some foolin’ around in the basement the other day.”

Your eyes widen and you tense up with embarrassment, he laughs again,

“Now don’t get yourself all twisted up ‘bout it, s’about time that boy got some tail.”

Your muscles relax a bit, you couldn’t help but blush at your seemingly private exploration being heard. He continues,

“If you n’ the boy are gettin’ that serious, I feel I need to warn you that he’s got no bullet with the blast”

Your nerves wanted out of this conversation, but your curiosity made you dig for information,

“How would you know something like that?”

“Tommy ain’t our blood, Luda Mae found him in a dumpster behind the meat packin’ shop she worked at back in the day. Was a large thing, that boy, t’was clear the momma didn’t want nothin’ to do with him so she tossed him like trash. He was uglier ‘n hell as a baby, not much different than now.” He laughs. “But he ain’t right, somethin’ in his dang blood made him grow into such a fuckin’ beast, made him stronger than any man I ever knew.”

The road was coming up on the house now, you wanted to know more, so you turned to fully face Charlie and asked,

“Being big and strong doesn’t make someone infertile…”

Charlie smirked as he parked the truck near the wheat field and shut off the engine, he leaned his head at an angle to look at you without turning his body,

“Girly, you remember we told you ‘bout the infection fuckin’ up his face?” You nod,

He continues, “He was in the hospital a few weeks getting’ medicine. If he was a normal kid he woulda died. The doctor told us he had some, uh… dang what’d he say now?” Charlie ran his hand through his hair as he thought, “I dunno what it was, somethin’ ‘bout his blood bein’ shitted up n’ to not expect any grandkids, specially with all the drugs they dun gave him. Luda Mae was real upset; I didn’t give no fucks long as he’d help ‘round the farm, and boy did he get useful.”

He got out of the truck and started walking to the house, you sat there mulling over the information you were given. -If he is infertile… No need for protection I guess- The thought of finally being able to safelyhave raw unprotected sex made you hot with lustful fantasies, sex was hard to fully enjoy when you always had the underlying fear of pregnancy looming over you.

You entered the house and made your way to the kitchen where you saw Luda Mae in a nightgown pouring from a teapot. She turned and saw you, a smile immediately formed on her lips,

“You been away all day dear, did you eat anything?”

You shake your head and walk closer to her, she continues,

“Just as I thought. I saved you some dinner in the fridge there, you can heat it up in the oven which is already preheated for you.”

She sets down the teapot and says,

“Did you get a lot done dear?”

You open the fridge and find a large plate filled with comfort food, you respond,

“Thanks for saving me dinner, you didn’t have to.” She smiles at you, and you continue,

“I got a ton of things done, I’ll be out of your hair once my bed arrives”

Luda Mae’s smile sank, you could tell she didn’t want to hear you were leaving. She saw you looking at her expression and quickly changed it back to a smile, saying,

“Well, that’s good for you dear, but don’t go feelin’ like you have to leave right away now. Take as much time as you need.”

You feel her hand gently placed on your upper back, she gives you some comforting rubs and you tell her,

“Don’t worry, I’m going to be over a lot. It’s just that the orchard needs someone there to care for it, and it’s a big job.”

She nods, understanding the need to get back to normal,

“Alright hun, you eat whatever you like and get some tea from the pot there. I’m headin’ to bed now but if you need anything, just knock on my door.”

You thank her again and she walks up the stairs. You see Charlie come in after her, he went straight for the bread buns in the basket on the counter.

“You headin’ to bed girly?”

You shake your head, he stuffs the bun in his mouth and begins to leave,

“thya ‘omarro” His words were muffled by the food he was chewing, you wished him a good night and listened to him walk up the stairs to his room, his footsteps thudding more quietly with each step.

You put the plate in the oven and let out a big sigh as you sat in the chair, you weren’t tired despite being busy all day. The thoughts of Tommy unloading his orgasms into you were energizing, you sat there feeling the ache between your legs gain intensity. -he must have gone to sleep by now, I better get changed out of these sweaty clothes-

You made your way to the bedroom and threw off your shirt and shorts, you took off your bra and exhaled in relief letting your breasts experience natural gravity again. You picked out a purple oversized T shirt that reached your knees, you felt immediately comfortable and paused before you left the room. -Might be fun to feel a little breeze as I eat dinner, everyone went to bed anyway- you quickly slipped your underwear off and tossed it near your bed, you blushed as you made your way to the kitchen giggling to yourself about the bold idea.

You step back into the kitchen and turn off the oven, you leave the plate in there to soak up the last bits of heat so it doesn’t have any cool pockets to ruin the meal. You turn and open the side door that leads to the porch, your bare feet touching the smooth wood floor. The moon was bright and lit up the land, you looked out at your home up on the hill, it was a barely visible white blob sitting lonely on the hilltop watching over the orchard.

You wondered what this town was like when it was busy, there weren’t many buildings around that you saw when you reached the gas station, but you also never drove up the road past the Hewitt house; as far as you knew, there was just tall grass and an evil man’s hiding hole.

The night air was refreshingly cool, it brushed under your shirt and tickled your naked body which felt invigorating. Back home it was rare if the nights were warm enough to stand outside half dressed, but you also didn’t have a large private porch to lounge in either.

Suddenly, a glow of warm yellow string lights lit up from the roof of the porch illuminating a large man standing in the doorway. It was Tommy, he bent down to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe and closed the door behind him. You were shocked to see him, and were now very aware of the fact that you were completely nude under this shirt, you almost missed the fact that he was shirtless.

You pull down your shirt to ensure it isn’t somehow lifting up and making your lower region visible,

“I thought you were asleep?” you ask

“Heard y’come in, wanted t’check up on ya” he spoke softly.

He moved next to you, putting his massive arms on the railing and leaning forward to look at the land. You felt nervous being so close to him with your secret hiding under the thin fabric of your shirt. -Why am I nervous? I was in a pond with him naked for gods sake!- Despite your previous escapades you still felt giddy at the thought of him discovering your hidden nudity.

You try to divert your nerves with conversation,

“Thanks for teaching me how to defend myself, it feels better knowing I might stand a chance now.”

He nods at you and smiles with his eyes, his dark mask hiding his damaged skin, you noticed his pushed back hair was wet and when he moved closer you could smell the fresh scent of a masculine scented soap, it was intoxicating. You shake your head a little to snap yourself out of it,

“S-so were you going to stay up here a while? I need to get my dinner out of the oven if you want to hang out as I eat.”

You quickly make your way to the kitchen hoping to escape his alluring scent, it was flooding your mind with wicked thoughts about his arms squeezing around you like a python while he fucked you. -god damn, why does he have to smell so good, and look so good, and be so fucking massive and hot!- You argued with your thoughts, you wouldn’t be able to try playing with him while Luda-Mae and Charlie were just one floor away, too risky, but you didn’t want to be obvious by pulling him downstairs.

You were wise to his antics, and you remember when he said “I’m gon’ start messin’ with y’now”he made sure you understood he was going to torture you with desire. He followed you into the kitchen barely being able to pass through the doorframe, you try to ignore him, you were onto him and wanted to see what he would attempt.

“I’ll get that for ya” he reached down into the oven without oven mitts and grabbed the plate without flinching, he sets it down on the table in front of you then reaches to get you a fork.

You touch the plate and it stings with heat,

“How didn’t that burn you?”

He shrugs, “Thick skin I guess”

He takes a seat next to you and hands over the fork, you thank him and begin to eat. He leans back in the chair and relaxes as he watches you, he then asks,

“That house o’ yers is done huh”

You nod, eating hastily not realizing how hungry you were. He continues,

“Y’gon’ move on out then?” His voice was vibrating the plate on the table from the low timbre.

You swallow the large ball of food in your mouth and reply,

“The orchard hasn’t been properly tended to in a while, I have to keep those trees alive and… Tilly made it a clause in her will.”

He crosses his arms and nods, leaning back and looking away,

“Won’t see much of ya ‘round then I s’pose”

You put the fork down and sit back, a serious look on your face, he looks over at you and notices the shift,

“What’s amatter?” he asks.

You look him in the eyes, “I wanted to run something by you actually”

He shifts in his seat and places one arm on his thigh and the other on the table while his torso was turned to face you,

“Y’can ask me whatever y’want”

A tiny smile hits your lips from his words,

“Well, Dover didn’t really teach me about caring for the trees. I figure I can read up on it and do my best to learn everything I can but…” You paused, you clenched the edge of your t-shirt bottom before finding the courage to push out the question, “I want to know if you knew anything about caring for orchards, and maybe, if you did… you could teach me the basics until I can do it myself”

Tommy was quiet, he put his hand to his chin and was deep in thought, you got nervous and added,

“Y-you can say no its ok, I know it’s a big ask since you already do so much around here, I just thought it would be nice to… spend more time together is all.”

He leaned back in the chair, it creaked under his weight,

“I’ll help ya. I dunno a whole lot ‘bout orchards but, I helped Tilly when she needed it, she taught me a thing or two”

You smile, “I’m really glad”

You got up to put the leftovers away, Tommy followed and stood up to open the fridge door from behind you as you placed the food back inside.

When he shut the fridge door, he kept is arms around you fencing you in. You spun around to look at him, he was towering over you, his steely blue eyes gazed at you through heavy lids. He moved his hand to gently caress your neck and trailed it under your jaw, lifting your face to look in his eyes.

“Y’don’t need no excuse to get me alone” his voice was smooth and enshrouded your mind making you feel a wave of arousal flood your body.

“Oh Yeah?” you speak in a breathy whisper.

He nods slowly, you touch the thick leather of his mask and say,

“What do I need to do to see your handsome face then?”

He hangs his head down and laughs, he lifts his head and brings it close to your face,

“Go ‘head then”

You excitedly remove the mask revealing his gnarled old wound that exposed his teeth through his cheek, the more you got to see his real face the harder you fell for him.

“Still likin’ what y’see?” he asks.

You smile and lift yourself up to his face, you look into his eyes and slowly move in to kiss his lips. He lets out a muffled hum as he kisses you back, you press in harder and lift your hands to cup his face, his stubbles was shaved off to a clean finish. You forgot how wonderful his lips felt, the kiss quickly became heated with passion, both of you began to breathe more hastily.

Tommy put his hands on the sides on your body, slowly moving them downwards until he reached where he wanted to. He wrapped his hands around your thighs and lifted you up onto his chest so your face was the same level as his, you stifled an excited squeal when your body lifted into the air so effortlessly.

He smiled and kept you in his arms while kissing you, you threw your arms around his neck to keep your body leaned forward past his bulky pecs to reach his face. You felt his hands move inwards towards your weepy slit. He was trying to get a more stable grip so you could sit comfortably, but when his fingers discovered no underwear, he stopped kissing you and gave you a devilish grin,

“What we got here?” he spoke through a chuckle

You blushed and bit your lip remaining quiet, unsure of what to say,

He kept tickling your labia with gentle flicks of his fingers, your breathing hastened and you suppressed a moan with your hand over your mouth,

“Bad girl, y’need to go to yer room huh”

You nod, “Put me there”

 He moves his mouth close to yours, but when you lean in for a kiss, he slowly pulls away grinning. He carries you through the porch door, entering sideways and leaning down to avoid hitting his head. He stops when he reaches the double door leading to your room, he turns around and places you on the railing of the porch which is wide enough for you to sit comfortably.

“Why did you set me here?” you ask.

“I aint givin’ in so easily” he grumbles through a smirk

“…do you want me to beg or something?” you laugh.

He gives you a smug look, “Maybe”

“Oh please, I can keep myself under control. No amount of flirting would make me want to be-“

He cuts you off by gripping your hips and pulling your body close to the edge of the railing top so you were flush against his warm torso. You huff defiantly until he presses his erection onto your cunt, your abundant juices coated the fabric of his sweat pants. You let out an unexpected moan and quickly cover your mouth to quiet it.

Tommy slowly rubs his stiff cock up and down the length of your lips, pressing in when his head met your hole just to tease you. He was grinning watching you hold your hand to your mouth as you hushed your whines. You so badly wanted to feel the skin of his dick move inside you, the cloth barrier was unbearable. He was enjoying the antagonization, his grip on your hips was firm you wouldn’t be able to escape even if you wanted to, he just kept pulling you closer to him until you gave in and said,

“Please, I want it” your words were like a song to him.

“Well, since y’asked nicely” he growled.

He threw you over his shoulder, making you giggle, and entered your room through the porch entrance closing the doors behind him as swiftly as he entered. He gently laid you on the bed gazing down at you while you writhed with arousal, you hesitantly spread your legs and lifted your shirt to reveal your lower half. Tommy got on the bed, it made a creaking groan under his massive weight. He leaned over you and placed one of his hands down between your folds caressing your entrance, you breathed in sharply and spread your legs further to let him have more access.

Tommy ran his fingers over your tender skin, his digits getting slick with wet the more he rubbed. You put your arms around his neck and pulled his face onto yours and kissed him, he moaned into your mouth and slipped his middle finger into your hole,

“Oh fuck” you whispered

His finger was almost as thick as an average man’s penis, and just as long. He slowly moved in and out of you, the calloused skin scratched your walls and bumped your g-spot sending your nerves into overdrive with pleasure, he feels your walls clench down on his finger,

“Y’got such a tiny lil hole” he says gruffly.

“Yeah? Why don’t you fuck it then” you command.

He pulls his finger out and runs his hand up your shirt skimming along your sensitive skin as he moves, he finds your breast and starts massaging the nipple making you moan with the electrical impulses that tickle your nerves.

“Y’want me bad huh” his tone was mocking.

You reply in a breathy tone “Please, fuck me”

Tommy pinches your nipple before he leans back and pulls his massive cock out from under his sweatpants, his erection was so full that he whined as he held it. Seeing his massive length was sending you over the edge with desperation. Tommy lowered himself down so his shaft lay on your clit, his dick was heavy and warm, the feeling of it on your swollen nub was making you feel drunk with desire.

He rubbed his length up and down your wet folds at an agonizingly slow pace, your wetness coating all along his cock making it glisten in the light of the moon. You tried to wrap your legs around his hips to pull him in but he quickly grabbed them with ease and pushed them all the way back so your knees were touching the sides of your chest.

You were so sexually frustrated with having him tease your greedy hole, you tried to raise your hips to entice him to slip inside but he remained steady.

Tommy saw how badly you wanted him to fuck you, he loved watching how your body beckoned him to enter it. He decided to have mercy on you and pressed his thick head on your hole, allowing you to slowly adjust to the width. He let out heavy sighs as your pussy began to slowly swallow his tip, the soft velvety feel of your lips made him moan deeply. The stretch of his girth sent waves of pleasure through your core and the vibration of his deep voice made it seem like you were mating with a beast.

You managed to slip halfway down his head before he couldn’t take much more and he began to slowly move his tip in and out. He was groaning, trying to control himself but your slicked entrance was beginning to bring out something feral from deep within him, he kept trying to slide more of himself inside but you weren’t opening up fast enough to allow him full entry.

You grab onto his wrists and dig your nails in, he was so wide that your poor little cunt couldn’t adjust fast enough to meet his lulling thrusts. You could feel a sting of pain with each movement as his width increased, the pleasure was overpowering the sting and you didn’t want him to stop. It felt like an impossible task to get even just the rest of his head inside, but you wanted so desperately to be penetrated by him, so you focused on relaxing your muscles to grant him deeper access.

He was quickly losing control over his movements and felt your vaginal walls loosening up, he fought the urge to just aggressively push in deep to get past the last hurdle. He was high on the feeling of your insides, his mind felt light and dreamy, as if his brain was swimming. He kept pressing in further with each forward motion until all of his head was finally inside you, he pulled out further before each hungry thrust to coat himself in more of your dripping sweetness.

“I want the whole thing, give it to me Tommy, I need it” you pleaded.

Tommy needed to get hold of his mind that was beginning to slip away, he had a strong carnal desire to just plow into you but he instead forced himself to remain still. You look up at him wondering why he stopped moving, your vaginal walls still pulsating around his tip from the incredible sensations it brought. He gives you a crooked grin and gently pulls out of you, then stands up off the bed and hastily puts his pants over his erection.

“What! Why?” you asked furiously

He laughs, “That’s payback, my angel”

Tommy walks out of your room and leaves you there a dripping, horny mess; You chuckled to yourself and flopped onto your stomach and yelled into your pillow. You now wanted to get past this cheeky stage and just start fucking like rabbits but you knew he was going to continue this provocatory teasing. It was time to pull out all your tricks and make it so unbearable for him to resist that he will give up messing around and give into his temptations.

Tommy got back into his room in the basement, his mask back on his face where it belonged. He was still fully engorged and now feeling pain from the intense pressure, he needed a release badly, but he also wanted to start practicing control over his desires. He was worried, he felt so close to just letting go and fucking you silly, he wanted to be fully present and aware if your needs when you two finally, properly, lay together.

He flopped on his bed and sighed; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up for. The next time, he may not be able to pull away so easily.

-Next chapter

Special authors note: I wanted to stray from the norm of Thomas constantly being portrayed as having a breeding kink (it can be hot don't get me wrong) because I know there are a lot of women who don't want to read breeding/pregnancy kink for various valid reasons and its fairly hard to find AFAB x Tommy smut where he isn't depicted in such a way. If you were expecting that, I apologize for disappointing you but I try to cater to the people who don't often get catered to because inclusivity is important to me when making adult content. So from here on out, the rest of the chapters in this series will be for the gals who don't want to think of that stuff when reading smut. Thank you for taking the time to read my fic, likes, reblogs, and comments are extremely appreciated.

[taeaura]

"Leatherface's best friend is his chainsaw" is such a sad quote, but it's not inaccurate. Thomas doesn't have anyone besides his family - And his family demands his labor. He protects and feeds them; He also does most of the chores. If he died, the Hewitt family would die too. "His best friend is his chainsaw" reads to me as his dependance on his family, as well as his familiarity with violence. After the slaughterhouse shut down, Thomas' purpose was killing. Be the physical force in this family; Capture, torture, kill, skin, and butcher. He probably does most if not all of the physical labor: Cutting and collecting firewood, taking care of the animals, fixing utilities, all necessary aspects to sustaining life at the farmhouse. To him {and sometimes his family}, Thomas IS his saw. Just like when he was a butcher, Thomas IS his meat cleaver. Thomas IS his mask. Thomas IS his family's guard dog. That's why whenever someone calls for him, he's there within a matter of seconds. That's why he risks his life to "keep the family together."

Thomas {in his view} has no purpose outside of the family. His entire career has been violent, and that doesn't seem to be resolved any time soon. He's legitimately a guard dog; Work all day, minimal sleep, always alert, willing to die.

Image Credit: Reddit.com

this is all I think about in relationship to Thomas

"This {the family} is like a feral pack of dogs; But there's enough that bonds them and there's enough natural primal necessity to solidify that as a family unit" - Andrew Bryniarski | TCM: The Beginning Behind the Scenes {15:54 - 16:03}