#thomas hewitt x you

[kenziiie]

Hi! I hope you’re feeling better or getting better. I was wondering if we could get more slasher works with Thomas Hewitt or whoever you want to write about, please!

the house smells like blood and biscuits.

you’re leaned over the rusted sink, scrubbing at the collar of thomas’s work shirt. it’s stained—some things don’t wash out—but you try anyway, because that’s what a wife does. it’s hot in the kitchen, thick southern heat licking at your skin through the thin cotton dress you threw on this morning. your belly curves forward, full and heavy. eight months now. you can feel the baby turn sometimes when you lean too hard against the counter. thomas likes to press his palm to the bump at night, like he’s checking that you’re both still there.

“you cookin’ or cleanin’?” hoyt’s voice cuts through the air like a dull knife.

you don’t turn around. “both.”

he laughs like he always does, like he just told the best joke in texas. you hear him spit into the corner, then his boots stomp off down the hall. you let your shoulders relax. being here—being one of them—is like walking a balance beam over broken glass. the only one you trust not to push you off is thomas.

the front door creaks open an hour later. the wind carries something metallic with it. blood. it clings to thomas like sweat.

you hear the thud of boots, the slow, lumbering steps. you don’t have to look. you know it’s him.

he stops in the doorway behind you. you feel his eyes—dark, tired, and so full of something that aches just below the surface. he doesn’t talk. never has. not with words. but you know the way he breathes. how his hand hovers just before he touches you.

you turn, wiping your hands on a towel, belly brushing the edge of the stove.

“hey, baby.”

his eyes drop to your belly like he’s checking for damage. you take a step forward. he takes one too. you place his big hand over your bump, holding it there. the heat from his palm seeps into your skin.

“she’s been kickin’ a lot today,” you murmur. “think she hears you.”

he stares at your belly, then at your face, then back again. he still hasn’t let go. you don’t want him to.

“go get cleaned up,” you say softly. “i’ll fix your plate.”

he doesn’t move at first. you know how he gets—still caught in whatever mess hoyt dragged him into. blood under his nails, meat in his teeth. but you’re patient. you wait. eventually, he brushes a knuckle against your cheek and disappears down the hall, the floorboards groaning under his weight.

⸻

later, you’re in bed, curtains drawn against the evening sun. thomas sits at the edge of the mattress, shirtless, the skin across his back marbled with old scars. he’s quiet, fingers gently tracing the dark stretch marks across your hips. your thighs are fuller. your ankles swell. your face is rounder. you’ve changed.

but he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at you like you’re something ruined.

you lean back against the pillows, legs parted just enough to cradle your belly. his head is lowered. you feel his breath across the skin just under your navel.

you stroke his hair, thick and tangled.

“you’re gonna be a good daddy,” you whisper. “you already are.”

he growls low in his chest. not angry—more like… overwhelmed. he’s never had a family that didn’t try to use or beat him. but you—you’ve never raised your voice, never pulled away when he reached out with bloodstained fingers.

you see it in his eyes when he looks at you: fear. not of you. of losing you. of the baby. of this fragile thing you’ve both built in the middle of all the rot.

⸻

hoyt says something slick the next morning.

you’re in the kitchen, ankles swollen, dress clinging to your back with sweat. thomas went out to the barn, but hoyt stayed behind, chewing on a toothpick and watching you bend to grab a jar from the lower cabinet.

“tight little ass for someone so knocked up,” he says.

your spine stiffens. you straighten up slowly and turn, resting a hand on your belly.

“watch your mouth.”

he grins. it doesn’t touch his eyes.

“what, i can’t compliment my brother’s girl?”

“his wife,” you correct, voice cold.

hoyt chuckles, stepping closer. “he don’t even talk. he ain’t said vows. hell, how we even know this baby’s his?”

you grip the edge of the counter, trying not to scream. but it’s too late. thomas is already there, standing in the doorway, cleaver still in one hand, glove soaked red.

he walks toward hoyt without saying a word. doesn’t even blink.

hoyt backs up, hands raised. “was just playin’, tommy. don’t gotta get riled—”

but thomas grabs him by the throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the dishes. hoyt gags.

you don’t stop him.

you just say, calm and even, “let him go, baby.”

it’s the only voice he listens to.

thomas lets go. hoyt slumps to the floor, coughing and red in the face.

thomas turns to you like he forgot hoyt was even there. his brows crease. you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady and loud.

“i’m okay,” you whisper.

but he doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the day.

⸻

the baby kicks hard one night—so hard it wakes you with a sharp cramp. you gasp, hand on your belly. thomas bolts upright like a hound sniffing danger. you shake your head, panicked.

“s-something’s wrong,” you say, voice trembling.

he lifts you in his arms before you can finish the sentence. doesn’t matter that you’re heavy now. doesn’t matter that it’s dark and you’re both barefoot.

he carries you to the living room, lays you down on the old couch, and disappears.

when he comes back, he’s got water, clean towels, and an old first aid kit you kept stocked just in case. his hands are shaking. you’ve never seen him scared like this.

“thomas,” you whisper, trying to breathe through the cramp. “it’s okay. it’s okay—false alarm.”

but he drops to his knees beside you, eyes wide, hand on your belly.

“she’s movin’. she’s just—just movin’, baby. she’s strong.” you stroke his face. “you didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

he doesn’t answer. just presses his face to your belly and stays there until the baby calms.

⸻

you give birth two weeks later in the back room, on the same bed you were married on. hoyt wanted to call someone, but you said no. you didn’t want strangers in your house. thomas sat behind you the whole time, holding your thighs, brushing sweat from your face. he couldn’t do much—but he didn’t leave. not once.

you screamed until your throat gave out. you bit your own hand. you thought you might die.

but then, there she was.

a baby girl, red and wailing and covered in blood. and yours.

thomas held her like she was made of glass. you’ve never seen something so big look so small. he didn’t cry, but his eyes shone wet when you reached up to touch her foot.

“she’s perfect,” you whispered.

thomas grunted softly. then kissed your forehead.

⸻

weeks pass. you heal slowly, stiff and sore. thomas does everything—feeds you, rocks the baby when she cries, washes the sheets, keeps hoyt far away.

one night, the baby won’t sleep. you’re exhausted. thomas walks the floor with her in his arms, bare feet silent against the wood. he hums something low in his throat—some melody only he knows. she calms in seconds.

you lie in bed, watching the way he looks at her. like he never knew something good could come out of him.

when he finally crawls into bed beside you, you pull his hand to your chest.

“we’re safe here,” you whisper. “me and her. because of you.”

his arms wrap around you. big. strong. trembling slightly. like even now, he’s scared to lose you.

you fall asleep against his chest, your baby in the cradle beside you, and the sound of the wind rattling the loose shutters.

the house still smells like blood.

but now it smells like baby powder too.

and for the first time in this haunted place…

you feel at peace.

because you know thomas will kill anything that tries to take this from you.

and you’d do the same for him.

[lovelymindescape]

Fuller , 1955: Chapter 5: Inside the Silence

Summary: At your house, away from judgmental eyes and schoolyard cruelty, a different kind of silence settles between you and Thomas—gentle, honest, and safe. What begins with lemonade and a sketchbook quietly transforms into something deeper. Beneath soft lamplight and shy glances, a fragile trust begins to bloom.

Setting: Readers House – Texas, Late Summer / Early Fall 1955

Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), fem!reader, Reader’s mother (mentioned)

Content Warnings: emotional vulnerability, trauma references, quiet intimacy, longing, implied emotional neglect, a little angst

E's Notes: My heart physically hurts, I am once again asking you to imagine this soft giant sitting on your carpet like a sad puppy. English still not my first language, typos are my love language. Please be nice to him or I will cry.

Chapter 4 : Unspoken Lessons

The walk back home is quiet. Not the strained, unbearable quiet that had hung over both of you for days—but a new kind of quiet. Something soft. Comfortable. The kind that lets you breathe in the spaces between footsteps.

Thomas walks beside you, the grass-stained knees of his overalls brushing together with every slow step. His large hands swing slightly, grazing his sides. You glance at him from time to time, and each time you find his eyes already on you—briefly, curiously, like he’s still trying to understand how you could look at him the way you do.

When you reach your house, your hand lingers on the doorframe. You hesitate, then glance at him.

"You... wanna come in for a bit?" you ask, voice softer than usual.

"Not for long. Just... I’m not ready for this to be over yet."

He doesn’t say anything, just nods once. It’s all you need. You lead him into the living room, flicking on a lamp instead of the overhead light. Everything feels warmer in this dimness. Quieter.

"You can sit wherever," you say, motioning to the couch. He sits on the floor instead, his back against the side of the couch, knees up, arms resting on them like a kid trying to take up as little space as possible. You disappear into the kitchen and come back with two glasses of lemonade.

You hand him one, and his fingers brush yours. "It’s store-bought," you say with a shrug. "Nothing special." He gives the faintest of nods before sipping. You sit across from him on the carpet, legs folded beneath you, watching him take in the room.

He stares at your bookshelves, at the photos on the wall, at the cracked mug you use as a pencil holder. "That’s me," you say, pointing to a framed photo. "Age nine. I lost my front tooth tripping over a jump rope. Cried for two hours."

He gives a breath of a laugh. It’s soundless, but visible in the twitch of his shoulders. You tilt your head a little, watching him.

"Hey, um… can I ask you something?"

He nods slightly, eyes meeting yours.

"Would it be okay if I called you Tommy? I just… I don’t know, it feels right. But only if you’re okay with it."

He pauses. Blinks. Then he looks down at the glass in his hands like it suddenly got heavier. He sets it down slowly, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded notepad and pencil stub he carries.

After a long moment, he scribbles something, then turns it to you:

"No one’s ever called me that and meant it nice."

Your throat tightens. He starts writing again.

"Kids at school said it like it was a joke. Or mean. They’d say it real loud—Ugly Tommy , Freak Tommy, Pig Tommy , Tommy Can’t Talk. Like it wasn’t even my name."

You don’t speak right away. You just scoot forward until your knees nearly touch.

"Well," you say quietly, "when I say it, it’s because I like the way it sounds. Tommy. Gentle. Kind. Like you."

He stares at you—still, unmoving—for a long moment. Then his shoulders relax just enough to notice. He nods, just once. And it’s the kind of nod that feels like the loosening of a knot. You lean back on your hands and smile.

"Wanna sketch ? I mean… we don’t have to talk if you don’t want." He nods again, more certain this time. He grabs his sketchbook and a pencil. He rests it on his knees and begins to move the pencil without hesitation.

You watch the lines come to life:

the outline of your lamp.

Your half-empty glass.

A few minutes later a second drawing formsIt's a child. Small body. Oversized clothes. But the face is scribbled out in frantic loops. Dark, violent strokes. You go quiet. He doesn’t look up. He finishes, then slowly rotates the sketchbook to face you. You study it.

"Is that…?" He nods. Your eyes flick between the erased face and his own. Then, gently, you say, "You didn’t deserve that." He lowers the sketchbook. You inch forward. "I get it. Maybe not all of it, but… I know what it’s like to hate how people see you. Or to feel invisible. Or too visible. Like you can’t win."

His shoulders sag a little. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded note. Opens it.

"Do you ever want to disappear?"

You read it. The lump in your throat rises before you can stop it. "All the time," you whisper. A beat. Then you hold out your hand. For a moment, he stares at it like it’s a foreign object. But eventually, with hesitant fingers, he places his palm in yours. You both sit there, side by side, hand in hand, surrounded by soft light and quiet things.

No more pretending.

No more fear.

Just the pulse of understanding between your fingers. After a long while, you speak. "You don’t have to say everything," you murmur. "I’ll listen anyway." He looks at you. His hand squeezes yours once, firm but gentle. Then he lets go, scribbles something else on the edge of the paper.

"Don’t leave."

Your breath hitches.

"I won’t."

And without thinking, you traced your own fingers over it, lightly. Until your fingertips met his on the page.

He gets up slowly. Hands you the sketchbook page—the one with your lamp, your glass, your face, gentle and glowing under soft pencil lines. One word is written under it.

“Safe.”

You hold the drawing carefully, your fingers curling around the edges like it might vanish if you don’t.Then, when you look up, he’s already taken a step toward the door. "Tommy," you say, gently, testing the name again.

It feels like an offering.

A promise.

He pauses.

His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. "I meant it," you say quietly. "I’m here. You don’t have to do anything special. Just… be you." He’s still for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turns halfway, just enough for you to see the soft shift in his expression. There’s something quieter in his eyes now. Not exactly trust, not fully—not yet.

But the start of it. The raw edge of hope..He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t need to. He gives you a single nod, eyes meeting yours. Then he opens the door. The cool night air filters in, brushing your skin, but it doesn’t chill you.

You watch him step out into the darkness, the bandana still tied snug around his neck, the sketchbook under one arm. Just before he disappears down the path, he glances back at you one last time. And even though he doesn’t say it—thank you hums in the space between you.

Quiet and true.

When the door clicks shut behind him, you stay frozen in place for a moment. The drawing still rests in your hands, and the room feels full.Not of noise. Not of movement.

But of presence.

Like something changed tonight.

Like something important was said without words.

You breathe in, slow and full.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t scare you.It feels like company.

TBC : Chapter 6

Taglist : @richietoziers-worl @reka13 @dogrrrrr @thewolffairytaler @night-shadowblood-writes2 @iloved1lfs

[taeaura]

reblog from insta 'cause why not

[the-s1lly-corner]

Wearing their jackets (slasher edition)

I need to write slasher stuff more.... I also need to watch scream like I said I would... and other films... but alas cotl rot is too strong

Characters: Jason, brahms, bubba, Thomas, Michael

Notes: reader is gn, cold weather baby!!, in Michael's bit yoy wear his coveralls because he refuses to throw a jacket over it

CWs: none

JASON

Built like a polar bear, he's so used to the cold that he just shrugs it off as he goes into the woods to get fire wood for you

Actually offers his jacket to you until he can get a fire started to keep you warm- he doesn't want you to get sick! Don't worry about him! Especially if this is zombie Jason, the cold doesn't really.. effect his undead body that much...

Doesn't mind it if you steal his jacket from him, he takes it as you being cold- but if you explain that it's partly because you miss him he feels.. bad.. he didn't mean to take so long in the woods he promises

Even if you said it jokingly he's going to do his best to make up for his brief absence

BUBBA

let me tell you, as someone who lives in texas: the winters get brutal. Incredibly cold, he's definitely got at least one coat somewhere... and even if he only had one he would let you take it

But... please stay close to him by the heater, he knows you probably want to go do something else with him but it's truly too cold to not be able to do much else without freezing in their old house- even worse if this takes place in their new home in the second film... underground

He thinks you look really cute in his coat and he tries to let you know that- hes... a little bashful but you think it's sweet

You both probably end up cuddling into one another under the coat together

THOMAS

Once more: texas gets incredibly cold in the winter depending on the time of year and where you are. He's got a coat somewhere

Not that that he really uses it, built like a polar bear like Jason. He tolerates cold pretty well, hardly seems phased by it.. he's so laser focused on his chores and work around the house that you often find him still working outside

And he's given his coat to you because you have a lower tolerance than him... maybe you can convince him to come snuggle with you under it? Maybe? He'd hate to leave his chores unfinished but he doesn't like saying no to you

Very heavy coat, very thick

MICHAEL

Completely unphased by the cold, he also doesn't have a jacket. The best you can do is take his coveralls when you FINALLY convince him to take them off so they can be washed

Does not like sharing his things, the likelihood of him humoring you after you put them in is low. May actually take them off of you himself... not incredibly rough but there's intention to yoink them back

If you're cold then go get a blanket or you're own jacket... why steal his things without asking?

It completely flies over his head that jacket (or rather clothing) stealing is common for couples

BRAHMS

Move over give him his sweater back he's FREEZING! If he needs to he's going to wear the sweater with you in it!

HATES the cold and he's going to make it everyone else's problem, please don't let him catch a fever reader! Please!

Fire place? Lit. Blankets? Gathered. Sweaters? Worn. You're more likely to see him leave the walls during the colder months so he can snag your body heat, too

Lets it go to his head if you let slip that you stole his sweater because you missed him... hes basically hovering over now- well, more than he did before

[wildgirllz]

I'm not sure if you are familiar with the "mating press" position, but the little horny voice inside my head says that Tommy would absolutely love it. Just imagine reader having her legs on his shoulders while he pins her down to the bed because he needed to let off steam. Of course, this is completely consensual! Reader is willingly helping her husband out like the sweet housewife she is <3 Would you be up to write something like that? Sorry for being so disgustingly horny about him... (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)

Omg i love this request!! HAPPY 1K MY BEAUTIES!!!

Mating press with Tommy <3

Warnings: unprotected sex, SIZE KINK OML (I'm sorry I couldn't help myself) pnv, afab reader, he cums inside because he's a loving husband, overall just porn with a little plot

It was a sunny day, the warm Texan breeze on your shoulders as you washed dishes from breakfast. A hefty pile of dishes, Tommy was not a small man to feed. As the warm water eroded the bacon grease from your castiron, you heard some stomping from the yard. You smile, you can imagine how he was looking at that very moment; his mask covering half of his sweaty face, hair stuck to his forehead, shoulders wide and casting a big shadow over whatever he was blocking. His tall frame was delicious, his arms, his hands that held the majority of your torso already made you hot on the back of your neck.

Lost in a trance of your thoughts, you feel the warm water over your hands' sudden absence. You don't need to turn your head to identify the reason. You can already hear his little huffs behind his mask and his big meaty hands pawing at your hips.

“I missed you, Tommy.” You turn and raise your arms to place your hands on his broad chest. His fingers fidget with the red trim of your sundress, one of his favorites. “You like my dress honey? I like this one too, I wear it to ensure you stay grateful for this pretty little wife you got.” You giggle and cover his hands with your own, but only manage to shade a finger or two. 

“I made you pie again Tommy, peach crumble! It's right on the counter. Lemme cut you a slice.” You smile warmly before turning to walk to the countertop to your right, but you don't manage. Tommys' hands are glued to your hips, keeping you grounded like a statue on the floor. “You don't want pie, baby?” You ask, sweetly of course. You knew Tommy wasn’t focused on your pie right now, you knew from the second you heard his feet shuffling outside that he had some steam he needed to release, and you’d be damned before you said you didn't want him to take it out on you.

You look up at his lust-filled eyes and reach to untie his sweaty mask. You didn't like that he always felt he had to cover himself up, but you understood it brought more comfort to his everyday life. As the mask fell, you could hear his shaky breaths practically calling for you. You got up on your tiptoes and pursed your lips, so he reciprocated, bending his head downward and capturing you in a warm, desperate kiss.

His hands on your hips lifted your body off of the ground, unconsciously, making your face line up with his. You wrap your legs around his waist, not making it all the way, but you were stable as his hands moved down to cup your ass. You whimper into his mouth, grinding your little hips against his big tummy, and running your fingers through his messy hair.

He lets out a single huff before turning on his heels and taking you to the bedroom. After storming through the doorway, he tosses your body onto your’ neatly made bed and begins to undress. You take his cue and do the same, unzipping your flowy dress and slipping off your white panties. Leaning back in your bed, you take in Tommys' body, how the veins in his hands bulge as he unbuttons his shirt, and how tight his pants look on his thick thighs.

Once he's fully bare, he slowly stalks around the bed, looking you up and down like a piece of meat he’s longing to devour. Suddenly, he yanks you down by the ankles, making you lay flat on the bed. He pushes himself to his knees at the end of the bed, settled between your now parted legs. He shuffles forward a bit, then pulls you by the knees until your legs wrap around his hips. 

He bends forward, towering over your frame. He takes your legs and pulls your feet over each one of his shoulders. Your thighs are pressed to your stomach as he settles an arm on both sides of your head. His hair falls around your face, and you reach up to kiss his pretty pink lips. You feel his girth slipping over your slit, and you reach your hand down to press his throbbing cock to your little bud. He groans at the touch of your hand and you begin to rock your hips back and forth, covering his length with your slick.

Not long after, he begins to rock his hips against yours in tandem. His forehead touches yours and you can feel his warm breaths covering your face. On one of his slower thrusts, the tip of his cock caught on the rim of your hole, making you take a sharp breath in. Tommy looks at you to make sure you’re okay, then slowly slides his fat member into you without warning.

“Tommy! Jesus, baby slow down.” You whimper out. The intrusion makes your lips quiver and hands grip the sheets, so he takes your arms in one of his hands and moves them to wrap around his neck, immediately latching onto his hair. As he settles his hefty body on top of yours, his tummy pressing down tightly on yours, he pushes even further forward, trying to get as deep as possible.

Your moans turn into choked-out groans as he slowly pounds into you. Your toes curling and heels digging into his damp back. He lets out deep groans and uses his hand to wipe hair from your face. He cups your cheek and kisses you, a distraction from the ache of your stretched hole, struggling to accept his large cock. 

His thrusts pick up in pace, and he buries his face into your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, and he maneuvers your body to slam down on his cock in time with his thrusts. In a state of complete cock-drunk bliss, you struggle to let out a whine as you feel your peak approaching. Rolling your eyes back, you grip his hair between your fingers and give it a little tug, before feeling the warmth of your orgasm explode through your body in ripples of pleasure.

Your back arches and your legs shake, the feeling of your pussy clenching over his length makes him whimper, and his thrusts become fast and shallow. You whine at the feeling of him abusing your overstimulated warmth, and Tommy leans down to bury his face in your breasts and grips your hips almost bruisingly in his hands, quickly reaching his orgasm himself. 

He wraps his arms around your back and pulls you as close to him as possible before letting out one more deep thrust and filling you to the brim with his seed. He groans and flips over on his back, taking you with him. You lay over his body, feeling his cock softening inside you as his spend drips out. You both catch your breath and relax, his hands rubbing gently over your back. 

You close your eyes and let the cool air of night take you both to sleep.

feel free to leave requests! (get FILTHY.) <3

[tinybrooms]

He’s just a baby 🤍

[sprite-writes-fanfic]

Thomas Hewitt being obsessed with his chubby S/O 💕

Hey guys it’s me, today was a really productive day and to add to that I wrote this, I’m feeling hella good right now, I sincerely hope y’all enjoy, I’m dipping my feet back into slasherfics <3

Word count: 750

CW: 🔞SMUT!! MDNI!!🔞 Thomas Hewitt being a sweetpea, body worship, obsession over you. AFAB reader, but no pronouns are used!

••••••••••••

Thomas is obsessed with you, and that much is clear. From the day he met you, to the day he wedded you, and even today, he’s still obsessed; much more so now than he was before. He loved the way you looked, how soft you felt. He absolutely adored your soft chubby body, the way it felt in his hands when he held you in his arms. Soft touches from your hands when they come to rub his arms up and down to soothe him when he’s upset always elicit goosebumps every time, how you manage to touch him and calm him down within an instance.

He loves to touch you, he loves when you touch him. The feeling of your skin against his rough calloused palms, it mesmerizes him how soft you are. His favorite thing to do is approaching you from behind while you work on dishes or cooking, his hand skimming your arms, caressing your bare skin, before his hands would move to rest on your stomach, his hands gently kneading at your soft belly, feeling the doughiness in his hands, before he gently moves to gently rub at your hips, just enjoying you. Just holding you like that, you letting him have that simple comfort, it means the world to him, more than you would ever know.

His obsession transfers to your sex life. He worships every part of you, his hands gently caressing your body as you lay on your shared bed, completely bare to him. He’ll start with your breasts, his eyes glazing over the beautiful skin adorned with small stretch marks and gently feeling how soft and squishy they are. He’d gently massage and squeeze them, his thumbs moving delicately over your nipples until they pebble under his thumbs, listening to your soft breathy moans as he gently toys with your sensitive buds.

He would then move down, his eyes meeting yours as he would feel your pudgy stomach, his hands ever so gently caressing the soft skin, tracing your beautiful stretch marks, before he would lean down and leave soft kisses along them, showing his love and appreciation for each and everyone of them. Every stretch mark your body adorns he shows his love too with his kisses, his lips are chapped until they moisten with each sloppy kiss he leaves behind.

He then moves to your plush thighs, gently squeezing them and pressing his face against, closing his eyes as his lashes tickle your skin. Oh how he adores these beautiful thighs, he loves when they wrap around his head and squeezes it whenever he goes down on you. He always starts with your inner thighs, leaving gentle delicate kisses, occasionally nipping your skin to earn a soft gasp from you. Marking was never his thing, but something about your thighs makes him want to decorate him with his little love marks. He trails from your inner thighs to your pretty pussy, gently licking flat upon it, sucking your clit, doing everything to make you cum on his tongue within minutes.

Then the next moment, he has your legs thrown over his shoulder as he gently takes you. His thick cock slowly pressing in and stretching you out in a way you remember. The stretch burns but in a way you adore, pleasure coursing through you as he slowly thrusts his hips into yours, never daring to go any faster or harder unless you ask rather nicely. His pace is usually a sweet, slow and sensual lovemaking, he knows how big he is, he wouldn’t ever want to hurt you, ever, so he takes his time, working you up and helping you reach your peak and riding through your blissful orgasm. His pace speeds up only a fraction as he would chase his own high before spilling his seed deep inside you, a low groan leaving him as his own lips, eyes fluttering, his head tilted back as he pants out.

After your little lovemaking session, he particularly likes to cockwarm inside you. He enjoys your warmth and the feeling of being as close as possible, spooning you in his arms as you kiss him softly across his face and caress his worn out body, a soft groan emitting from his lips as he relaxes under your touch. God, did he feel truly blessed, and he thanks whatever god is out there to give him his precious darling that he can forever hold, love and cherish til the day he dies.

[thestarfishinjootsoffice]

Old writing especially on Bo's and then Vincent's part. I realised that I was writing as if their s/o showcased their strength during later on into their relationship in the first three slashers, apologies.

A/n: I am no longer writing for Hannibal or any hannibal characters as I myself have forgotten my own perspective of them.

Slashers x reader who's stronger than them but doesn't look like it!

Warnings: blood and death on the ghostface duos part, very slight mentions of nsfw. But mostly fluff.

Slashers in this: Bo sinclair, Vincent sinclair and Thomas Hewitt, Michael Myers, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher (poly)

Relationship: romantic!!

Bo

It clawed at his ego, he's a pretty mean bastard and you know it 🫵.

He first thought of you as the most fragile and weakest person ever (and cutest), I mean, could you even lift a pot half filled with water?

Undoubtedly he used this assumption to 'help you' or more so at times tease you. He loves seeing your reactions and most definitely not because you're so small and kind to him, pfff of course not.

He just absolutely loves lifting you up and over his shoulder and he's definitely an ass guy. He loves ogling and smacking your ass but he won't get to that level until many many months later on. But he's still going to stare.

“Oh Bo, I think there's a rabbit under the truck!” You exclaimed to Bo as you noticed something white and moving below.

"An animal? *sighs* hold on, I'll get rid of that p-" He suddenly loses his ability to formulate words as he witnesses you lift the goddamn fuckin truck with one arm, and indeed there was a rabbit underneath.

“*gasp* it's so cute!” Bo cannot believe what he just saw. Damn, he gotta stop smoking so much it's messing with his brain. He's just staring at you as you pet the timid rabbit with your 'scrawny' arm.

He must admit he does fantasize about you lifting him up and shit, or topping him in bed. Whatever he's feeling that day, and he would rather swallow sand than ever admit that last part.... But y'know if you're up for it-

His cocky and prideful attitude seemingly making an apparent change, he would hold a cup or item you need above your head with a shit eating grin watching you get frustrated with him. Or when he would make jabs about you being too weak to lift three chairs at a time and would offer to help you. (So he could walk beside you.) But now... He still fucking makes jabs at you being weak, just to fuck with you even though he knows it's far from the truth. He loves making you seem like the little helpless princess and him being the asshole shining knight in armor.

You wouldn't mind tho would you? It's a win-win, you get to spend more time with your boyfriend and he gets to spend time with his girlfriend.

Vincent

So gentle and caring with you. He's gentle and caring with whoever he is with but your size just makes him think one wrong move and he's accidentally breaking your arm. And cause of this he can't help but be a worry wart at times and way too protective. Not budging even if you reassure him you're perfectly capable of doing something that requires strength.

During one of the dark evenings you walk with your lover in the forest, the side of the forest where there isn't roadkill so that you can breathe without torturing your nostrils. And finding some fire wood to spend the next dark hours star gazing and ranting to him while the sound of the fire crinkling and burning the wood serves as a nice background music.

Every step you take you hear the crunch of the dead leaves get crushed under your foot, both of you holding your flashlights. You have the warm and slightly calloused hand of your Vincent holding yours affectionately as his thumb brushes against the back of your hand and knuckles, gently tracing over and feeling the ridges and bumps.

You notice some fallen bark and shine your flashlight on it. "Vinny, look there's some firewood over there!" You exclaimed and shined your flashlight elsewhere, looking around more until you had shined it directly on a tree right in front of you that was occupied by a scary looking arachnid, its front limbs moving in a sluggish and relaxed fashion.

You let out a startled yelp and out of instinct your fist went to swing at the spider who somehow successfully managed to not get hit in the nick of time. This also startled your boyfriend who looked worriedly at you, his eyes scanned over to see that you were.. Fine! But the tree you punched wasn't. It has a big dent in it while the flesh of wood was cracked and damaged severely around the impact along with many splinters.

"I'm so sorry Vincent! There was a spider and I got scared!"

He almost let out a breath of relief knowing it wasn't anything serious but he can't get his eyes and mind off the injured tree. Did you... seriously do that? He gently took your hand and examined it, it seemed perfectly fine except for redness, light bleeding and a couple splinters on your knuckles.

He slowly raised one of his hands, pointing towards the punched tree. 'Did you do that?' Is what's probably going through his head. You chuckled sheepishly and nodded in confirmation. He sighed. For now, he'll worry about your fist.

Does this interaction change how he treats you?... Kind of. He isn't too pushy as he was since he now knows how capable you are of handling yourself but there's still that feeling in him, something that gnaws at his inner core for him to help you. He wants to feel useful and to serve you in any way he can, so...please let him dote over you still..? (Of course you will, you can't say no to him.)

If you want to pick him up he'll entertain you, though he'll be extremely flustered and giddy about it. He likes this way more than he should (in his opinion). How comical is it? He's a large 6'1 grown man being carried princess style by his tiny s/o. Despite all this, he still hopes you need him as much as he needs you.

Thomas

Trust me when I saw it really took Thomas by surprise. He's a really big guy and you say this little thing is stronger than him? Oh please, humor him after dinner.

He's a busy man with a lot on his plate, and you seemingly looking like the most harmless person in the world doesn't help, he constantly feels like he has to tend to you and supervise you from a certain officer.

Will usually not allow you to help him when he's working, it depends. He feels guilty letting yourself get caught up with all this but if you insist he'll gladly accept the extra hand with honest gratitude. But generally- 'Back away honey, you might get dirty.' Is what he wishes he could say.

In his eyes you're a saint, an angel. Made perfectly to fit in the space between his thighs he's sitting down and there's no flaw in the way his large hands cups your cheeks with those pretty eyes of yours staring into his – no room for mistake or complain. You're adorable.

The first time he allowed you to help him you admire your handsome behemoth of a lover chopping wood. Appreciating the rolled up sleeved that gave you a good view of his arms, his muscles flexing as he brought the axe down – after he was done with the first small batch of logs you hurried to grab the others.

Tommy watched with amusement and adoration before shifting his weight to help you but stopped as you started walking towards him five logs resting effortlessly in your arms. It didn't even seem to faze you as if it was just you were only a bunch of baby ducks.

Tommy watched in silence as you laid them out on the table, still kind of processing it before nodding his head in gratitude and resuming to chopping them up. He'll bring this up later, maybe. For now he'll focus on getting his work done and spending more with you, and your soft words.

He doesn't really care if you're stronger than him or not, as long as you love him and don't try to run away it's all good. If you want he'll stop trying to do everything for you even though he knows you don't need any assistance – he's so used to working around the house he feels restless not doing anything at all.

If you want to carry him, do it. He's all yours but please do it in private he won't be able to handle the embarrassment if his family sees it. And although he prefers to be the dom he doesn't mind it if you wanna take charge every once in a while and throw him around.

Plus, it creates something pleasantly warm in his stomach.

Michael.

He thinks he's going insane. (He already has.)

He's Michael Myers, the most ruthless killer Illinois has ever seen for the past decades. And you're saying this small creature that he's inhabited has greater strength than him... Yeah, no.

And then he sees you picking up three bodies out of the house with your bare hands while cleaning up the evidence of his the murder he left, quietly observing you. He won't admit it but it kind of irks him. He's supposed to be the one with power in this relationship and quite frankly he doesn't know the true extent to your power.

He warms up to it eventually – although it's more of he doesn't give a fuck anymore. You're not completely weak and helpless? Great, he doesn't have to worry about you as much. Key word: as much. He still does worry a lot when you're out for long hours – he's not worried you're injured or in danger (not anymore) but more as in you're not leaving him, right? Or ratting him out to the police?

Do not ever attempt to pick him up or anything even remotely close to that unless you want a glare from those void, soul-less eye sockets of his mask Or if you want a love tap on the head and cheek. If you give him enough guilty smiles and let go of him he'll let you off the hook. if not, bear the consequences. (They don't even do anything anyways, lmao)

He feels so incredibly annoyed when you start treating him like a child, telling him to go sit down or lie down in bed after he pulled a few all nighters and the fact you successfully manage to pull him back into bed: God dammit, why the hell are you even so strong and you're so small!? Grumpily he does stay put but only if you're with him too.

A man feared by hundreds, if not thousands because of the sheer power and mercilessness he leaves in trails of every step he takes in public... And then there's you, you're half his size and you have more control over him than he'd like. He'd never kill you though, not intentionally, but that will also most likely not happen.

Speaking of killing, don't think he won't murder someone if they attempt to hurt you and gets their ass kicked by you anyways. You attack, he lands the finishing blow. Don't protest, he won't listen.

Billy n' Stu

They're both pretty lean so you can believe it, if not for your given figure. They both adore it, so who cares? Billy and Stu will, eventually.

It was in the heat of the moment, you tell yourself but you remember in vivid detail the day where you saw the bloody escaping victim running towards you – adrenaline pumping in your veins, your mind immediately went into fight mode and swung a fist at their skull. You remember the sickening crunch as blood slowly pooled from their fractured cranium when they lifelessly fell down to the floor.

They first helped you with the lingering guilt first before Stu started annoying you.

''Can you punch me like that next but with a bit less-''

"No!"

Alright, no worries but now he's asking you to lift him up to reach things that he does not need help on. Maybe even just carry him and run around the house. (Don't be fooled, he just wants to be carried around like a child again.) Fluttering his eyelids at you and holding up a jar of pickles. 'Y/n, I can't get this to open!' Yes he can.

Billy, although tries to act neutral but can't help but let his thoughts wander. 'Wow... Strong girl... Can choke me...' He thinks to himself as he watches you and Stu. Not as if he'd ever admit that. He pretends he's disinterested in getting in your arms - no, he just doesn't wanna embarrass himself. But if you persist he'll begrudgingly agree. He indeed liked it.

Stu obviously takes a positive reaction, he loves getting dominated. You can take that however you like. Billy on the other hand feels conflicted, if he's not stronger than you then how will he stop you if you try to leave them or plan to rat them out? Assuming this is during the beginning of your relationship. But overtime the more he takes a good look at your face those thoughts will slowly drown away, there's no way you would, right?

The slashers will probably swoon if you agree to help them place the bodies where they want them to, like hanging them in the trees or something.

Billy keeps it more lowkey. Preferring to keep you in his lap and rest his chin on top of your head. Stu takes your strength to his advantage. When he gets drunk he'll whine and ask you to carry him to bed, and take his socks off. Annoying fuck but you love him either way. And Billy too.

[cami040405]

Headcanons of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Carrie White with their s/o telling, or rather asking them for a baby. They have been married for a while, and their s/o have thought about it for a really long time, but it wasn't until one day out of nowhere that they asked them for it. Perhaps even begged for it since not only has baby fever gotten to them, but they always wanted children. Their own little family.

Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby

Summary: Imagine the reaction of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White reacting to you asking them for a baby.

Includes: Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White

A/N: I was really excited about this request, I loved writing it and I thought it was really cute too, thank you for sending the request and supporting me in writing!

Jason Voorhees

It wasn’t something you planned to say out loud. Not yet. The idea had lived quietly in your heart for a long time, tucked away like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You and Jason had been married for years. You had a rhythm, a quiet life in the heart of the woods. Safety. Love. Peace.

But lately, you’d felt it stronger than ever—that aching, cloying pull in your chest every time you saw a baby blanket in town, or watched birds build a nest. A deep-rooted longing. A need for something more. For someone that was both you and Jason. A new life. Your family.

You’d tried to ignore it.

Until tonight.

The moon hung low over the lake, casting soft light over the clearing where Jason was stacking firewood. You watched him for a moment—his massive frame moving with slow care, the same man who once was seen only as a monster. But to you? He was gentleness. Loyalty. Home.

You approached slowly, heart pounding: “Jason… can we talk?”

He turned immediately, his attention fully on you like it always was. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the tension in your voice. He dropped the wood from his arms and walked over, towering over you, but never imposing.

You took his hand. His gloved fingers curled instinctively around yours.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. And I—I didn’t know when the right time would be to say it. But I… I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Jason stilled.

“I want… I want a baby.”

Your voice cracked at the end, but you pushed through, your fingers clutching at his vest. “With you. I want our child. Someone we made together. I want to raise them here. I want to build a family with you, Jason.”

The clearing fell silent.

Jason didn’t move. Not at first.

Then—very slowly—he sank to his knees in front of you. The giant, the boogeyman of Crystal Lake, on his knees like a man who just had his soul cracked open. His head pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you like you might float away if he didn’t. You felt the tremor in his chest. Silent, invisible sobs. His body shaking.

Your fingers slid into the curls behind his mask.

“I know it’s scary. I know the world never gave you anything but pain. But this… this would be ours. No one can take this from us.”

He pulled back slightly and looked up at you.

Then, very slowly, Jason took your hand and pressed it against his chest—where his heart would be, beating strong. The masked gaze locked with yours, full of emotion even behind the scratched old hockey mask.

Yes.

It was silent, but loud in his language. That simple gesture said everything. Yes. I want that too.

Yes, I want a child with you. Yes, I want a family.

From that night on, Jason changed.

He started building things. Cribs. Tiny carved animals from wood. He began clearing out the spare room in the cabin. Every time you showed a sign of fatigue or discomfort, he’d lift you without hesitation and carry you somewhere to rest. He became your silent guardian all over again—but now, for something he couldn't even see yet.

He watched your body with awe, almost reverence, when you began trying. You could feel it in the way he held you afterward—strong but delicate, like you were glass and fire all at once.

When he thought you were asleep one night, you felt his hand on your belly. Not lustful. Just… hopeful. Like he was already saying hello to a future he never dared dream of.

And if that child ever comes to be?

Jason will protect them like he protects you—with everything he is. Because they’ll be a part of you. And to Jason, you’re the whole world.

.

You’d known for a few days now. Maybe longer.

The nausea. The strange flutter in your lower belly. The deep fatigue that no nap could fix. You knew your body better than anyone, and this time—something was different. Real. You took one of the few pregnancy tests you’d stored in the cabin’s small bathroom, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped it.

When the positive line appeared, bold and undeniable, you stared at it like it was a dream. You sat on the edge of the tub for what felt like hours, cradling your stomach, whispering, “You’re real…”

Tears slid down your cheeks. But this time, they were from joy.

Now came the hardest part—telling him.

Not because Jason wouldn’t want it. You knew he did. But because Jason Voorhees, this mountain of strength and silence, had never truly believed he could have something like this. Not really. It would be your child, and his, and his heart—already so wounded—might not know how to hold something that sacred.

You found him outside by the lake, sitting near the dock with his feet in the water. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. You stepped carefully down the slope, heart racing, the test hidden in your palm.

He heard you coming—he always did—and turned slightly. You saw that tilt of the head again, his version of a question.

You sat beside him, pressing your shoulder to his.

“Jason… I have something to tell you. Something… important.”

He immediately gave you his full attention. Still. Waiting.

Your hands shook. You took his larger hand and placed it on your lower stomach, covering it with both of yours.

You stared into the lake for a long second, then whispered:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The air seemed to stop moving. Jason didn’t move. His breath stilled. The hand under yours began to tremble faintly.

You turned to look at him, eyes already glassy with tears. “I’m pregnant. With your baby. It’s really happening.”

He jerked back just slightly—not away from you, but like he’d been struck by lightning. His hand lifted and hovered uncertainly over your belly, before he gently pressed his palm against you again, slower this time. Reverently.

You nodded, voice cracking. “You did this. We did. You made a life, Jason…”

And then, for the first time in a long time, Jason’s shoulders broke.

He hunched forward, pressing his masked face into your lap, into your belly, as his huge arms wrapped around you protectively, almost desperately. His entire body trembled, and you felt the smallest sound escape him—a choked, muffled sob.

He held you like you were his anchor, like the world was spinning too fast and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers slid under your shirt to feel bare skin, not with lust, but in disbelief and awe.

When he finally looked up, he reached to lift his mask just enough for you to see his mouth—lips trembling, jaw tight, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners, something he never let anyone else see.

He placed the gentlest kiss on your belly, and you felt it shake slightly with his breath.

A promise.

“Mine,” his voice rasped out—quiet, raw, and barely a whisper. The first word he’s said in months.

You broke then, sobbing as you held him. He didn’t move from that spot for hours, just resting his head against your belly, listening like he might already hear something.

That night, when you both finally went inside, you found the small wooden cradle he’d made long ago. It had been gathering dust in the back room, quietly waiting.

He brought it into the bedroom.

He was ready.

.

Thomas Hewitt

You’d been thinking about it for a long time—years, really. You and Thomas had made a life together after everything calmed down. The chaos had quieted. The house wasn’t filled with the screams of strangers anymore—just laughter, soft music from the radio, and the occasional hiss of a skillet on the stove. You had love, safety, a roof over your heads. But one thing was missing: your own family. A child.

The thought had built up slowly at first… but now it was loud. Persistent. You wanted to hold a little one that had his eyes. You wanted to see Thomas cradling someone so tiny in those enormous hands. You dreamed of baby giggles echoing down the halls of the Hewitt farmhouse. And today, something in you snapped.

He was in the kitchen, apron on, humming quietly to himself as he cut vegetables. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. You watched him for a long time, your heart full, your chest tight.

Then you blurted it out.

“Tommy… I want a baby. With you.”

He froze.

The knife paused mid-slice. His whole body tensed, like a string pulled taut. He didn’t turn to you right away, didn’t make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly. You stepped closer, voice softening.

“I mean it, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I want to have a family. Our family. I want a little one that we can raise together. I want them to feel safe, to feel love like we do. And—”

Your voice cracked. His shoulders slumped the moment he heard it. He turned to you, mask still on but eyes wide and glassy with tears. You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

He set the knife down and walked toward you slowly, as if making sure you were real. As if scared you might disappear.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. His forehead rested on your stomach, a choked, emotional sound escaping his throat. He didn't speak, but his body did all the talking. He trembled. He clung. He understood.

You whispered against his hair:

“I want our baby, Tommy. Please. I need this... I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He looked up at you with glistening eyes, nodding so hard it seemed like his whole body moved with it. A soft grunt escaped him as he gently pressed a kiss—through his mask—against your abdomen.

That night, he was the most tender he had ever been. Every touch was full of meaning. He worshiped you. His hands were careful, slow, reverent. As if helping you conceive was something holy.

Something shifted in Thomas after that. He changed.

He began to prepare. Quietly at first.

You caught him staring at a broken crib out in the barn—something Hoyt had probably scavenged and forgotten about. A few days later, it was gone from the scrap pile. He’d fixed it. Painted it. Lined it with soft fabric.

He began carving things. A mobile with woodland animals. Teething toys. Rocking horses. You didn’t ask—he just did it, pouring all of his love and nervous energy into creation.

He also started fussing over you. If you so much as sighed, he’d be at your side with a worried look, checking if you needed water, a blanket, anything.

Luda Mae knew something was up the moment she saw how Thomas hovered around you. She gave you a knowing smile one morning and handed you a baby book she kept from when she was younger.

“Just in case,” she said softly, with warmth in her eyes.

Thomas had never seen himself as someone worthy of love—let alone worthy of fatherhood. But you, with your soft words, your unwavering love, your plea for a future—you changed that. You made him believe it was possible.

In the quiet hours of the night, when you were asleep in his arms, he’d gently rest a hand on your belly and imagine it growing round and full. He’d imagine holding your child, swaying them gently in the rocking chair, singing lullabies in his muffled humming way.

He feared passing down pain, but your voice echoed in his mind:

“They’ll be safe, because they’ll have you.”

That gave him strength.

.

It had started with little signs. A missed period. A wave of nausea that came on stronger each morning. Your body, once still and silent, now felt different. Alive. Shifting. It scared you… but mostly? It thrilled you.

You bought a small test in secret—something you had to lie to Hoyt about when he caught you coming back from town. You clutched it like a lifeline, palms sweating.

And when the second line appeared?

You sat on the bathroom floor in stunned silence, hand trembling over your mouth.

It was real. It was finally happening. You were carrying Thomas Hewitt’s baby.

You waited until the timing felt right. He’d had a hard day, out butchering meat in the sweltering Texas heat. Now, back inside, he was scrubbing his hands in the sink while Luda Mae quietly stirred stew behind him. The house buzzed with its usual rural stillness.

You stepped up behind him and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He turned, already melting a little when he saw your shy smile.

Then you pulled a tiny handkerchief from your pocket. Folded in it was something small and white. You pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it.

He opened it slowly, unsure. When he saw what was inside—the positive pregnancy test—he stared at it, silent. Frozen.

At first, you panicked.

“Thomas...? I—I thought maybe I should wait, but I couldn’t. I had to tell you. You’re going to be a daddy.”

“I’m really… I’m really pregnant, Tommy.”

His hands began to shake.

He looked from the test to you, then back again. Then his entire body just collapsed to his knees before you like someone who had been shot through the chest with emotion.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, squeezing—not roughly, but needing. Desperate. His mask bumped against your belly, muffled sobs escaping from behind the leather. His body shook as he cried into you.

You’d never seen him cry like this.

Tears soaked through your shirt as he looked up at you with eyes red and raw, one hand gently—gently—spreading over your belly.

“Tommy,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

He nodded hard, over and over again, hand still on your stomach like he was afraid to let go—as if it would disappear if he blinked. Then he stood up, towering over you, still trembling. He reached for your hands, placed them on his chest, and grunted something deep and full of gratitude.

He was saying, Thank you. I love you. I’ll protect you both with my life.

You found him sitting on the floor by the crib he had fixed months ago—just staring at it.

He’d placed a single baby blanket in it already. His hands were resting on the side rail, his thumb slowly brushing over the edge. He looked lost in thought, a little overwhelmed.

You came up behind him and sat beside him, taking his hand.

He looked at you, eyes still red but softer now. At peace.

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles gently before resting his head against your shoulder.

The two of you sat there in the quiet for a long time.

The stars were bright that night. The wind outside was soft. And in that stillness, Thomas imagined the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, the weight of a small body resting against his chest, the lullabies he would hum while rocking them to sleep.

And he realized:

He had never felt more complete than he did right now.

.

Vincent Sinclair

The wax studio is filled with that familiar scent of warm paraffin, the soft scratch of tools working against clay, and the creak of old floorboards under your feet. You’ve been sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, quietly watching Vincent sculpt for the past hour. He hadn’t asked you to leave—he never does—but you can tell by the way he glances at you every few minutes that he’s aware of your presence.

There’s something about watching him work that fills your chest with warmth. The way he loses himself in his craft, how focused his hands become, how even his breathing slows to match each movement of his blade. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just the weight of time finally building up to this moment... but you suddenly can’t hold it in anymore.

You walk over quietly and place a hand on his shoulder. He pauses but doesn’t turn. Just leans slightly into your touch.

“Vincent…” Your voice is soft—barely more than a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

He tilts his head a little, curious.

“I want a baby. Your baby. I want our own little family.”

He freezes.

Not dramatically. Just... stillness, like all the air left the room. The kind of stillness that only Vincent can embody—deafening, heavy, deliberate.

You keep going, even though your heart is pounding. “I know it’s sudden, and maybe it’s scary, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I want them to have your eyes… your soul.”

He sets his sculpting tool down slowly. You can see his hand tremble ever so slightly. He still won’t look at you.

You step in front of him, crouching down until you’re eye-level. Carefully, you reach up and brush your fingers along the edge of his mask. He lets you lift it—he always does. He’s learned that with you, he’s safe. He doesn’t have to hide.

His one visible eye is glossy, a storm of emotions warring behind it—disbelief, wonder, fear, yearning.

“I’m not asking for a perfect life, Vincent. Just ours. And maybe I sound selfish, but I want to carry a piece of you. Something beautiful from the both of us.”

He exhales hard—almost like a sob—and cups your face with his hands. You lean into him, feeling the quiet quiver of his fingers.

Then, wordlessly, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and aching, as if pouring all the emotions he doesn’t have words for into that moment. His kiss tells you yes a thousand times.

In the weeks that follow Vincent becomes obsessed with the idea of fatherhood. Not in a loud, boastful way—he simply begins channeling it through his art. You notice subtle changes in his work. He begins sculpting infants in wax, cherubic and serene, tucked gently in the arms of faceless figures that feel suspiciously like you.

One night, you catch him sketching by candlelight. The paper shows a child—half-drawn, soft features, long lashes, the faint trace of a scar over the lip. A blend of your features and his own. When you gently ask him what it is, he lowers the paper shyly but allows you to see. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I think they’re beautiful.” He doesn’t reply, but he clutches the sketchbook to his chest after you leave.

When you bring up trying again, maybe even beg for it—his response is immediate. He carries you to bed, his touch reverent, treating your body like something sacred. He’s gentle but determined. His way of saying, I want this as much as you do. That night, there are no masks, no silence between you. Only shared breath, whispered words of hope, and a love so thick it feels like candle wax—heavy, slow, warm, and everlasting.

Afterward, he keeps his hand on your stomach for a long time, as if hoping he can will life into existence just by touching you.

Vincent doesn’t speak much—but when he holds you tighter than usual, when he builds a cradle from reclaimed wood and lines it with soft wax, when he starts making space in the house for someone small—you know he’s saying:

“Yes. I want this too.”

.

The house is quiet—almost too quiet.

Even the wax figures seem more still than usual, as if the entire world is holding its breath.

You’ve been walking around in a daze all morning, one hand unconsciously brushing over your belly again and again. You keep replaying the moment the test turned positive—how the lines darkened slowly, almost shyly, like even it was in awe of the possibility.

You haven’t told him yet. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because you want the moment to feel right. Sacred. Private.

You find him in his studio.

He’s sculpting, lost in the trance-like rhythm he always falls into. Wax shavings gather at his feet, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, veined forearms. You hesitate in the doorway, watching him work.

And then, in a voice trembling with everything you’ve tried to hold back, you say softly:

“Vincent... I have to tell you something.”

He pauses. His body stills in that signature way, but his head turns to you almost immediately. His hair falls over the edge of his mask.

You take a slow breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking. One hand rests gently on your stomach again.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not the kind that fills the room awkwardly—but the kind that means something has shifted.He blinks. Once. Twice. His hand drops the sculpting tool. It hits the floor with a dull clatter, but he doesn’t notice.

You smile, a little nervously. “You—you’re going to be a father, Vincent.”

He stares at you, unmoving. His eye glistens. And then, slowly, carefully, he crosses the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

He kneels in front of you. Both his hands reach out hesitantly, almost shaking, and hover just above your belly. He doesn’t touch at first. He looks up at you for permission. You nod, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

His hands press lightly against your stomach. It’s still flat, but he touches it like it’s full of stars. And then he leans in, resting his forehead against your belly, trembling. His mask presses gently against your shirt as he holds you with all the reverence in the world. No words, just the soft sound of his breathing—hitched, overwhelmed, and so full of emotion.

You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper:

“They’re going to have your eyes... your hands... your heart.”

He pulls back, just enough to look up at you. His one eye is red-rimmed, wet, raw. His hand gently cups the side of your face. There’s no mask between you now.

He lifts you into his arms without a word and carries you to your shared bed. Not to make love—not tonight. Tonight, he just wants to hold you.

He wraps his arms around your back, one hand splayed over your stomach all night, refusing to move. He doesn’t sleep. He watches you, protectively, like he’s guarding the beginning of everything he never thought he’d have.

A family.

His family.

.

Bo Sinclair

You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

It started as a quiet moment in the kitchen. You were sitting on the counter while Bo fixed something under the sink, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, grease on his cheek, muttering curse words at the rusty pipe. The sun was bleeding through the windows, catching the gold in his eyes, and you were suddenly struck by this aching need. That familiar pang had been growing inside you for months now—quiet, tender, powerful.

And before you could stop yourself, you said it.

"I want to have your baby."

Bo froze mid-motion. His wrench clattered to the floor with a dull metallic thud.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “...Come again?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bo. I mean it. I want... I want us to have a baby. I want a family.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh—nervous, deflective. “Aw, darlin’, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause Lottie next door just popped out another one. Baby fever’s catchy as hell, huh?”

But when he looked up and saw your eyes—glassy, trembling with sincerity—his heart sank.

You weren’t joking. Not even close.

Bo Sinclair, for all his bravado, had never let himself picture something so vulnerable, so pure. Not for real.

Not for him.

He’d always known how to charm, how to seduce, how to play the part of the smooth-talking man with the confident grin. But being a father? That terrified him in a way nothing else could.

Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was cut out for it.

Not after the way he was raised. Not after what his father did to him. Not after the screaming, the belt, the bruises hidden behind long sleeves. Not after watching his mother choose silence over protection. Not after years of telling himself that he was just too damaged, too broken, too much like him to ever risk repeating the cycle.

But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and everything cracked.

"Please, Bo..." you whispered, voice raw and trembling now. "I’ve thought about it for so long. I want a baby. I want your baby. I want them to look like you... talk like you... I want to build something good with you. I know what kind of man you are. You’re not him. You’re better.”

And just like that, Bo Sinclair—the cocky mechanic, the wolf in sheep’s clothing—felt small. Felt seen.

He didn’t answer right away. He stood up, wiped his hands on an old rag, and walked over to you slowly, as if approaching something holy. Then he cupped your face in his calloused hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. He stared into your eyes with a softness you rarely saw—vulnerable, bare, aching.

“Why... why the hell would you wanna have a baby with someone like me?” he asked, voice almost breaking. “You could pick anyone. Anyone cleaner. Safer.”

You grabbed his wrists, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I love you. Because no one would fight harder to protect their family than you. And because if we made a baby together… I know they’d grow up with love. And strength. And someone who would burn the world down for them if they had to.”

His mouth parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to keep building that wall between him and the future. But he couldn’t. Not when your faith in him burned brighter than all his doubts.

So instead of arguing, he leaned in and kissed you—slow, reverent, his hands trembling against your skin.

He didn’t say “yes” in so many words. He just started acting like a man who wanted it too.

You caught him, a week later, quietly fixing up the empty guest room—patching holes in the walls, redoing the paint. He grumbled something about “just makin’ it less of a dump,” but you knew what he was doing.

One morning, he tossed a catalog onto the kitchen table—circled a page that showed old-fashioned wooden cribs. He started touching your stomach when he thought you were asleep. Pressing his warm palm over your belly like he could already feel something there. Like he was already trying to protect something that hadn’t even existed yet.

And the first time you begged—half-laughing, half-crying, curling against him in bed and whispering, “Please, Bo... I want your baby... I want you to give them to me...”—he growled softly and melted into you.

He whispered in your ear, “Alright, baby... let’s give you what you want. Let’s make us a little Sinclair.”

And he meant every single word.

.

It had been a strange few weeks.

You were tired all the time. Your appetite shifted—suddenly craving fried pickles at 2AM and hating the scent of Bo’s aftershave, which had never bothered you before. You brushed it off at first—maybe it was stress, or the heat, or maybe your body just felt off.

But then… one morning, as you stood in the dim yellow light of the Sinclair house’s bathroom, staring at a stick on the counter that screamed “PREGNANT”, your heart climbed into your throat.

It was happening.

It was real.

You were carrying Bo’s child. You laughed, cried, sat on the floor in shock. And then you just sat there, pressing your hand gently to your stomach, whispering, “Hey there, baby… guess it’s time to tell your dad.”

Bo was in the garage, as usual—shirtless, grease-stained, humming something low under his breath as he tinkered under the hood of a rusted-out car. You stood in the doorway, hands curled tightly around your back pocket where the test was hidden, heart pounding like a drum. You watched him for a second, just… absorbing the moment.

He always looked so wild and put together at once. So much fire in his bones, and yet there he was, gently tightening bolts, the curve of his back strong and steady, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He glanced up and grinned when he saw you. “Hey, baby. You look flushed. You alright?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then walked forward slowly, your voice soft. “Bo… I need to tell you something.”

He blinked, straightened up, wiped his hands with a rag. “You okay?”

You nodded. Your voice trembled. “I… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A slow second passed.

Bo just stared at you. His expression didn’t move. His fingers clenched the rag tighter, the grease soaking into his palms.

“...What?”

“I took a test. A few. They're all positive. I’m… I’m gonna have your baby, Bo.”

He stepped back like the words physically hit him. Like they echoed straight into the deepest part of his soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, hoarse.

You nodded again, smiling through tears. “We did it. You did it. We’re gonna have a baby.”

For a moment, he was utterly still. You thought—maybe he’d panic. Maybe he’d shut down. Maybe he'd break into that cocky sarcasm he used when emotions got too big for him to handle.

But then—

Bo dropped the rag.

He walked over to you like a man in a dream, rough fingers trembling as he reached for your stomach, barely touching it like it was made of glass. His hands splayed wide, cupping the soft curve that wasn’t even showing yet.

And then his eyes—his goddamn eyes—got glassy. Red at the edges. Shining like he’d been punched straight in the heart.

“You’re serious?” he whispered. “There’s really... there’s really a little piece of me in there?”

You reached for his hand and pressed it flat against you. “Yeah, Bo. There is.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly crushed you to his chest. He held you like you were the last precious thing on earth. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly. And for the first time in a long time, Bo Sinclair shook—not with rage, not with fear—but with love.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ try,” he whispered, over and over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better than he ever was. I ain’t gonna let this kid grow up the way we did. I swear it, baby.”

You buried your face in his chest, tears soaking his skin.

“I know you will,” you whispered back. “You already are.”

After that Bo becomes fiercely protective—almost feral about it. You so much as slip on a step, and he’s cursing the stairs and demanding to carry you everywhere. He finishes the nursery he had started months ago, painting stars on the ceiling and carving the baby’s name into a wooden cradle he made himself (once you pick one).

He becomes unusually quiet sometimes, just lying beside you with his hand on your stomach, whispering promises to the baby. But he’s also proud—in his Bo way. Smirking and bragging to Lester, “Yeah, well, I knocked up the hottest damn thing this side of the county. My kid’s gonna be a fuckin’ legend.”

When you feel the first kick, he cries. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face as he holds your belly like a sacred thing.

He never thought he’d get this.

But now that he does?

Bo Sinclair will fight the world to protect the family he never thought he deserved—but somehow found anyway.

.

Lester Sinclair

You never expected it to come out the way it did.

The words had been brewing for months—maybe even years. Each time you saw a baby in a movie or passed a family with a stroller, a pang pulled at your chest. You and Lester had been married for a while now. The wild chaos of Ambrose had quieted around you, and life with him had settled into a strange, beautiful routine. The two of you made your own kind of peace—your own kind of love.

So when you blurted it out—“Lester, I want a baby. Our baby. Please…”—it came out in a shaky whisper, almost like a prayer.

Lester froze. His boot scuffed against the dirt, hands still sticky from whatever roadkill he'd just finished hauling. He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right.

“A... a what now?” he asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

You stepped closer, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I mean it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want a family with you, Les. I want our child. I want to raise them right, with love. With you.”

The smile dropped off his face.

There was a long, soul-splitting silence as he looked at you. Really looked. You could almost see the gears turning in his head—the pain behind his eyes, the memories he never talked about. Growing up with abuse. With neglect. Feeling like the forgotten Sinclair, the one shoved into the back seat while his brothers got all the attention (in their own twisted ways).

You’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the dirt-streaked cheeks and lopsided grin. The man who brought you wildflowers every week. Who patched up your clothes by hand. Who kissed your forehead every morning like it was holy.

Now, that man looked like he was on the verge of breaking.

“You really think...” he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, “...that I could be someone’s dad?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’d be the best damn father I could imagine.”

His face crumpled. Not all at once—just slowly, like a dam giving way. His knees buckled, and he sat right there in the grass, running a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grime as he laughed bitterly through tears.

“I always thought… if I ever had a kid, they’d end up hating me. Thought I’d mess ’em up. Thought they’d deserve better than me.”

You dropped down beside him, grabbing his hand. “They’d have love, Lester. That’s what they’d have. And you’d protect them like you protect me. You’d show them what survival means. What being real means.”

Lester stared at your joined hands. For a while, he didn’t speak—just gripped your fingers like they were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Finally, he whispered, “Alright… we’ll try. If you really want this, darlin’... we’ll try.”

After that night, something in Lester shifted.

He started coming home earlier. He’d disappear into the shed, whittling tiny animals out of wood, then bashfully present them to you with a crooked smile and red cheeks. You’d find him sitting in the truck, staring at your picture with his hand resting on your side of the seat, lost in thought.

He cleaned up more. Tried to quit smoking (even if he cursed every step of the way). Bought books on parenting from a thrift store—even though he’d never admit it.  And when you came to him again, a few weeks later, breathless and desperate from sheer baby fever, begging for it, nearly trembling with longing—he didn’t hesitate this time.

He kissed you so softly you thought your heart might crack.

That night, under a sky full of stars, he made love to you like he was giving you every piece of his soul. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

He whispered into your skin, “I hope they got your smile… but maybe my laugh. And eyes like yours. The kind that see everything.”

He’d do it all for you.For the child you’d bring into this world. For the future he never thought he deserved—until you gave it to him.

.

It starts small.

You wake up nauseous for the fourth morning in a row. Your chest is sore. You’re tired in a way that’s not just fatigue—it’s different. You know your body, and this feels… like something new is blooming inside you.

You wait until the test confirms it. Two pink lines. Bold. Undeniable.

Your hands shake. Your heart thunders. You sit there in the bathroom with the little test in your hand, whispering, “Oh my god… I’m pregnant…”

Your first instinct is to tell him. But a flicker of fear sneaks in. You know how Lester is—emotional, insecure, vulnerable beneath his carefree shell. What if he panics? What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he thinks he’ll mess it up?

But then you remember how he held you when you first asked. The look in his eyes when he whispered “We’ll try.”

So you plan it carefully. You make his favorite meal—fried catfish, cornbread, and that weird butterscotch pie he always swears he doesn’t like but devours anyway. You light a candle. You even set the table.

When he walks in, he knows something’s up. He squints suspiciously at you, grinning. “Alright, darlin’, what’s all this? Did I forget an anniversary or somethin’?”

You shake your head and slide a tiny box across the table.

He opens it.

Inside: a simple, hand-painted pacifier. And a tiny note that reads:

“Coming soon... Baby Sinclair. ETA: 9 months.”

He stares at it.

Silence.

Then his hands start shaking.

He looks up at you, and for a second—just a split second—you swear you see the little boy he once was. The one who never thought he’d get a happy ending. The one who slept in the barn sometimes because the house didn’t feel safe. The one who never imagined anyone would want to build a family with him.

“…You’re serious?” he whispers, his voice cracking.

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Lester. You’re gonna be a dad.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half sob—and stumbles back into his chair, hands over his face.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Holy shit, we did it. We really did it.”

Then he’s on you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’s already trying to hear the baby. His tears soak into your shirt.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, fiercely, desperately. “Both of you. I swear to God, I’ll work harder, I’ll keep ya safe, I’ll… I’ll be better. I’ll be good.”

You cradle his head, running your fingers through his messy hair.

“You already are.”

.

Carrie White

It’s a quiet evening when you finally gather the courage to say it.

Carrie is sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing out her strawberry-blonde hair with soft, methodical strokes, humming a lullaby that echoes faintly from some forgotten childhood. The lamp casts a golden halo around her, and in that moment, she looks so gentle, so peaceful, that the words well up and spill from your lips before you can stop them.

"Carrie… I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. I want to have a baby. With you."

The brush falls from her hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

Her body goes rigid. She turns her head slowly, her wide, delicate eyes shining with something unreadable—shock, fear, hope—all blending into one.

"A… a baby?" she whispers, as if afraid the very word might shatter something inside her.

You nod, moving to sit beside her. You reach for her hands, and she lets you take them, though they’re trembling. Her eyes are locked on yours, searching, desperately trying to believe what you’re saying is real.

"With me? You’d want… a baby with someone like me?"

The weight in her voice stabs at your heart. You know what she’s thinking—what she’s been taught to believe all her life. That she’s cursed. That she’s unnatural. That someone like her shouldn’t be a wife, much less a mother.

You cup her cheeks and bring your forehead to hers. “Yes, you. Only you. I want to see your eyes in our baby. I want to hold something we made together. A family, Carrie. Our family.”

And with that, something inside her breaks—not painfully, but like a floodgate. She collapses into your arms, sobbing softly into your chest, as if releasing a lifetime of fear, shame, and loneliness.

Later that night, she speaks in the dark while you're holding each other in bed.

"I used to dream about it, sometimes. A little girl… with freckles. I’d braid her hair and teach her songs. But I thought that dream had to die with everything else..."

You kiss her hair and whisper, “That dream’s still alive. You’re allowed to want this, Carrie.”

Over the following days, something changes in her—subtle at first. She begins to touch her stomach absentmindedly when she's daydreaming. She visits the old nursery aisle at the general store and stares at the soft toys and onesies, barely breathing.

She starts sewing. Simple things at first—little booties, a blanket. She tells you it’s “just for fun,” but you catch her levitating the needle with her powers, stitching the shape of a tiny heart into the fabric. It glows faintly when she thinks you're not looking.

And then one night, your desire for it spills out of you, raw and aching.

"Carrie… I need this. I want to carry your baby. I want to give it your light, your heart. I want you to be someone’s mother. Please…” Your voice trembles. You didn’t mean to beg, but now that you have, you can’t stop.

She’s stunned silent at first, staring at you as tears run freely down your cheeks. You barely notice the soft shimmer of telekinetic energy that hums in the air around you—floating dust particles caught mid-air like stars frozen in time.

Then she presses her lips to yours, tender and reverent, her body warm and trembling.

"Okay," she whispers, barely a breath. "Let’s try. Let’s make our little miracle."

After that, every moment is sacred to her. She holds you like glass, kisses you with a reverence that makes your heart ache. When you finally begin trying, it’s nothing short of ethereal—the room filled with flickering candlelight, her powers humming faintly like a lullaby beneath your skin. Her touch is slow, patient, like she’s carving the moment into her soul.

She whispers your name like a prayer, over and over, as you make love. Tells you she believes. That she finally sees a future not written in fire or blood—but in soft blankets, warm bottles, lullabies, and love.

Carrie White doesn’t just agree to become a mother. She becomes a vessel for every ounce of hope she thought she lost—and for the first time in her life, she chooses her future.

And she chooses it with you.

.

Carrie White is pregnant.

It starts subtly.

Carrie is quieter than usual. She stays curled up in your shared bed a little longer each morning. Her appetite changes—foods she used to love now make her nauseous, and she craves the strangest combinations. You catch her staring into space, one hand absently over her belly, her expression unreadable.

At first, you chalk it up to nerves. Trying can be emotionally taxing, after all. But one night, she doesn’t come to bed right away.

You find her in the bathroom, the light low, her knees tucked under her in front of the sink. Her nightgown is wrinkled and damp with tears, and she’s holding something in her hands.

A small stick.

Your breath catches.

Her hands are shaking when she turns to look at you, eyes glossy, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“I… I think it’s positive.”

She says it like a confession. Like the words might make the floor collapse under her if she says them too loud. But she holds the test out to you, and the double lines are clear. Undeniable. Real.

You kneel in front of her slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Carrie…” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “You’re pregnant?”

She nods, lip trembling. Her powers stir faintly in the air—curling around her like a warm breeze. The water in the pipes hums. The lights flicker once, like even the world is holding its breath.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” you ask again, your voice trembling with disbelief and awe.

This time, she manages a smile—watery, fragile, but radiant.

“Yes… we are.”

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly your arms are around her, both of you crying and laughing at once. You kiss her face over and over, your hands cradling her stomach like it’s already holding the future.

You whisper against her hair:

“You did it… we did it. You’re going to be a mom. My god, Carrie… we’re going to have our baby.”

Carrie breaks down, sobbing into your chest—not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion. For the first time in her life, she is wanted, and now she’s the start of something even more: a life that you both made.

You carry her to bed like she’s precious, tucking her in and lying beside her with your hand over her belly. She falls asleep in your arms, the tiniest smile on her lips.

From that day on, everything changes.

You start collecting books on pregnancy and baby names. Carrie reads them slowly, sometimes out loud to the bump as if the baby can already hear her. You watch her body change with awe and tenderness—her face glowing, her hands always resting on her growing belly protectively.

She talks to the baby every day. Tells them stories. Hums lullabies. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, her powers pulse softly—wrapping her, and you, and the baby in a faint golden shimmer that almost feels like a blessing.

Carrie was once told she could never have something good.

But now, with your love, her strength, and a little life growing between you, she knows:

This is good. This is hers. This is real.

.

[ghoulsbounty]

Hi! I wanted to request a TH/fem reader and RZMM/fem reader

Maybe like a how would they show possessiveness over someone? A little angsty bc they're big guys and they would definitely manhandle their so in the heat of the moment

How Thomas Hewitt and RZ!Michael Myers Show Possessiveness Over You

Warnings: smut (18+), aggressive sex, slight mention of dumbification, manhandling, bruising/mark making, angst, obsession, stripping, stalking, slight yandere i guess?, possessiveness, canon-typical violence, control.

Words: 2.7K

A/N: Anon, thank you so much for my first slasher request! I love these boys so much and wanted to delve into their intentions behind their protectiveness a little, cause I think it would be very different for both. This is my first time writing a headcanon, I hope I've done you proud. I’d love to know what you all think to this, and feel free to send me more requests 💌

Thomas Hewitt

→ Thomas's struggle with social norms makes his possessiveness glaringly apparent. He perceives everyone outside the family as a potential threat to his happiness, particularly when it concerns you. His demeanour shifts abruptly at the slightest hint of danger; his typically measured movements become swift and aggressive. Despite his efforts to restrain his emotions in public, such as at the Cele Community Centre where you and his mother work, Thomas often finds himself instinctively drawn to your side. His hand firmly grasps the fabric of your shirt, his protective stance evident to anyone who dares to look at you. His gaze sweeps the surroundings with a discerning eye, meticulously assessing each customer until you gently remove his grip and convince him to wait in the back.

→ Thomas's overprotectiveness occasionally acts as a double-edged sword, simultaneously shielding you from harm while subtly restricting your freedom. As a man of few words, he struggles to articulate the depth of his need to keep you safe, resulting in actions that may be misinterpreted as possessiveness rather than genuine concern or fear of losing you. He means well, but it can feel suffocating.

→ Preferring to keep you within his line of sight whenever possible, Thomas's protective instincts often clash with the demands of daily life, leading to occasional conflicts with Charlie over the use of his time. The older man's frustration with what he perceives as your bad influence over Thomas' attention to his work further exacerbates tensions within the household. 

→ Certain areas of the house are off limits to you. The basement serves as a sanctuary for Thomas's work, and he is adamant that you are shielded from the horrors that happen inside. However, he still insists on your presence nearby, perched on the steps that lead down to the space or listening to the radio in the dining room upstairs. Your proximity seems to offer him a sense of security and focus, enabling him to delve into his his task with unwavering concentration and produce some of his best work.

→ Thomas finds solace in words of affirmation and constantly seeks reassurance from you. Despite the intimacy you share and the countless times you've assured him otherwise, he harbours an unshakeable fear that if he loosens his grip even for a moment, you might slip away from him. This nagging insecurity gnaws at him, overshadowing moments of connection, leaving him perpetually haunted by the possibility of losing you.

→ Physical gestures become one your languages of reassurance. You hold his hand tightly, intertwining your fingers as a silent promise that you're there for him. Running your fingers through his hair as he nuzzles into you becomes a comforting ritual, soothing both him and you. Your touch on his chest, just over his heart, keeps his anxieties at bay.

→ Words also become a source of comfort for Thomas. You express your pride in him, highlighting his strengths and the ways he makes your life better. You tell him how happy you are to have him by your side, emphasizing that he's not just your protector but also your partner. Sometimes, the simplest affirmations have the greatest impact on Thomas. Hearing you call him "yours" fills him with a sense of belonging and purpose, and when you tell him that he's been good, he can't help but prove just how good he can be by filling you with his fingers, tongue or cock.

→ Thomas feels most valued when you grant him your undivided attention and allow him to reciprocate. He revels in spending hours between your legs, skilfully coaxing orgasm after orgasm from your willing body until you're left a whimpering, trembling mess beneath him. Despite his efforts to maintain control in your relationship, you always seem to hold the upper hand, which is why he finds solace in reducing you to a thoroughly fucked-out state on his bed. In those moments, with your mind blissfully empty and your body consumed by a primal hunger for his touch, he feels a sense of power and satisfaction unlike any other.

→ Despite this, the mounting tensions within the household, particularly with Charlie, often leave Thomas grappling with pent-up aggression. As the demands on his time intensify, with Charlie clamouring for more of Thomas's attention and you taking on additional shifts at the community centre to assist his mother, Thomas finds it increasingly challenging to maintain his composure.

→ You've become attuned to the subtle shifts in his demeanour, recognizing the tell-tale signs when he's received a stern tongue lashing from his uncle or had a particularly taxing session in the basement. Thomas' simmering rage begins to permeate his interactions with you. His touch, once tender and reassuring, now carries an undercurrent of tension. The few words he mutters in your presence are laced with frustration and discontent, rather than devotion.

→ Despite your best efforts to sooth him, there are moments when Thomas's volatile emotions threaten to overwhelm him. In those instances, you find yourself walking on eggshells, navigating the precarious balance between offering solace and inadvertently stoking the flames of his anger. You are never fearful of Thomas, but these are the times when you remove yourself from his presence when possible. That is, until you learn that the best way to calm him during these storms is with your body.

→ Thomas's heavy-handed nature becomes even more pronounced during these moments of heightened emotion. He handles you with a forcefulness that borders on brutality, moulding and contorting your body into painful positions that elicit tears of discomfort. While he typically refrains from spanking you unless requested, in these instances, his large hand comes crashing down upon your flesh with punishing force, leaving behind welts and bruises that you carry for days. Unlike his usual attentiveness to your pleasure, Thomas's focus shifts solely towards finding an outlet for his frustration, using your body as a means to an end in his quest for release. He bites, scratches, and fucks every inch of you with an almost desperate intensity, seeking solace in the physical connection between you.

→ Yet, there are fleeting moments of clarity when the clouds in his eyes dissipate, and the gentle giant you know and love re-emerges. It's in these moments of vulnerability that you offer him comfort, reassuring him that he can take what he needs from you, and that you will still love him.

→ After the intensity of the moment subsides, Thomas retreats into the solitude of the basement, locking himself away as a form of self-imposed punishment for his mistreatment of you. Despite your efforts to coax him out, reassuring him of your well-being and offering comfort, he remains secluded until he feels ready to face you once more. When Thomas finally does emerge, you're quick to envelop him in the warmth of your affection and reassurance. With a soft kiss to his leather-clad cheek, you convey your unwavering support and understanding, letting him know that you harbour no resentment towards him.

→ In the aftermath of the encounter, Thomas's protective instincts kick into overdrive as he tends to any wounds that adorn your body, his touch gentle yet purposeful. It's in these moments that his true nature shines through—he may be heavy-handed and prone to bouts of aggression, but above all else, he possesses a deep-seated desire to care for and protect you, to make amends for any harm he may have caused.

RZ!Michael Myers

→ Michael's possessive nature over you begins with an intense and inexplicable fixation. From the moment his eyes land on you, something primal within him snaps, and he becomes singularly obsessed with making you his own.

→ He can't quite explain what draws him to the Red Rabbit Lounge that evening, but as he leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath after a harrowing escape from Smith's Grove, he is immediately captivated when you emerge from the back door. Unlike others who shrink away from him in fear, you meet his gaze with a calm demeanour, lighting your cigarette and casually pointing out his papier-mâché mask. Your nonchalant remark about liking the orange because it reminds you of your favourite holiday only adds to the intrigue, sparking something deep within Michael's psyche.

→ Following that initial encounter, Michael becomes an omnipresent presence in your life, a shadow that lingers at the edges of your awareness. You sense him in the periphery of your vision, catch glimpses of his shadow darting past windows, and hear the faintest rustle of his breath in the stillness of the night. He becomes your unseen companion, meticulously observing your every move. He studies your routines and habits, committing them to memory with an almost obsessive attention to detail. Always one step ahead, he waits patiently until the opportune moment presents itself to make his presence truly known.

→ Michael finds immense pleasure in the exhilarating pursuit of you, convinced that you share in his enjoyment of the chase. He keenly observes the subtle signs of your awareness, noticing the wry smirk that graces your lips when you sense his presence nearby. In those moments, he imagines feeling the same giddiness that surges through you when he lightly brushes your hair, a fleeting touch that leaves you yearning for more, even as it vanishes before you can turn around. The first time you called out to him, he battled against every instinct urging him to step out from the shadows and claim you as his own. Despite the overwhelming desire possess you, he restrains himself, savouring the anticipation of the inevitable moment when he would finally make his move.

→ In Michael's twisted psyche, you are more than just a person; you are a coveted prize that he will protect at all costs. He perceives himself as the sole rightful owner of your being, and he harbours an intense fixation on claiming you as his own.

→ As the regular patrons of the lounge mysteriously vanish one by one, leaving a bewildered community in their wake, Michael remains a silent observer, his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon you. He knows all too well the allure of your presence, the captivating dance you perform for these men, reminiscent of the performances his late mother once gave. Yet, while others may see you as an entertainer, Michael sees something far deeper—a connection, a possession, a symbol of his ultimate dominance that he must preserve.

→ From the shadows, he watches as you bare your body to these patrons. To Michael, it doesn't matter whether you are aware of his claim over you; what matters is that he sees you as his, and he will go to any lengths to ensure that no one dares to challenge him. In his mind, you are his alone, and he will stop at nothing to secure what he believes is rightfully his.

→ When Michael finally decides to collect his prize, it's in the eerie stillness of the night. He patiently waits in the shadows of your home, a silent sentinel standing rigidly in the corner of your bedroom as he observes your every move. You can feel his presence, an unspoken acknowledgment that he has come to stake his claim on his property.

→ As you undress, acutely aware of his watchful gaze, a shiver runs down your spine. There's a palpable tension in the air, a sense of anticipation mingled with apprehension. Yet, despite the unease that courses through you, there's also a strange allure, a primal instinct drawing you inexorably towards him. When you finally coax him from the shadows, he engulfs you in his arms with a ferocity that takes your breath away. The force of his embrace is suffocating, his touch demanding as he grasps and claws at every part of your body. In that moment, there's no denying the intensity of his desire, the need to make you his own consuming him entirely.

→ Michael is not gentle with you; he doesn't hold back his deep urges to possess you completely. He revels in your whimpers and the screams of his name as he stretches you open and takes what he deems rightfully his. His touch is rough, unyielding, as if trying to merge your bodies into one. Each movement is driven by a fierce need to mark you, to ensure you understand that you belong to him and no one else. Every night with Michael is filled with a mix of pain and pleasure. His eyes intense and unwavering, remain locked on you, drinking in every reaction, every cry. To him, this is the final step in owning you, the ultimate act of protecting what is his.

→  Removing the mask takes time. It's one evening, after the intensity of your shared orgasms have ebbed, and Michael lies heavy on top of you. Your fingers tentatively trace the edges of the white rubber mask, sensing his body tense beneath your touch. His hand instinctively reaches out, grasping your wrist to halt your movement, but your lips find solace in the warmth of his knuckles as you plant a gentle kiss, your breath whispering a desire to see him. For a fleeting moment, there's resistance, a hesitancy borne from years of concealing his true self, before he lets you unmask him. His long hair cascades over your face as the mask falls away, revealing the man beneath. In that vulnerable moment, you stroke his sweat-glistened cheek, your fingers tracing the contours of his features as you call him "handsome", perhaps the first time he's heard the word since his mother.

→ Despite Michael's disapproval of your continued work at the lounge, you are unwilling to relinquish your independence completely. He grumbles and fumes when things don't go his way, but deep down, he appreciates your defiance, feels a strange allure in your willingness to challenge him. Although his overly protective nature remains, he secretly enjoys the way you push back against his control, finding a strange sense of satisfaction in the game of give and take between you. A hand on his chest or a kiss along his strong jawline is all it takes for him to soften, his resolve melting under the warmth of your affection. You eventually compromise, only working certain shifts and allowing him to escort you home. As if you really have a choice on the matter. Michael finds your attempts at negotiation endearing.

→ If anyone dares to come between Michael and what is his, he reacts with violent outbursts of rage. His attacks are brutal and merciless, driven by a primal need to assert his dominance and protect you. Unfortunately, you are also not exempt from his aggression, and when he catches sight of you one night, engaged in conversation with a stranger outside the back of the lounge during your smoke break, he snaps. In a frenzy of fury, he swiftly disposes of the man, his actions marked by a sickening crunch of bones as his body is hurled against the brick wall. Then, turning his attention to you, Michael's muscles coil with tension and his chest heaves with barely-contained anger. Gripping your arms so fiercely that bruises bloom in their wake, he shoves you against the wall, once, then again, as if attempting to jolt some some sense into you.

→ With swift determination, Michael hoists you over his shoulder and retreats into the shadows, his purposeful strides carrying you home. But the journey doesn't lead to the bedroom; instead, he deposits you onto the stairs with a roughness that steals your breath. There, in the dim light, he strips away the remnants of your clothing, his actions forceful and unyielding. Again and again, he fucks into you with a ferocity that leaves you screaming his name, your pleas mingling with the echoes of both passion and pain. In those moments, as his protectiveness gives way to possession and consumes you, you find yourself uttering the words he craves to hear—that you are his, and his alone.

→ Yet, even amidst the ecstasy, a shadow of uncertainty looms. You can never be certain that Michael wouldn't cross that final line, that his compulsion wouldn't drive him to take everything from you, including your life. For Michael, protection is not just about control—it's about ownership to the point of obsession. If he can't have you, no one else can either.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HAND IN UNLOVABLE HAND

PAIRING: THOMAS HEWITT X FEMALE READER

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 5.8K

SUMMARY | This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

WARNINGS | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT; DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT - this is slasher fan fiction with canon typical violence, mentions of blood, death, cannibalism and gore. if slasher fiction is not your cup of tea, please keep scrolling.

EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT: vaginal fingering, male masturbation, oral sex - f receiving, unprotected p in v, size kink, choking, creampie, praise kink

OTHER WARNINGS: no use of y/n, dual pov, able bodied reader, reader being picked up/carried, virgin thomas hewitt, no skin masks, monsters in love. if i’ve missed any tags, please kindly let me know.

Thomas hears a scream while he’s out in the barn. It cuts off so quickly he damn near thinks he imagined it but if he holds perfectly still and listens, listens, listens, there are noises that don’t belong. A grunt, a smack, a mumbled curse. Knife in hand, he ventures out in search of the source. 

Out on the road there’s a car, hood up and smoke billowing from the engine. A man has a woman pressed to the driver’s side door, forearm tight against her throat and a knife poised in front of her face. Red creeps into Thomas’ vision and his fingers begin to ache around the hilt of his own knife but just as he steps forward, something amazing happens.

The woman spits at the man’s face and in that brief moment of surprise, she brings her hands up and shoves the man back. He stumbles, falling to ground. The knife falls and she goes after it, lunging across the dirt and rocks. The man wraps a hand around her ankle, tugging her down and dragging her back as she screams, fingers digging into the dirt. She kicks, once, twice, the third time finally connecting with a painful crack to the man’s shin and sending him down to the ground again. She crawls away, grabbing the knife and scrambling to her feet. Thomas can see her chest heave with ragged breaths, skin glistening with sweat in the Texas heat. 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

She approaches the man, the knife brandished in front of her. The man rolls onto his back, holds his hands up. A surrender. The woman doesn’t care. Her boot slams into his skull, a shout echoing in the vast emptiness of the road and fields. Thomas feels himself grow hard, pants tightening around his cock. He reaches down, adjusting himself.

The man is on his hands and knees now. Blood streaks his face and drips to the dirt, baptizing the land in violence. She kicks him between the shoulder blades, knocking him flat on his stomach, and stands over him with a leg on either side of his body. The breath catches in Thomas’ throat as she reaches down and tangles her fingers in the man’s hair, lifting his head. The man stares directly at Thomas and his lips move, a cry for help, but he doesn’t hear it. No, not when all his focus is on the way the woman leans close and drags the blade across the man’s neck and the skin splits, muscles and tendons ripping with the force of it and red, red, red spilling free. 

The man’s gaze grows empty and the woman loosens her grip, his head dropping to the ground. She drops to her knees, slams the knife into the man’s back over and over and over, roaring fiercely as she does. She’s covered in the red, red, red, clothes soaked through with it, skin stained and sticky. When she’s finished, she collapses on the ground beside the man, on her back, basking in the sun.

It’s then that Thomas approaches, his shadow falling over her, broad body blocking the sun. She blinks at him but doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run. 

Thomas holds a hand out to her.

To his surprise, she takes it.

Your mind is somewhere in the clouds as you walk beside the lumbering giant that carries John or Mike or David over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, is nothing. The body bounces with each step and you find it almost comical, lips twitching as you fight a smile. Something simmers in your veins, more potent than the adrenaline of the fight or the relief that you won another day against life’s shitty hand. 

This new man, the tall man with the icy somber eyes and expressionless mask, appeared above you, haloed in sunlight like an angel. By all accounts, he was a far more terrifying man than John or Mike or David, but you don’t see evil when you look at him, when his eyes meet yours for a brief second before looking away. No, not evil, but a familiar reflection, an unkind life that led to unkind circumstances and unkind decisions. You know the look well, it’s the same one you see in the mirror.

A house appears on the horizon, a two story Victorian era farmhouse that must have been impressive once before falling into a state of disrepair. There’s a woman on the porch, arms crossed over her chest and a stern look on her face as she watches the two (or is it technically three?) of you approach. 

“Bring ‘im downstairs. I’ll tend to the girl,” she says. The man looks at you, hesitating to follow the command. You give him a nod, the slight dip of your chin enough for his shoulders to relax. His heavy footsteps rattle the dilapidated porch as he disappears inside the house.

The woman leads you to the kitchen and pulls a chair out from the rough wood table for you to take a seat. You watch as she wets a cloth before returning to your side. Cool water hits the hot skin of your face and the rough fabric drags away the dried blood. Her touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You do all that to the fella my boy was carryin’?” She asks.

“Yes,” you reply, voice cracking on the single word that claws at your vocal cords. 

“‘Atta girl.” She smiles. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a glass on the table and you don’t hesitate to reach for it, chugging down the cold water so quickly it makes your stomach turn. She wordlessly refills it for you, twice, before murmuring a gentle, “That’s enough now, you’ll turn your stomach sour if you keep it up.”

“What’s with this fuckin’ car out on the road?” A voice yells from outside the house. Through the window you catch a glimpse of a man in a Sherriff’s uniform, shotgun held loosely in his hand as he approaches the house. The woman stands, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You don’t say nothin’, alright? You let me handle Charlie,” she commands. You nod.

The man appears in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on you. His leery gaze traces you from head to toe and you fight back the shiver that threatens to race down your spine. Your gaze drops to the floor as he addresses the woman.

“What’s with the whore?” He spits. 

“She’s a guest.”

“A guest? This a bed ‘n breakfast all of a sudden?”

“Thomas brought her up here.” As if summoned by his name, the monster returns. He looms behind the other man, silent. There’s a bucket in his hand that he drops to the floor with a loud clang that makes you jump. The woman pats your shoulder. 

“Tommy boy is takin’ in strays now, huh? What’s next, he’ll find himself some dumpster baby and finish buildin’ a whole happy family?”

The monster, Thomas, grows tense. His shoulders lift and the muscles of his arms flex, his eyes narrowed on the man who’s giving him a shit-eating smile. 

“Tommy, honey, why don’t you bring your guest to one of the rooms upstairs?” The woman suggests. Thomas shoves past Charlie and into the kitchen and stands wordlessly by your side. She nudges your shoulder and you stand, following him as he stomps through the second door to the kitchen. 

Shouting starts up as you leave, the words muffled when the door swings shut behind you. Thomas leads you upstairs to the second floor, where the hallway dark and a thick layer of dust coats anything it can reach. With a grunt he opens a door at the end of the hall and stands aside to allow you through the doorway. 

The room is bare save for a small but tidy bed and dresser. Despite the dust in the hall, the room itself is surprisingly clean. You sit on the bed, testing the squeaky springs with your weight. You look up at the man.

“Your name is Thomas?” You ask. He nods, once, a sharp dip of his chin that has his dirty hair falling into his face. You tell him your name and his blue eyes blink back at you, the only acknowledgment you’ll get.

He lingers for a moment, eyes searching. It doesn’t feel gross, not like when Charlie leered at you downstairs. No, it’s more like he’s committing you to memory. You realize, then, that he’s not looking at you like a predator looks at prey.

He’s looking at you like you’re a prize.

Thomas slams the cleaver down, the thud of it rhythmic, soothing. His thoughts keep straying to ones of you, upstairs in the kitchen with his mama. You’ve been here for two days now and he’s having a hard time concentrating on his chores knowing that you’re in the house, knowing that you’ve stuck around for God only knows what reason. It makes him antsy, suspicious. 

The door to the basement opens and he expects to hear Charlie’s boots stomping down the stairs but he’s surprised when you appear on the last step in an ill fitting dress that mama must have scrounged up for you. Thomas stands perfectly still as you look around the room. 

“This is what you do all day?” You ask. He nods. “That must be hard work.” Mama shouts your name from upstairs, making you jump. You give him a sheepish look. “I’m supposed to come tell you dinner’s ready.”

Thomas grunts, setting down the cleaver and wiping his hands on his apron. He washes up in the bloodstained sink, scrubbing at his fingers as best he can. You’re still on the stairs when he finishes, watching him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way you don’t look away, ashamed of your staring. 

You turn to climb the steps and he follows, a step below you. Your hips sway in front of him and he has visions of grabbing you by the hips, pulling you against his body so tightly you can’t leave, can’t leave, can’t leave. 

Mama is sitting at the table when you both emerge from the darkness, bowls of stew set out for each of you. Thomas sits down to mama’s left and you to her right, across the table from him. The two of you chat about the chores she’s assigned you and are they too much, honey? No, you tell her, you’re happy to help. Mama smiles at you and he knows what she’s thinking, that you’re sent from God himself, the perfect addition to the family. The daughter she never got to have, only the fucked up sons she was cursed and forsaken with. 

Thomas feels something prod his knee beneath the table and he freezes. All of your attention is still focused on mama, your head propped in your hand and your elbow on the table, relaxed as can be. He thinks maybe he just imagined it but he feels it again and this time he jumps, rattling the dishes on the table and sloshing stew from its bowls.

“Thomas! What’s the matter with you?” Mama asks, patting at her dress with a napkin. “You just got us all wet.”

“Yeah, Thomas,” you chime in. “Got me all wet and messy.”

By the look on your face, he knows that you’re not talking about the soup. He’s got some dirty magazines he snuck into the house over the years, women with their legs spread and their hands tied, glistening pussies on full display or the one videotape that Charlie got him, where the woman is split open on a man’s cock, begging for more as the lewd, slick sounds of sex grow louder and louder. The thought of you like that, maybe even because of him, makes his cheeks burn. He grunts, an apology, and his mama waves a hand at you both.

“You better get changed outta that dress before it stains. Can’t be lettin’ one go to waste so quick,” she tells you. You nod, standing from the table and heading for the door. You pause, looking over your shoulder at him and give him a wink. Mama clears her throat, a stern expression on her face as she looks at him.

“And you, boy. Go get yourself cleaned up and brush your damn hair for once. I raised you better than that.”

She didn’t, not really, but he listens to her anyway, trudging back down to the basement to hose himself off and change his clothes. As he cleans up, he thinks about you, because when hasn’t he been since you appeared? His cock hardens and he tries to ignore it, tries to think of the Bible lessons mama loved to teach and how it’s a sin to touch himself but maybe God will forgive him, just this once? 

He wraps a hand around his thick length and squeezes, almost punishing himself. His head drops back and he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide as he tugs and pulls at his cock, slow at first then fast, fast, fast, fist flying with a tight grip until stars burst in his vision and warm come dribbles over his hand. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, blinking away the dark spots as his high fizzles out.

Thomas dries himself and gets dressed before lying down on the mattress in the corner to toss and turn until the sun rises.

The next morning, Thomas doesn’t realize that you haven’t come down from your room until well into the afternoon. Mama’s gone to town and Charlie is off playing Sheriff so it’s just the two of you in the house. He debates whether he should check on you or leave you alone but ultimately the worry that something might be wrong pulls him upstairs and finds him knocking on your door, a quick tap of his knuckles to the wood.There’s no sound from the other side, no shout of fuck off like he’d get from Charlie or a quiet just a minute, sweetheart he’d hear from mama. Tentatively, he turns the handle and pushes the door open, just a crack, enough to peek inside.

You’re in bed, sprawled out on your back with the quilt kicked off to the floor. Your bare breasts draw his eye and he looks away quickly, shame clawing up his throat. The bed creaks as you shift, sleepy noises leaving your lips in the process, and panic races through his veins, worried that you might wake up and find him standing there, worried that it might be what sends you running, worried about what mama will say if you up and leave and it’s his fault, worried, worried, worried.

“Thomas?” You ask, voice raspy. He didn’t even realize that you were awake, stupid, stupid, stupid of him. He should have turned around and left, should have—

“Hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up. Thomas hesitates, eyes still fixed on the floor. You must notice because from the corner of his eye he notices the quilt get picked up and then you’re telling him, “I’m decent.”

He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat and looks up, meeting your gaze. You don’t look mad or disgusted or upset. You’re actually smiling at him, a hand held out in welcome. He doesn’t dare touch you, but he takes a step closer, body moving like a moth to a flame.

Your head tilts to the side, assessing him, eyes flaying him open and leaving him feeling more exposed than when someone catches him without the mask. You’re holding the quilt up over your chest but Thomas can still see the tantalizing curves of your shoulders, the long line of your neck with the flutter of your pulse beneath delicate skin. It makes his mouth go dry.

“You ever touch a woman, Tommy?” You ask. The question catches him so off guard that all he manages is a strangled noise. “Well? That a yes or a no?” He shakes his head. You smile, lowering the quilt just enough to expose the top curve of your breasts. 

“You wanna?” 

Thomas’ eyes drop to your chest before quickly looking away. A flush creeps up his neck, staining what little of his cheeks you can see above the mask he wears. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling open and shut. 

“It’s okay, you can look,” you say, gentle, gentle, gentle, like coaxing a scared animal. He looks at you again, blue eyes wide. “Come closer.”

He shuffles closer, looming over the bed, back so wide that he blocks the sun streaming through the window and casts a shadow over your body. You reach for his hand and he jerks away, as if on instinct. You pause, giving him a few seconds of reprieve, then reach for him again, keeping your eyes fixed on his face. Lightly, you touch his hand and when he doesn’t flinch, you grasp it more tightly. 

You guide his hand to your breast, settling his warm palm to your chest. He holds perfectly still for a moment and the restraint of it drives you insane, makes you bite your tongue so hard the taste of copper blooms across your tastebuds. Finally, he leans a little closer, fingers digging into your skin and making you gasp. He massages one breast, then the other, playing with the weight and feel of them in his large hands. You press your thighs together, cunt aching from the attention.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching into his touch. The praise spurs him on, makes him more confident, and he starts to focus his attention on your nipples, pinching and twisting the sensitive buds. He’s surprisingly gentle despite his size and demeanor. 

You kick away the quilt from your legs, exposing the rest of your body to him. His eyes trail down your body, hands going still. He looks up, tilting his head, asking a question, looking for permission. You nod your head quickly and your heart races as a palm slides down, down, down, until he’s cupping your pussy over your panties. Your hips jump at the friction.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine. Thomas holds his hand still as you grind yourself against his palm. You reach your hands down, holding onto his forearm with a death grip. “Please, please, please!”

His fingers slip beneath the elastic of your panties and you both groan. He plays with the embarrassing amount of wetness, smearing it over your skin. You guide his hand the slightest bit upwards until the calloused pads of his fingers swipe over your clit.

“That’s it, Tommy,” you tell him. “Right there, right there.”

Dutifully, he continues to lavish you with attention, taking every direction beautifully. Slower, faster, harder, he adjusts to every suggestion and has you moaning and crying his name in desperation, but it’s not enough. You’re right there, so close, but you feel so empty, you just need—

“Inside?” You ask. He pauses, brows pinching together. “Put your fingers inside me.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he eases one thick finger into your drenched hole. Your head drops back at the sensation, at the relief, and begin to grind your hips again. He starts to see the pattern, moving his hand so that he’s working with your rhythm. You look up at his face and the concentration in his eyes leaves you breathless. All he wants is to do good, be good, make you feel good. 

Thomas presses another finger to your entrance, glancing at your face to make sure it’s okay. When you don’t say otherwise, he works both inside of you in tandem, the stretch making you groan. He curls them, exploring, skimming a spot inside of you that makes you cry out and dig your nails into his arm so hard that he grunts but doesn’t doesn’t pull away.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good, Tommy, oh my god.”

He’s panting, sweat dripping down his neck, muscles tight with his efforts to wrench an orgasm from you. The lethal combination of his fingers inside of you and his palm against your clit and the muffled noises sneaking past his mask have you tumbling over a precipice so high you worry you might never come down. Your cunt pulses around his fingers and you babble his name and an incoherent stream of praise as your release washes over you, wave after wave of it.

Thomas waits until your body collapses against the mattress and you’re gasping for breath before slowly removing his hand. He holds it up to his face, pink tongue darting out from the slit afforded for his mouth to taste your cum from his fingertips. He groans, his other hand reaching down to press tightly to the sizeable bulge in his pants. He thrusts against his palm once, twice, before going still, shoulders shaking.

A door slams downstairs. Luda Mae’s voice shouts for Thomas and he takes a step back, head whipping towards the door and eyes wide with panic. You scramble from the bed, grabbing your dress and pulling it on quickly so that you can rush out the room, shutting Thomas inside. You lean over the banister and see Luda Mae standing at the top of the basement stairs, hands on her hips.

“I think he went out to the barn,” you call down. She looks up at you.

“Why would he be out there?” She huffs. “And what are you still doin’ in your room? You look a mess.”

“Sorry, m’am. Had trouble sleeping last night.”

Your politeness softens her annoyance. “That’s okay, darlin’, you’re still learnin’ the ropes. I gotta go find Thomas, Charlie’s found some troublemakers.”

“If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” You nervously smooth your hands down your skirt. “What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t worry yourself about that. We’ll let the boys handle it, alright?”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Luda Mae leaves through the front door and you return to your room. Thomas is standing where you left him, hands curled at his sides. 

“You hear all that?” You ask him. He nods. “What’s going to happen?”

He walks to the window, peeks through the curtain. His shoulders are tense. When he turns back to you, he sets his hands on your shoulders and steers you to the bed, pushing gently until you’re sitting, the springs squeaking beneath your weight. He cups your cheek with one hand and points around the room with the other.

“You want me to stay in here?”

He nods.

“What if you need help?”

He shakes his head. He won’t need help.

“Okay. You better get down there.”

He nods again. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to yours, an approximation of a kiss. You smile at him when he pulls away. He lingers for a brief second longer before tugging open the door and disappearing from the room.

Trouble is heralded by the arrival of Uncle Charlie. You watch through the window as his cop car pulls up in the yard and he gets out, spitting curses you can’t hear. He waves a shotgun in the air, firing off a warning shot that makes you jump. You know Thomas told you to stay in your room but curiosity gets the better of you and you head downstairs.

Luda Mae is in the kitchen, sat at the table with a cup of tea. A piercing scream filters through the open window as she takes a tiny sip from her cup. 

“You need somethin’, dear?” She asks, unperturbed by the interruption. You shake your head.

“No, m’am. Just came to ask if you needed help with dinner.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I got it covered.” Another sip. “Could you get the laundry from the line?”

It’s then that you realize she’s testing you. Earlier she told you to let the men handle it, but she wants to see where your loyalties lie. Thomas told you to stay put, to stay safe, but she’s sending you out to join the wolves because she knows, she knows, she knows that you’re just like them. 

She just needs proof.

You smile. “Of course.”

On your way out of the kitchen, you slip a knife from the butcher block.

One of the men that Charlie dragged home writhes in pain, one leg bent at an unnatural angle. His friend takes off at run, pace as fast as his injured ankle will allow. They’re the last two that need to be dealt with. Thomas raises his chainsaw in the air, ready to end the animal’s suffering, but movement from the corner of his eye makes him pause.

The back door to the house opens and you stroll out into the yard, looking around frantically with a frightened expression. Thomas feels a rush of anger that you didn’t listen to him, didn’t stay up in your room, didn’t stay inside. The anger quickly turns to fear when he sees the other man, the one he intended to deal with later, rushes toward you. You take off, running across the field toward the barn.

Thomas cuts the gas, tosses the chainsaw aside. The muffled whimpers from the man on the ground piss him off and with one, two, three strikes of the heel of his boot, he silences him for good. He heads for the barn, red in his vision with every step. If the other man lays a single finger on you, Thomas will keep him alive but begging for death.

“Come on, we gotta get out of here,” a male voice shouts. “They’re goin’ to kill us!”

Thomas throws open the barn doors, the wood shaking with the force of it. You’re turned away from him and the first thing he notices is the knife held in a tight fist behind your back. The man stumbles to the ground, trying to scramble back from you as Thomas comes closer.

“No. We’re going to kill you,” you tell him. You spring forward, jumping on the man with a feral scream that sounds like music to Thomas’ ears. Your arms swing up, up, up and then slam down, down, down, burying your knife into the man’s chest over and over and over.

Thomas can’t wait anymore. He approaches you from behind and wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you away from the mangled body. You struggle in his hold and he hauls you over to a work bench, swiping the tools to the ground with his other arm and setting you on the surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately, head shaking side to side. “I just wanted to help, I just—“

Your rapid apologies morph into a choked off moan when he lifts your legs, wrapping them around his hips, grinding his painfully hard cock against you. He buries his face into your neck, licking at the blood that stains your perfect skin, the taste of salt and copper opening a pit of hunger in his belly that could never be filled by food.

“Tommy,” you whimper, head dropping back. He licks and bites at all the skin he can find and when he runs out, he drops to his knees and begins anew on the muscles of your legs. 

He pushes the fabric of your dress up, bunching it around your waist to expose your pussy, still covered by the same panties you wore earlier when he made you come on his fingers. Wrapping his fist in the elastic, he pulls until it snaps under the pressure, fabric falling away and leaving you completely bare. 

Thomas pushes your thighs apart, spreading you open. He leans closer, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh, a little harder than he should. The tiny indents his teeth make in your skin are proof that this isn’t some dream. You’re flesh and blood, just like him.

Just for him.

His mouth waters as he nears your cunt, the earlier memory of your taste making that hunger grow to near starvation. His tongue slides over the slick flesh, exploring the dips and folds that taste so sweet it hits him like a sugar high, like when he’d steal a handful of candy from the corner store and eat it all at once, afraid of getting caught.

There’s a quiet thump and Thomas looks up to find that you’ve collapsed onto the table. Hands reach down and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on the strands. He remembers the spot that he rubbed with his fingers and searches for it with his tongue, knowing he’s found it when your thighs press against his ears and you moan his name like you did in your room.

“Oh, god! Just like that, Tommy,” you say, holding his head in place. “So good, so fucking good.”

He licks and sucks and grazes his teeth against you to his heart’s content and you writhe beneath him, bucking up against his face so fiercely he has to hold you down with an arm across your lower belly. He grows braver, dipping his tongue into the warmth of your cunt and drinking you from the source until you’re shaking. When he pulls away, he’s awed by the mess he’s made of you, your lips puffy and skin slick and shiny from your cum. He uses his thumbs to spread you apart, admiring the way your hole clenches around nothing.

Thomas stands, unsure of what to do next. You sit up from the table, expression dazed. Tear tracks stain your cheeks and a brief strike of worry hits him. Did he hurt you? Was that too much? Are you—

“Come closer,” you whisper. His thoughts go silent as he obeys. You reach up, cupping his face, hands trailing down to the strap of his apron. You lift it over his head and drops down, hanging limply. 

Your arms wrap around his thick middle, working the knot of strings loose behind his back. It falls to the floor in a heap now and he stares at it, pulse racing as your hands roam to his chest. His breath stutters as your touch traces lower, lower, lower, until your palm presses against his cock and his mouth drops open at the pleasure of it, so different from when he touches himself or ruts his hips into the mattress. He can feel the heat of your skin even through the thick fabric of his pants.

You’re popping the button and dragging down the zipper, wrapping a soft hand around his cock and pulling it free. Thomas groans, loud and rough, as you slide your hand up, thumb swiping over the clear fluid gathered at the very tip. 

You tug on his cock, hard enough that he stumbles forward, pressing closer. You look up at him as you rub the flushed head through your wetness and his shoulders shake at the sensation. You feel so good, so warm, he just wants to—

You notch him at your entrance and on instinct he thrusts forward the slightest bit, just enough that the fat tip of him sinks into tight heat. You gasp, eyes going wide and he’s once again struck with the fear that he could be hurting you, maybe he’s too big, too much of a monster, but when he tries to pull away you’re grabbing his shirt in a tight fist.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss. “Keep going.”

Thomas obeys, just as he always does, pushing his hips closer, shoving his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. He watches his length disappear, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You look beautiful, with the tears that gather in your eyes and the blood smeared on your chest and the way your thighs shake with the effort to take him, that his chest aches, that last thread of control keeping him slow and steady snapping like his hips as he buries himself inside of you, completely and thoroughly.

You’ve never been this full before. You fall back on the rough wood of the work bench with a gasp, stars in your vision as your body adjusts to the sheer size of the man, the thick length of him splitting you open and leaving you breathless. He leans forward, the angle changing and tears spilling from your eyes as you stare up at the hulking monster above you.

“So big,” you gasp. “God, you’re so fucking big.”

His cock twitches inside of you and you moan, back arching off the bench. He feels so good, even through the burning stretch. You give a tentative wiggle of your hips and his eyelids flutter, a moan escaping him. When the pain eases into a dull ache, you lift a shaky hand to his face, settling your palm against the cool leather of his mask.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” you tell him. “I want you to ruin me.”

His pupils grow impossibly wider and a shadow falls across his features, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. Gone is the man who was worried he would hurt you and in his place is the ravenous beast that matches the one clawing at you from the inside, just beneath your ribs where your chest aches with need. He draws his hips back until the tip is barely inside of you before thrusting forward. Your mouth opens, a scream ripping from your lungs but it’s cut short when a large hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. 

Thomas is a man possessed, pounding into your body like it’s nothing more than a toy for his pleasure, filling your pussy to the limit with each stroke. The hand on your throat holds your body steady and he uses his other arm to lift one of your legs, then the other, your thighs pressed to his thick belly and your ankles by his ears. His moans mix with the lewd sound of skin against skin, a soundtrack of hedonism that you want to listen to on repeat until God calls you for judgment and sends you straight to Hell.

Your orgasm is quick to build, a pressure in your tummy that grows tighter and tighter until it bursts, all your muscles going taut with the force of it. Thomas roars, hands gripping your hips and holding you impaled on his cock as he floods your pussy with his release. You feel untethered, like you’re floating, and it’s not until you’re squinting into the Texas sun that you realize you are floating. Thomas is carrying you through the field, back to the main house, one arm supporting your back and other under your knees, holding you close to his chest.

Luda Mae is on the porch when he reaches the door, hands on her hips. He pauses and her keen gaze assesses you both. Finally, she smiles.

“Get yourselves cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready,” she says. 

Wordlessly, Thomas brings you inside and down to the basement, where does exactly as he’s told.

Just as he always does.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

Want more to read? Check out my masterlists.

[z0mibite]

short little tommy oneshot, small warning of s/a, not graphicly depicted by there's two mentions. typical tcm warnings, death, blood, murder, ect. soft tommy, probably ooc.

You should be disgusted.

You should feel terrified.

And you did, to be fair. But not nearly as much as you should.

Not when that giant had brutalized those bikers who attempted to assault you, and not when he had treated you so gently. Maybe it was the fact that you didn't put up a fight, that instead of struggling to escape him, you reached up for him as a frightened child would. You had wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him tightly, rather than beating against him.

You were brought to the same dark, damp, moldy room as the bikers, but he didn't shove a meat hook through your shoulder, he sat you down on an unorganized workbench, sharp tools scattered around on top of it. In front of you was some type of chopping block. The wood was stained with a brownish color in a pooling shape, the sides dripping. Some of it was more red and fresher, and the smell of copper hung stagnant in your senses. It was so heavy you could nearly taste it, and the air being so humid and thick didn't help.

The bikers, they begged you.

They looked directly at you and cried for you to help them as the monster of a man poured gasoline into his chainsaw, the smell of diesel overpowering the smell of copper for the time being. The two men and one woman who had cornered you at that shop, tearing at your clothes until the ‘Sheriff’ stepped in. You simply stared, watched as the man revved the chainsaw and began dismembering them one by one.

By the time he'd finished, he was covered in blood, and he wasn't the only one. You couldn't see his face well, but you heard his breath hitch slightly as he saw how much of a mess he had made on you. He walked to the sink, grabbed a rag you doubted was clean before wetting it, and began wiping the crimson off you. The only sounds you could hear was his breathing, and the drips you could only decipher due to the difference in how heavy they sounded.

Your eyes met his as he gently rubbed the blood off your cheek, his hands holding your jaw still despite you making no attempt to move. He paused his movements to wipe his thumbs under your eyes, the tears that threatened to spill finally falling as he pushed them out. He tilted his head curiously before moving one hand to the back of your head, the other holding your back as he pulled you into his chest. The hug was inexperienced and awkward, but comforting nonetheless. His body heat enveloped you, and somehow, even after watching every moment of his brutal acts, your muscles relaxed, and the tension in your body slowly left with a long exhale.

[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.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Leaving lipstick marks on Slashers

writing this at light speed because im falling ill at the time of writing this we are locking in! also its really late so im tired sooooooooooo characters: jason voorhees, brahms heelshire, thomas hewitt, bubba sawyer notes: reader is gn and wears makeup cws: none

JASON

sits so still when you start peppering his face, he doesnt want to startle you even though hes done more that would have warranted fear from you- and even then you were open to it so really... what was he worrying about?

keeps the marks on his face for a decent amount of time before washing them, likely until theyre smudged into unrecognizable blotches of color on him

feels terrible that youre ruining your makeup but hes not going to deny this from you, he absolutely adores you

busting out the headcanon that he brings plants and flowers and the like to make DIY makeup- you... might leave his face sticky if you used something made from berries.. but at least he tastes nice...!

sub consciously brings you more stuff to make said makeup and stuff that would make a nice color on your lips

BRAHMS

will not clean off his mask youre going to have to make him... god forbid you kiss his actual face...

oh but its so worth it, having to clean it up aside, he enjoys any affection and attention from you

though expect him to linger around while youre doing your makeup, he doesnt care all that much about how much time you put into it, he likes seeing the marks on his face

it... actually gives him a reason to look in the mirror, even in passing to look at the marks youve left behind rather than the scars stretching across his face

sometimes steals your lipstick to send the message of what he wants

THOMAS

similar to the original chainsaw wielding texan, he loves getting kisses from you... physical affection means a lot to thomas, and the fact youre so willing to smudge your makeup just to give it to him has him feeling some sort of way

especially if you spend a lot of time putting it on- all that work just to leave all these marks all over his face

lets you take the lead and cup his face, allowing you to kiss him as many times as you want until youre satisfied

aches a little when he needs to wash up after working or for dinner

you offer to leave a kiss on a piece of cloth so he can keep it on him for as long as he wants- another similarity with bubba is that he feels like he has a piece of you via your lipstick mark

BUBBA

he doesnt want to wash it off, he wants to keep it on him for as long as possible- or at least for as long as drayton will allow it... which... probably wont be long

hes crushed but you offer to give him some more kisses, which easily remedy his disappointment!

he thinks you look really pretty with your makeup, might ask to look at it if youre fine with that

wants to do your makeup as well, will be over the moon if you offer to try it on him as well!

generally loves getting kisses from you but the fact they leave marks makes him feel like hes taking a little piece of you with him when you two part

[wildgirllz]

just imagining Tommy fucking you hard but lovingly in bed <3

“Mm-mmm..” Thomas groans as he slips his cock in and out of your tight hole. Your sweet whimpers and choked-out groans made his mind fog up, and the only thing that came through was his intense need to make his dick feel good and his need to breed his pretty little doll. “Tommy, y-you’re so big. You’re filling me up so good honey, oh that's perfect.” You moan out with little pauses between each of his rough thrusts. Your praise snapped him out of his daze for a minute, and he bent his head down to kiss you sloppily on your mouth. Your hands went directly to his sweat-damp hair and held his face close to yours. His warm breaths fanned your face and his forehead bumped yours with every uneven pounding he gave your pussy. “Right there Tommy, right there!” you squealed, turning his thrusts from rough, to painfully strong. You pull his lips down to meet yours and when his tongue brushes your bottom lip, you finally unravel into a pliant body for Thomas to use as your orgasm overtakes you. The feeling of your cunt contracting against his hard cock made his hips stutter and legs shake at the feeling of his peak approaching. With a couple of sloppy thrusts, Thomas filled your warmth to the brim with his cum, and all you could hear were his beautiful whimpers and gasps. You massaged your fingers into his scalp while his cock uncontrollably twitched and pulsed in your core. After catching your breaths, Thomas lay down next to you, a hand on your tummy and his head on your breasts. His warm palm circled your stomach, and he looked up at you with a thankful gaze. “No, thank you Tommy.” you giggled out before he took you into his arms, and held you until you both fell asleep.

feel free to send requests!

[toxicanonymity]

The Stitch

PAIR: THOMAS HEWITT X READER

WORD COUNT: 3.6k | THE SPREAD UNIVERSE one shot

SUMMARY: A stranger tries to get into the shed. You help Tommy when he's hurt and... hungry, then sit in his lap.

WARNINGS: 18+ Smut*, stockholm syndrome, violence off screen, blood, giving stitches, hand kink, light angst & dark fluff. *oral, squirting, captivity dubcon, unsafe cockwarming-adjacent piv, creampie. Feral/soft Tommy, leather muzzle.

SIZE KINK: Tommy is a strong, hefty 6'5", reader much smaller.

Ty for your enthusiasm for this fic! Ty @dark-scape for title help and @gasolinerainbowpuddles for the ⛓️ divider. 🖤

It was dusk when you spotted a man prowling around, then you ducked away from the shed’s clouded window and pretended not to see. Time crawled by–-you didn’t know how much–-as you sat frozen, afraid of making any noise at all. The wind howled, and twigs snapped in the woods behind the shed. You would’ve felt safer with Tommy nearby, but he must have been dead asleep after his family worked him hard all day.

You finally let yourself relax enough to fall asleep, only for chains to rattle on the outside of the shed. 

“C’mon,” the stranger pleaded to himself, then whisper-shouted into the distance, “hurry up, Ronnie!” followed by a startled “oh shit.”

You recognized Tommy's footsteps as he lumbered across the yard.

Huddled in the corner of the shed, you held your breath and listened to the ruckus just outside. You were pulling for your captor. He had committed violent acts, but he didn't seem like a violent man at heart. You felt sure he wouldn’t hurt you… even though he already had. 

Arms wrapped around your knees, you pulled your hands into your oversized sleeves and gripped the fabric with your fists.

“Get outta here, freak!” the man yelled. 

Tommy grunted. 

“Ronnie!” the man pleaded to his friend who was nowhere in sight. Then he warned Tommy, “Don’t do it man. My buddy’s got a gun.” 

Tommy’s grunt sounded almost like a laugh. 

“There’s more of us too,” the trespasser claimed, then muttered, “shit.” 

Shoes scraped against dirt. The shed door shook with an impact, and chains rattled. The man coughed and tried to vocalize. His shoes thumped and slid against the wood, with his feet unable to reach the ground. Tommy held him by the neck with just one hand. The struggle continued. 

The man went quiet, and Tommy grumbled indistinctly. 

Dead weight hit the ground. 

There was shuffling, dragging, and a few seconds later, the wet thwack of sharp metal through bone.  

-

Tommy caught his breath, then came around toward your window. His massive shadow was just visible enough in the dark to make his presence known. He tapped the glass with one knuckle, then you approached and lifted the curtain. 

He had an ax slung over his shoulder.

He braced his other hand on the shed, to the side of the window. Then, he stopped down to rest his forehead gently against the glass. Below his half-muzzle, his breath fogged the window and his chest heaved. The glass was cloudy, but you still felt his eye contact. You looked at each other, then he pulled back, leaving a smear high on the glass where his forehead had been. He gave you a nod that felt like a promise—he’d come back.

When you peeked out the window again, Tommy was walking toward the main house with the man’s body slung over his shoulder. The head and arms hung limply over Tommy’s back. The guy’s head was dripping into the dirt. In Tommy’s other hand, he held his ax, letting it hang by his side in a loose grip. He was unbothered by the prospect of another man to fight. 

You sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to calm yourself enough to get to sleep. Eventually, you heard Tommy on his way back. 

After unlocking the shed and ducking inside, he lit a lantern. The warm light flickered on, just bright enough to see dark splatter on his shirt and neck. His hair was matted dark. A thick path of blood oozed down the side of his face. He looked you over and took a seat against the adjacent wall.

For a minute, he simply breathed and watched you. 

You watched him, too. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. The trickle down his face hadn’t stopped. It must have been his own blood. 

“You’re bleeding,” you observed.

You started to move toward him, but he lunged forward before you could get up. Even on his knees, he was a looming presence.

“Can I see?” You asked, and brought a hand out of the blanket, squinting to find the source of the blood. 

Before you could touch him, he scooped you up in his arms for a swift exit, shaking the shed with each step. After ducking through the door, you expected him to put you in the wheelbarrow. Instead, he stood up and adjusted your weight so you were held flush against him, hugging his apron. He made sure you were covered by the blanket. You couldn't wrap your legs around him–he was too big, but you trusted him not to drop you. The soft padding of his torso was warm and comforting as he took long strides toward the house.

Tommy’s footsteps clopped under you in the garage. He slowed down, then stopped in front of a piece of furniture and leaned forward. He took a hand off your back. You tightened your limbs around him as best you could while he pushed some things out of the way, clearing a space for you. Then he sat you down on a smooth wood surface and uncovered your head. He reached up toward the ceiling and pulled a chain. A dim light buzzed on. You were seated on a desk, with all sorts of scraps and junk scattered around. 

Tommy took off his apron and he sat down in a chair, facing you. He reached across the desk and slid a tin box toward himself.  When he opened the tin, it looked like sewing supplies. His fingers were so enormous, you couldn't imagine how he sewed anything, but he handled the box with care and familiarity. 

It was his. This was his place. His craft. 

He turned the tin toward you so you could get what you needed. Meanwhile, he reached for an old glass bottle with an inch of clear liquid in it, and he used every drop to wet a rag. He held the cloth to his head. 

Okay, not his first time. 

You held up a needle. “It’s dirty.”

Tommy shook his head no. Okay, it didn’t look dirty, but it sure wasn’t sterile, and for some reason, you wanted him to be okay. 

“It could get infected.” 

His eyes shifted around in thought, then he looked back to you for the answer. 

“Do you have any matches? Fire?”

He placed his thick, wide hands on your thighs as he stood up. He squeezed them lightly and checked your face for whether you might run. Then he went over to a workbench that was against the wall. 

As he rummaged around, your eyes wandered. The space was cluttered and stuck in another era. There were doll parts strewn around. A softball-sized, hollow head with no hair and  a painted-on face chipping off.  There were tools. So many tools. Cleavers and saws hanging from the ceiling by chains. Too high for anyone but Tommy to reach them. 

He returned with a rusted zippo lighter and flicked it open as he sat down. You held the needle to the flame and he held the lighter steady for you, with the casual intimacy of a stranger lighting your cigarette. In the glow of the flame, he watched your face. 

When the needle was ready, you looked at the thread. You unwound the spool long enough to reach some unexposed thread.

Tommy watched patiently, never making you feel rushed or scrutinized. 

With the needle threaded, you announced, “okay. It’ll hurt, but not too bad.” 

He gave a short nod with a squint that bore the hint of a smile. 

-

"Little closer," you whispered, never speaking at full volume with him. 

He spread your knees, making your heart skip a beat. He settled in between them, leaned forward, and his elbows bracketed your thighs.

His face was close. His eyes were blue with lines of gray darting out from the pupils. His eyelashes were dark and thick.  Your heart skipped a beat as his face moved closer, thinking for a split second that he might kiss you, but he dipped his head to offer you his injury. 

"Good," you encouraged him.   

His sweat wafted into your nostrils, and just as you felt heat rising to your face, his hands curved around your bottom. Arousal buzzed in your gut, so loud you had to pause and compose yourself. “Ready?”

He nodded his head forward. 

You needed to adjust the angle of his head so you could comfortably work on it, and when your fingers grazed the side of his muzzle he flinched. 

Your hand pulled back, but then he held it. As he placed your hand back on his cheek, the sight of his giant paw holding yours made a butterfly float through your chest. 

You wet your lips, then bit your lip and saw him glance toward your mouth.  

Bracing one palm to the side of the wound, you held the skin shut. You rested the needle point against his skin, then pushed and dragged the thread through it. He didn’t react. He watched your face in silence as you patched him up, thread by thread. Not a single puncture made him move his head.

You could feel his appreciation in the way his hands gently cradled you. He looked at you with a soft fascination.

Was this the first time someone helped him like this? It was easy to imagine why, but somewhere in this monster, there was a little boy. Did anyone ever take care of that boy? Tuck him in? Walk him to the bus stop for school? No, surely not. He hadn’t ever said a word to you, but he told you so much. His eyes told you. The way he moved. The way he never spoke, and hung his head as the others barked orders at him.

—

When you were about halfway done stitching him up, he began to sniff the air, and it made you realize how turned on you were. With your legs spread and no panties under the shirt-dress, you had to be leaking onto the desk. 

Tommy sniffed and growled, and maybe his primal sounds shouldn't have hit the way they always did, but your core tingled. You felt exposed with your legs spread around him. He sniffed again, and your face was hot with why. 

–

You tied off the threas and whispered, “Good, Tommy." You blotted the area with the wet rag.

Tommy reached for his face to touch the stitches, and your hand stopped his: “no."

Your hand lingered, with your fingers wrapped around the heel of his palm. You wanted to hug him, have your body against his again, which made your mind jump back to the way he carried you there. In that moment, something clicked, and your throat tightened. No one but him had ever handled you in that particular way—big arms wrapped around you like you were too precious to lose. He did his best to make you comfortable. So what if you were his possession? It felt like you were his world. Maybe no one ever cared as much as Tommy Hewitt cared about keeping you. 

Your vision got cloudy, and Tommy’s eyes narrowed. Once you blinked, a fat tear pushed through your lashes. Before it could run down your cheek, his thumb was there to collect it. Then he put your tear just below his eye. It slid down to his muzzle in a tiny trickle that left a clean path through the grime. 

You smiled and whispered, “It’s okay.” 

His gaze fell down your body, and his eyes darkened. The corners of his mouth glistened in the shadow of his muzzle. He took your chin in his hand and took a deep breath. 

-

Tommy reached behind you and urgently cleared the whole desk. Then he put his hand on your chest and pushed you down flat on your back.  Your feet dangled off the edge, but not for long. He bent forward, lifted your knees, and soon had your legs over his shoulders with your ass in the air, held up by his massive hands. With your sex exposed so close to his face, Tommy growled. Your upper back remained flat on the surface. 

With his elbows braced on the desk, he held you with your cunt at his mouth. His breath was warm. With his mouth ever closer, he began to drool. His breath was heavy and full of desire.  

You let out a little moan, and with that, he attacked you like his first meal in ages. Holding you like a juicy burger, he fed himself your cunt. There was no ceremony in the first touch, he simply dug in, licking right up the center, then sucking at the apex. He ate you with a hunger that was felt in every push of his lips and heard in every breath through his nose. He used his face to spread your lower lips apart, wedging his mouth into your heat like it belonged there. 

He ate with abandon, licking and planting his lips and sucking. Collecting every drop he could from each secret little ruffle of your body, scavenging each surface for more to consume. The firmness of his lips, the rhythmic suction, and the strong lap of his tongue had pleasure building in your gut.  His hands continued to hold up your hips, thumbs digging into your asscheeks. His grip kept you firmly at his mouth with your thighs hugging his cheeks. With his mouth latched fully onto you, it was a vision you could never forget. God, it felt good. 

He couldn’t have known it, but he’d found the perfect angle, bridging your hips for you, with his elbows planted on the desk. He feasted selfishly, and his ravenous work had your body churning out more and more arousal for him to slurp up. 

He refused to come up for air, his nose instead taking ragged breaths. He paused only to adjust the muzzle, nudging it against you thigh. Then, the smooth leather nudged your slick clit as his tongue plunged into you. His eyes closed as he licked upward, massaging your front wall with his hunger. Your eyes fluttered closed. His tongue was so strong and thick, he really fucked you with it, filled your wet little hole with it.

Each slide of his tongue against your spongy spot made you lose a little more control. Soon, it felt like you were going to pee. 

“Tommy,” you warned him. 

He only fucked you harder with his tongue. 

“Tommy,” you whined, “I’m gonna—please—I—Ohhh” 

Tommy’s response was to growl and pull you closer, harder against his mouth.

At least there were no bedsheets, no decorum, and no expectations from him. He nudged that spot again, you let go. Your release began, pulsing through you, and he moaned as it filled his mouth. His mouth was so large, and he was so thirsty, there was barely any overflow. You rode that high and he drank every drop. You sighed when you were finished. His pace slowed, and his eyelids drooped. 

-

Satisfied with his meal, he let your ass back down on the table and ducked out from under your legs. He turned his head to fix his muzzle in case his feeding frenzy had exposed the center of his face. When he turned toward you again, you sat up on your elbows. 

Tommy's eyes panned over you as he palmed himself under the desk. His muzzle was shiny with you, and so were his lips. His pupils were dilated. He caught you watching the motion of his arm, and his face blotched pinker.

"It's normal," you reassured him. "It's normal to get hard from doing that." 

What were you saying?

What were you asking for?

A swell of shame washed through your chest, but it didn’t change what you wanted. 

Tommy looked at you, unsure. 

You nodded. “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed.”

–

He grabbed you by your (his) shirt and pulled you upright. Then he ripped the shirt open, sending two buttons flying. 

When you looked down, your chest expanded with desire at the sight of the massive log straining his pants. He squeezed the outline and you nodded reassuringly. A wet spot was growing.

Your mouth hung slightly open as you looked at the gift in his pants. Your thighs were still spread wide. Tommy looked between your legs, then down at himself. Then in a flurry he unbuttoned and shoved his pants down, reaching into his underwear at the same time to help free his massive cock. Your knees twitched with the urge to sit on it. 

And sure enough, he grabbed your ass, pulling you off the edge of the desk and into his lap in one swift motion, which made his stiff cock slap heavily against your pussy. He quickly jostled it into place at your entrance and moaned when your wet heat covered the tip of his cock. Between his precum, your slick, and his slobber all over your cunt, the stiff log prodding at your hole was well-lubed. 

Tommy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down, making his girth divide your soft, warm walls. His cock claimed every inch of your cunt and then more, as your body relaxed and opened with arousal. He was impossibly stiff. It must have been painfully hard in his pants. Slowed by his girth and stopped by his length, you came to a rest as far down his shaft as you could, far enough to meet the cushion of his bush.  His swollen shaft throbbed, and he let out a contented sigh.

He held your waist, and you were prepared to be used as a fucksleeve, but he hesitated. Instead of jerking himself off with you, his hands loosened and slid under your open dress shirt. His two palms rested warmly on your back, together covering a significant portion of your skin. You closed your eyes and bent forward, curving your torso snugly against the swell of his midsection. As you laid your head on his chest, your hips shifted and his throat rumbled with a twitch of his dick.  His heart thumped against your cheek. 

You moved your hips again, and his chest expanded with a deep breath. Another twitch of his cock made your walls spasm, and you let out a little moan. He pulled you closer and inhaled the scent of your hair, then lifted you ever so slightly against him before  sinking fully into your tight, wet cunt again. 

He shifted you in small motions, letting out lazy grunts and shuddering when you squeezed him in just the right way. This was perfect for how tired he was. 

You rolled your hips cautiously, curious how long he could wait before ravishing you.  He seemed to enjoy this new way of experiencing you. And God did you love it, too — stuffed full of his cock, with your tits and tummy pressed against him. 

“This is nice,” you whispered.

His lap lifted, and you sighed, “God, Tommy.” 

His breathing stuttered. His fingers twitched, pressing against your back. His dick throbbed and seemed to occupy even more of you.

His breathing sped up. You just barely rocked yourself, and observed his quiet loss of control until he groaned and throbbed so powerfully it made your whole body tighten. He held his breath as his balls spasmed, then he sighed with his hot load throbbing into you. With his seed pumping into you, he used a hand on your ass to pull you even tighter against him.

The pressure of his heft against your front sent you to the stars. You turned your head with your mouth against his chest and whined into his shirt as you came on his cock, making him shudder. While you came, he held your head to his chest. His stomach heaved under you, as you both finished your release.  

–-

You stayed impaled on him, and after a minute, you felt him tense. You lifted your head to look at him, and could see he was self-conscious. 

With his hands on your waist, he lifted you off his dick. Your pussy tried to hang on, but the last of his dick slid out, leaving you empty as he put you down on the desk, leaking his cum onto the wood. 

He stood up and turned away for a moment to put his dick back in his pants. 

He looked you over, and held both sides of your unbuttoned shirt-dress. He ran a thumb over the threads where he had ripped the buttons, and he grumbled quietly in dissatisfaction. He retrieved the sewing tin, scooting it closer again, then he pushed the shirt off your shoulders. He wrapped you in the blanket, then sat back down. 

He pulled you into his lap, having you sit on his thigh to make space on the desk. You sat in his lap while he went to work. He got out a needle and thread, and began to select a button, then paused. He looked at you, then back at the buttons, and slid the tin toward you with a nod. You picked out two different shades of blue. 

He reached his arms around you to work on the shirt, and you watched his hands as he sewed them on. It was amazing to see how nimble his fat fingers could be. How studious he was with his work, and how well he sewed them on. 

When he was finished, he scooted the chair back and you stood up off his lap. He gently took the blanket off you and dressed you in the shirt again. He admired the way you looked in his shirt, then picked you up to carry you back to the shed. Before he covered you with the blanket, you looked at his wound. 

“You have to keep that clean, okay?” 

He nodded once. 

“Do you have a shower? Bath?” you asked.

He grunted with a nod. You thought you’d smelled soap on him before and wondered what he'd look like fresh and clean.

-

Back in the shed, he tucked you in and sat next to you as you grew sleepier. It was easier to fall asleep with him by your side. 

-

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