#shoegaze x slasher was not something i would have considered before but
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IN YOUR ROOM ⋮ THOMAS HEWITT | LEATHERFACE ☓ READER
and it's so cold it seems my hands
are colder than yours, warm me up inside
your face turns red and so does mine
and we climb all around
It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex.
As you stare at the bruise on your hips - in the perfect shape of his massive hand and long, thick fingers that smears across your hip bones and stretches all the way to your spine, the dip of your belly button - you can't stop that dark, gnarled thrill that coils, molten, in the pit of your abdomen at the sight of it.
Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.
But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.
⤷tw: smut, light body worship, the slow and steady corruption of Thomas Hewitt (consensual), marking kink (explicit, giving and receiving), unfettered filth, size kink (explicit), more religious imagery in connection to sex (why is that a thing with me - it's anybody's guess), mentions of gore, death, and trauma (brief, mostly just in connection to the burgeoning relationship between MC and Thomas), just fluffy smut for the big boy whomst i adore (despite the fact that my writing sometimes makes him sound like bigfoot : just really big n’ hairy)
⤷notes: this was supposed to just be smut but it ended up kinda turning into more ╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭ so oops. 14k of smut and stuff - certainly not plot but… stuff. this is somewhat of a continuation of my other TH x Reader fic, but it's very easily standalone. also, my thirst for Big, Hairy Belly Thomas is even more debauched than before.
i also tried something different with my writing style. not entirely sure how it turned out but - here it is
Your hands run down your sides until you meet the first blackish smear staining your skin. The edges are a little jaundiced, casting a facsimile of a halo along the clean indigo lines that darken into a deep black at the jut of your hip bones, where his palms fit over the curve of your waist. Two lines jut out from the Rorschach smear, twisting up diagonal to your navel.
Your eyes are drawn to them, pulled in like magnets. You can't stop staring at the marks on your body in the shape of his hands.
You turn your torso, gazing at your back where a perfect impression of his four fingers sits on your iliac crest. The blood pools under your skin, turning the contusion a deep plum.
You turn back, fingers sliding over the darkest part of the bruise, nestled on the crux of your bone. It stings a little when you press your fingers into the skin, irritating the burst capillaries with your insistent prodding.
You should leave it alone, let it heal.
But you can't.
You fit your hands over the flare of your hips, lining your palms up over the bruise. Your fingers curl over the jut of your pelvis, thumbs sliding back. You twist in the mirror once more, staring at the comparison.
The angle is off, but that doesn't matter: the bruise easily spills over your palms, even when you spread your fingers open.
It doesn't fit.
It doesn't even come close.
(Thomas is massive. His palms swallow you whole.)
There are only a few inches between the dark juts his thumbs left behind. If he stretched out his fingers, you wonder if his hands would mould around your waist; thumbs touching below your naval, fingers meeting at your spine.
The thought scorches through you with such a visceral sense of want, intrigue, that you're dizzy with the thrum of it buzzing in your veins. Your hand reaches out, palm resting flat on the mirror as you steady yourself.
He'd have to squeeze you tight, wouldn't he? He could do it, you think, running your tongue across your dry lips. He's so strong. So massive.
He would never do it, though, would he?
This, the blood pooling under your delicate, thin flesh, was a mistake.
It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex.
You slipped - a little too eager in your movements, a little too desperate - and Thomas was there, as always, to help you. His hands wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady, holding you as you bucked above him.
He gripped you a little too tight, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to hurt when you begged him to go faster, his hips stuttering into yours with an almost fervid desperation that you matched with a delirious fever burning through your veins until a veil of white static blotted out your vision and you whispered psalms in his name.
(The thought of what caused these dark marks on your skin makes you smell the faint tinge of oil and gunpowder: acrid and metallic - the heady scent of iodine fills your nose when he leans in close, the sweat glistening on his dark, sunkissed skin-)
Your knees still feel wobbly, but you lift your arms over your head, stretching them languidly in the air, and watch - rapt, hungry - as the bruises dance in the mirror with your movements. They're mesmerising.
As you stare at the bruise on your hips - in the perfect shape of his massive hand and long, thick fingers that smears across your hip bones and stretches all the way to your spine, the dip of your belly button - you can't stop that dark, gnarled thrill that coils, molten, in the pit of your abdomen at the sight of it.
Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.
But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.
………
Thomas is a wreck when he sees the contusions smeared on your skin. He whimpers, hands reaching out as if to touch you, but then they stop - like he's not allowed, not permitted. It's with a mournful whinge that he clenches his fists in the air before dropping his hands to his side in punishment.
In his mind, he did the most unforgivable thing in the world. He hurt you.
(And hurting you is something that should be punished.)
It, unfortunately, means that his version of self-flagellation extends to yourself as well because until the abrasions are entirely erased from your flesh, he won't touch you. Won't make any attempt to do so. He'll clench his fists by his side, mewl out sorrowful little whimpers, and twist away from you in his hasty escape to avoid hurting you again.
You don't know how to tell him that without his hands on you, you might go mad. That your skin itches for the firm way he holds you close, safe and secure in his arms; that your body yearns for the rough scratch of his scarred palms and calloused fingers dragging over your flesh until you see Orion behind your eyelids.
(And the press of them, then, burrowing into your flesh makes you see god.)
Thomas is contrite - practically vibrating with the tremors of his despair - and forlornly turns away from you each time you reach for him, trying to get him to see that you like his mark on your skin. Like the thrill of it all. The implication.
It's stark against your body. The perfect impression of his hand branding your flesh.
A symbolic rendering of everything that transpired between you, much like the blooms of red you nip across his broad chest and expansive back, up and down the column of his neck, his plush collarbones; little kiss marks you imbed into his pulpy flesh that are meant for your eyes alone.
It's that greedy thing inside of you rearing up yet again.
That gnashing, awful part of you - twisted and dark - that aches to have. To possess. You see the brands you decorate his skin with and know that they're yours and yours alone. No one else can see them. No one else can put them there.
And no one else can take them away.
(Not Hoyt. Not Monty.)
They're yours.
And these -
These are his.
His hands, his brand, his mark on your skin that stings when you twist your hips. A throbbing reminder of his presence etched into your flesh, deep enough to bruise your bone. You see them and feel fulfilled, nourished. You can't explain it - can't even begin to try - but it's there and it's his, and that alone makes your knee quiver and threaten to buckle under you.
You can't stop touching them, and in doing so, it keeps bringing them to Thomas' attention.
Sorrow twists, gnarls across his brow.
The tremble in his shoulders, the aching, choked wail caught in his throat when they turn the prettiest shade of amber and lilac you've ever seen, makes you wish you felt something other than absolute satisfaction at the sight of them.
(And then rather doleful when they start to heal.)
The contusion fades. Skin healing into a flaxen hue as the damaged capillaries knit themselves back together.
He doesn't understand. He hurt you - unforgivable - and now he must repent for his sins, his transgressions.
You let him sulk, let him take the time he needs until the bruises are gone and he doesn't feel the need to pull away from you in penitence. Give him space. Hide the marks from his guilt-filled gaze.
And you plot. You plan.
Because you will - you will - get his mark on your body once again, and for as much as he bows his head in contrition, you can see that gnarled thing lurking in his eyes, the same shade of possession as the one reflected in yours.
(A matching pair.)
You just need to warm him up to the idea until he appreciates them just as much as you do.
………
It takes him three weeks before the heavy weight of compunction dissipates from his shoulders, and the glaze of remorse and self-condemnation fades from his eyes when he gazes at you.
It takes another week before he touches you.
You're starved. Famished.
There is an unsatiated desire deep in your marrow that begs for his touch, that yearns for the feeling of his skin on yours. The want batters against your ribcage - an anvil clattering into your bones without respite, reverberating through your body until you're quaking with the aftershocks of a need so unrelentingly deep and consuming, that you sway on your feet from the intensity of it all.
When the first touch comes, it almost blisters your skin, razing across your body until you tremble.
The first brush is accidental.
He comes to bed, shoulders slumped and bone weary from unfettered exhaustion that bleeds into his marrow. Today was hot, busy, and you can see the aftermath of his hard work draped over his sagging shoulders.
He looks like he might fall asleep on his feet where he stands, and you can see just how lost, how tired, and how out of it he is when he doesn't even hesitate before he drops on the mattress, his back to you.
You roll a little toward him when he drops, the bed dipping under his bulk, sliding you forward. You don't touch him (not yet); you just wait. And watch.
Thomas folds his hands between his massive thighs. His head drops, bowing down, and he rests for a moment, catching his breath.
He bends down when he starts to list, jerking awake before he tumbles off the mattress, and reaches for his shoes, his shaggy brown curls bouncing in a way that makes your fingers itch - and starts unlacing his boots. The mechanical way he moves, the ragged, even breaths he takes, all give you an idea of how truly fatigued Thomas is.
His hair is a little greasy around the roots. His once white shirt is stained yellow and dirty from grime and sweat. He's so exhausted, he stumbled up to bed without even showering. You can smell the thick humus scent on his skin; the salt, sweat, and the pungent tang of copper when he moves. It's a heady cocktail that has you licking your lips, salivating for a taste.
But -
Not yet.
The boots are shoved to the side. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands slung loosely between his legs. The deep, rough way he heaves makes your heart twinge.
Poor baby, you think, pouting at his back. So tired. So sleepy.
You sit up, and the gentle jostle of the bed makes him turn his head glancing over his shoulder at you in question.
You won't touch him even though your palm aches.
Instead, you make a soft noise in the back of your throat. It's full of palpable pity. The taste of it saturates your words when you say, "come lay down, baby."
His head lifts at the pet name; shoulders trembling from the way your saccharine voice curls over the word. His next breath shutters out of him, shoulders falling in a huff.
He relaxes when you speak. You can see it by the way his spine liquefies; the tension easing from his body on his next exhale.
Thomas shifts on the bed. It dips down as he pulls himself up, and lays back on the pillow, sighing deep. His frame melts with his next breath; legs spread akimbo.
He's too exhausted to shuffle to the very edge like he'd done the past several weeks, too afraid to touch you, to hurt you again.
You lean up, elbow resting on the pillow with your chin tucked against your knuckles, and you watch him. Watch as his eyes flutter, and his chest heaves. He'll be out in a few minutes. You can see him struggling against the fatigue that drenches itself across his brow.
You settle in as close as you can. The small movements you make cause him to jerk, to snort awake. He glances at you, making a soft groaning sound under his breath.
"It's okay," you murmur, soft and soothing.
His head lulls when you speak, facing you. He tries to keep his eyes open, blinking slowly, languidly. His breath is even, deep.
It's then, in his exhaustion, that he forgets his silent pact to himself. His arms splay out, brushing over yours.
The first touch in nearly a month. It almost makes you whimper.
Goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your body is candescent when his arm grazes your flesh. The hair dusting his arm is matted with dirt and dried sweat, but the feeling of his tacky skin makes your stomach flutter.
It's an accident, of course. His self-condemnation isn't over. But it's a start.
You take the opportunity to slowly inch closer to him. His fatigued state allows it with nothing more than a slight tremor of his eyelids when you move. Your hand slides over his forearm, the barest ghost of a touch skirting over the tangled, coarse hair. His skin is so warm. He burns hot, flesh nearly rutilant with the constant heat rushing through his veins.
Your eternal furnace. Burning lucent and fervid just for you.
A soft snort is the only sound he makes when you brush over his chest. He shudders when your fingers splay wide over his pectoral; the centre of your palm perfectly matched with the steady, low thrum of his heart.
You wriggle closer until your chest brushes his arm, and then relax, melting into his side. Your nose nuzzles across the thick bulk of his shoulder, breathing in the astringent tang of dried sweat. The scent is as comforting as it is intoxicating. You sigh, spreading your arm further across his broad chest until you can't anymore, knuckles grazing his ribs.
His arm twitches, and he slowly, carefully, slides it under your body, wrapping it around your back. He tucks you close to his side, where you belong and breathes into your crown.
He must be starved for it, too, you think, when his fingers dance across your spine, brushing over each knob of your vertebrae; carefully stroking up and down as if he can't get enough of your flesh on the pads of his fingers.
"I missed this," you murmur, watching the chest hair that peeks out through his loosely buttoned shirt flutter in the breeze your breath creates.
It's enough for now.
Thomas eases into you slowly, slowly, and then all at once.
His massive body twists, and then you're under him. Bracketed by the shadow his bulk casts over you. Your Cimmerian god: looming over you in all his sleepy, dazed slumber.
Thomas pulls his arm out from under your shoulder, resting on the pillow above your head. The dip it makes angles your chin up, and he shivers when your tongue snakes out, running over your bottom lip.
There is only a brief hesitation from him, and then your cheek and chin are being cupped in his scorching palm. His legs tangle with yours before he rises, lifting himself further up.
It's incredible how deft he is, how spatially aware of his body he always is, considering just how vast it truly is. Thomas is incredibly dexterous. He moves fluidly; liquid. A nimble wave arching over you, brushing over you like you're something fragile, worth protecting.
His belly rests over yours, swallowing your torso whole. You shiver at the doughy soft feeling of it falling on you, weighing you down.
He doesn't do anything else. He just stares at you. His thumb brushes your eyelids, underneath your eye, your cheekbones, your cheek, your chin, your jaw, and back up again. Roving across your skin like he can't quite get enough of it. Eager. Hungry.
Your breath stutters. Eyes fluttering when his nail skims the underside of your lashes. They stay lidded, heavy with want, when he pulls away, and you gaze up at him with nothing short of pure longing.
He's starved you for so long.
Your legs spread, hands reaching up to tug at the strings on his mask, wanting - needing - his mouth on yours. You hear the click in his throat when he swallows. His shoulders rise, hunching up to his chin, but he doesn't stop you. He lets you pull on the strings, trembling when your legs wrap around his, your ankles crossing over the backs of his thighs.
Your hands are greedy when you tug him closer, slipping the leather off his face, and tossing it somewhere beside you.
Bared to you, he tenses. His shoulders coil.
You hear another thick swallow when your hands slide up his massive, bulging arms, fingers squeezing the plush flesh around his shoulders, and then slowly sink your hands into his hair.
He doesn't let you move your head off the pillow when your urgent hands begin tugging him closer. He leans down, more of his weight falling over your body in a way that makes you gasp and your toes curl in delight when his soft belly falls against you.
The first kiss is tentative. Almost shy. He brushes his lips over yours - not really kissing, just a soft graze - and his mouth quivers, trembling over yours. It's not enough -
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you pull him down, moulding your lips to his with an almost delirious need to taste him. Your legs lock around him, rocking his body into yours as you pull him closer.
There is too much distance between your bodies, it feels like a cold, vapid chasm, and you want to fuse your atoms together until the idea of space and separation ceases to exist in the tangle of your limbs. Two symbiotic entities moulded into one.
Thomas grunts, the sound vibrating over your mouth, and he hastily adjusts himself, trying not to crush you under his weight. It makes you pout into the kiss, vocalising your displeasure with a soft mewl of frustration.
You want to be crushed under his bulk. You want to feel the full press of his belly on yours, his chest, his mouth -
You want it all.
Thomas is unmovable. A mountain. He doesn't yield under your desperate pulls, but he knows - he knows - he can't deny you forever. Something, eventually, will have to give.
(And that something is often him.)
Thomas, always so giving, acquiesces to your squirming demands.
He lowers himself, letting his chest rest on yours, and you nearly choke on the gasp that leaves you, breathless and wanting, when the full bulk of his body lays over you. His belly spills across your torso, his chest is so big, that it feels as if two of you could fit inside his ribs.
(You think you'd give anything to chisel a spot inside of his chest cavity where you can hide inside of him forever.)
Your legs barely make it around his waist, stretched so wide that the inner crease of your hips where your pelvis meets begins to ache from the strain of trying to keep your ankles together to nudge him closer.
The feeling of being trapped under his bulk is the closest you'll ever come to heaven.
But -
"Wait…" you murmur into his chin, pressing a kiss to his thundering pulse. "I wanna make you feel good Thomas."
He groans low in his throat, the noise vibrating over your lips.
"Yeah…" you whisper, a touch breathless when he raises himself up, still towering over you. Your hands cup his jaw. "You're so tired, baby… I'll make you feel so good."
You can see the lilt of excitement brimming in his smouldering gaze when he finally meets your eyes. Slowly, he nods, another grumble erupting from the depths of his chest, and sits up on his haunches, watching with lidded eyes as you shuffle out of the way to give him more room to lay down. He's tired, a touch clumsy, but he settles, supine, on the mattress.
The way his body stretches out before you feels a little bit like a feast.
Your teeth ache with the urge to sink them into his flesh when he prostrates himself like this. It's all for you. All yours.
Your hands drop to his chest, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt (suspenders dropped, already, by the door of the bedroom, forgotten in his haste to sleep), and you lean up, straddling his massive thigh as you take the chance to tower over him.
It's hard not to feel a little drunk off of the visceral feeling of accomplishment, of conquest, this position affords you. Almost dizzy with the sense of victory you feel when you perch yourself above him like this, because Thomas is strength personified. Raw power draped in flesh and bone. Your own Hercules.
And being so tall above him like this, with his thigh so wide, so hard and unyielding, between your legs, feels a little bit like you're sitting on a throne.
His shoulders lift when your hands tug on the fabric keeping his expansive chest and soft belly from your eager gaze, and you hastily pull the shirt off of him, sighing in nothing short of satisfaction when you run your hands from his broad shoulders, down his pectorals, over his budding nipples, and letting them rest on the tumid swell where his belly curves up. Running your fingers through the coarse, black hair on his chest, you lean back, and just -
Devour.
You eat him alive.
The fire in your eyes makes him sweat. He whimpers under you, chest heaving as your gaze flickers down his body, eagerly taking in the delicious spread of roseate that flushes down his cheeks, his neck, his chest. It makes you pant. Makes you mewl. Your nails dig into the soft, plush flesh where his waist meets the swell of his belly.
"God, baby-," you breathe, voice drenched in thick, palpable want as your eyes raze across his exposed flesh. "You're amazing. You look so good-"
His cock twitches against the side of your thigh at the ache in your voice; the praise that drips, dulcet and seeped in reverence, from your lips. Thomas shivers, letting out another whimper when you shift, rocking over him.
Seeing him like this, hands trembling, stuttering, like he wants to touch you, but isn't sure how, if he's allowed. It's that juxtaposition between his indomitable, formidable size, and this -
Soft. Gentle.
It's almost funny, you think, how everyone went out of their way to warn you that Thomas wouldn't hurt you.
("He's a gentle giant," Luda Mae says at dinner. She slowly, slowly, warmed to the idea of permanence between you and Thomas. "He won't hurt'cha. And he'll hurt anyone who does."
Her eyes stray from yours, that soft, motherly sheen fading from her gaze as she glances at Monty - "what?" he snaps, shaking his head: "I want no part of this," - and then pointedly at Hoyt where her poignant glare sharpens.
Hoyt sucks on his tobacco, smacking his lips. "I ain't meddlin' in this," he spits his dip into the cup beside his elbow. "'Sides, I'm proud of my nephew here for snaggin' a good one."
He claps Thomas on the shoulder, and you quickly shove the piece of cornbread into your mouth to stop the blossoming grin from spreading across your face when he flinches. The spot Hoyt slaps is the same place you sunk your teeth into last night.
Thomas frets when you glance at him, the sultry triumph in your gaze hidden by the bread in your hand.
You thought, then, that perhaps they should be warning Thomas about you.)
It's strange.
You grab his wrists, stalling the unsure fretting motion, and pull them to the hem of your shirt, slipping them under the fabric. He shudders when his hands brush over your blazing skin, and you wonder if anyone warned him about girls like you, ones with insatiable appetites and a burning desire to consume every inch of him.
(Luda Mae probably did. Hoyt, too.
But he'll never tell them - not when bad little harlots like you have nirvana nestled in the junction of your thighs - and stroke his skin with absolute reverence.
Your little secret, then.)
The shirt is stripped off your body, leaving nothing covering you (another little surprise for him).
Thomas' mouth parts at the sight of your nude form resting above him, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lower lip as he gazes at you - at the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist - and rests on the apex of your thighs, spread to accommodate his thick knee between them. His chest heaves at the sight; cheeks burning a bright vermillion at the way you grind your unclothed sex on his thigh.
Thomas has a way of making you see the cosmos behind your eyelids when he stares at you like this - like you're a god meant be worshipped with the universe buzzing through your veins and the taste of nebula on your tongue, and he's a lowly mortal man who isn't allowed to look, let alone touch. You feel the well of that blistering want, that aching need, settle low in the pit of your stomach, where his eyes keep darting to, hungrily devouring the way you perch yourself on his knee, then hurriedly looking away like the sight alone is blasphemous and he's about to smited just for sneaking a peek.
A man this indomitable, this imposing, has no right being this cute.
Affection cudgels into your chest at the nervous, rapturous, way he looks at you still, despite the vast amount of sermons you whispered into his flesh. He looks at you like you're too good for him, too good to be true. His hands quiver as if he's waiting for permission to touch you - as if you'd ever deny him the pleasure of your flesh, or the nirvana of his skin grazing your body.
Sometimes, though, he looks at you with scepticism drenching his brow, wariness pulling his jaw taut, as if he doesn't quite believe you're real. That your want, your ardour, is genuine. It breaks you each time you see it.
How he could ever think that the maelstrom brewing inside of you, festering like a sickness, an addiction, for his flesh, his body, his love, him, isn't real, isn't true, the most absurd enigma to you.
Nothing, not even the threat of death hanging over you like a noose, could have kept this man from your greedy hands.
Hoyt likes to throw around ugly words, hissing into Thomas' ear when he thinks you aren't around to hear them. Things like usin' him to survive, or comin' between the family, or girls like that don't love boys like you. It sets your teeth on edge.
(The first time you heard it, you threw a punch that knocked out the false teeth in his mouth and spat, what? Mad I didn't pick you, you ugly prick?
You then sobbed into Thomas' chest as he crooned softly in your ear. Don't believe him, you pleaded. I'm not going anywhere that isn't with you.)
Thomas never assented to your words. He hummed and pat your crown as you blubbered out your love for him by soaking his apron, but even now, even today, he still hasn't shown the slightest acquiesce that he believes the tender words you utter.
It's not that he doesn't love you - he does, wholly: you know this because of the reverence in his touch, the rapture in his gaze - but he takes Hoyt's word as gospel, so when he says, you'll see, boy, one day she'll try an' escape from ya', 'cause the only thing keepin' 'er here is self-preservation, so you might as well get yer fill of the bitch, Thomas waits with bated breath for that day to come.
It's aggravating.
It prickles under your skin when you murmur your love for him into his flesh and you see the flicker of incredulity, disbelief, that swarms the thin tendril of happiness at your asseveration, snuffing that little ember out before it can flare to life.
Maybe that's why you're so insistent on branding yourself with his mark.
But no -
The thrill you get at the sight of them on your skin isn't borne from desperation, but triumph. That carnal gnashing inside of you preens at the way they decorate your body. They're mesmerising. You can't get enough.
And you want him to want them, too. You want him to be comfortable enough to press his fingers into the knob of your bones, to break the vessels apart and mark you for the world to see.
(If he didn't want it - if there wasn't that flash of pleasure in his eyes before compunction swallowed it whole - then you wouldn't push. That haunting, burning look, however, says he does, and you're more than willing to give in to the debauchery swelling inside your chest.
For not you, then for him as well.)
"Love you," you whisper, hands roaming across his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath your palms. The heat of him bleeds into your skin. "More than anything,-" there is that unfettered adoration, the loose curl of bliss, and then it's swallowed by disbelief.
You breathe out through your nose, your hands curling around his arms, and you tug his hands back on your body. You settle one on your waist, right in the spot he marked before, and pull the other to that aching spot between your thighs, shivering at the rough, warm way his fingers glide over your dewy flesh.
You toss your head back, lifting your hips to let his fingers slip across your wet, aching skin.
And really -
You're ready.
While Thomas worked hard all day, you rolled around the sheets with your hands between your thighs, Thomas' name on your lips, and Antares behind your eyes - all in preparation for tonight.
("Lazy bum," Luda Mae called out when you failed to show up for breakfast and lunch, her insistent knocks on the thick wood going ignored.
You huffed, then, rolling onto your belly with your head nestled in the crook of your arm, and you glanced at the glossy sheen of your efforts smeared across your fingers. Kicking your feet in the air behind you, you counted down the hours until Thomas would finally join you in the tousled sheets that smelled of your skin and sex.
Hardly, you thought when she huffed. I'm working overtime.)
He'd starved you with his contrition. His remorse deprived you of the solid feel of his body on yours, the taste of his flesh on your tongue -
And you want it. Need it.
He's a banquet spread out beneath you, and you're starved. Ravenous.
Thomas rumbles when you roll your hips against his palm - the width the size of a bough, and the thought alone is enough to douse your nerve endings in battery acid - and the sound punctures your chest, sending liquid want to the junction of your thighs.
"Want you so bad," you keen, the litany rolling off of your tongue as his fingers brush across the wet mess there just for him. "Need you, Thomas-"
He grunts, hips canting into the soft give of your thigh, and you glance down, licking your lips at the wet spot gathering at the turgid bulge in his trousers. Your belly flames with liquid heat. Desperate, you reach down, tugging at his pants.
Thomas flushes bright when you pull his trousers down, his cock springing free.
He's already hard and leaking, prespend budding on the bulbous mushroomed head. It dribbles down his frenulum, the droplets leaking a viscid smear of milky white down his swollen flesh.
Seeing his cock always fills your belly with molten heat. It pools there, making you throb with an achy want, a desperate need to be filled. His cock is big - dauntingly so - and wide. His girth alone is the same width as your wrist. It's fat, thick.
Perfect.
You didn't know the meaning of size queen until your torturous little wiggles on his lap made his cock twitch, stirring in interest as you squirmed against him.
When you first saw it - when it became clear to you that he was absurdly proportional - it knocked the air from your lungs like a vacuum, leaking gasping for breath. Thick, was the first thought; the second, holy shit there is no way that's going to fit inside of me.
It did. It does. But after seeing his flushed cock so many times, it still brings about that same tendril of trepidation inside of you.
His length is partially concealed by the softness around his pelvis, pillowing the base of his cock in doughy flesh and a thick bed of black curls, and a part of you is a little thankful for it, really. His thickness alone is enough to test your mettle - anything more and you might just burst.
You reach down, fingers ghosting across the side of his cock. The soft brush makes his body twitch, and his cock jerk in your hold, spitting more pre-cum that drips down the length of him, pooling at the base. Thomas lets out a small moan, head tipping back as your thumb rubs his frenulum until his thighs are shaking.
Thomas is always so vocal in bed, so expressive. Sensitive. Your gaze alone has him panting; your touch has him groaning. It's barely more than a whisper, and yet - his breath shudders as if he's already on the brink of overstimulation.
Even now, after spending the better part of a year acquainting yourself with his body until you mapped every inch, every spot that made his head fall back, his breath stutter, and his big hands grip the sheets as he groaned and bucked into your touch, he still reacts like it's the first time, the first night, all over again.
His inexperience surprised you a little.
Thomas is astronomical in comparison to most grown men - both in height and bulk - and the sight of him, this mountain of a man, barrelling toward you with a chainsaw in his grip and the decaying skin of another man on his face, is enough to send even the most hardened, resolute fighter to their needs in abject terror.
Still: Thomas isn't unattractive.
Scary at first, especially when he's bounding toward you (defying established laws of physics all the while), but you've seen the photos Luda Mae dug out. He was handsome when he was younger. Is still handsome, even with the old leather mask covering his lower face.
It might be a small stain in the middle of nowhere Texas, but surely there were people willing to drag him behind a hay bale and kiss him senseless. Maybe not now, when the town has dried up into nothing but a gas station and a homicidal, cannibalistic Sheriff, but certainly before.
Though - snippets of conversations, words uttered in passing, all swim to the forefront of your mind. Luda Mae said he was teased - ridiculed for his skin diseased, his deformity. Mocked for his weight. The pictures you saw show a healthy, stocky boy with full lips and a scarred nose. Maybe he had a little bit extra around his stomach, a bit more fat under his chin, but nothing in those photos made you think hideous or ugly.
The teasing was relentless, they said. Hoyt said you were using him, implying that your love could never be genuine, and not only because of the circumstances pressing down on you, but because of his looks.
Thomas scared you once, and only once. Hiding under a rotted car while your friends bellowed in pain, his massive boot fell inches from your hiding spot. The impact of his footsteps shook the ground you cowered on, and you felt fear for the first time in your life when his hands fell to his side, one wrapped loosely around the handle of a bloodied, gore-covered chainsaw.
Terror, unlike anything you've ever felt, pooled in your bones until your teeth chattered from the absolute horror that burrowed inside of you.
And then, like the coruscating crest of the ocherous sun breaking through the tenebrous squall over the mountains, you glanced up at this indomitable being before you. The hazy glow of the sun cast a ring around his head, and the sheer bulk of him felt neverending.
Fear rushed out of you quite quickly after that.
In its place, sat a most inadvisable sense of intrigue. They really didn't make them like that back home.
You tried to humanise yourself to him - telling him about your life, your likes, dislikes - while he chased you around the field, wielding his chainsaw around like a shield to keep the words you uttered, voice shaking in fear, from getting to him. He was driven by a command. Moving on instinct and some proxy of cultivated aggression toward your kind: outsiders.
It was a long game of cat and mouse. Of hide and seek.
Looking back on it now, it felt a little bit like a lurid courting session with you as the purser. The chaser.
Each time he got close, you managed to skirt away, yelling out a question about him, his life. That - the interest in him - seemed to rattle him more than your pathetic pleads about your family, your friends.
You blew him a kiss on the rafters of the old, decrepit husbandry facility, and he stumbled.
The chase came to an end when he cornered you in the freezer. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, you knew it was over.
With the blade roaring at you, death bearing down upon you, you didn't beg for your life. For clemency.
Maybe it was adrenaline from the chase, from the prospect of an awful, gory demise, but instead, you asked him for one thing before he killed you:
A kiss.
He jerked back, eyes blinking through the droplets of sweat that ran down his brow in rivets, and at the unfathomable request.
It was a cacoethes, you're sure.
It jarred him. He stood there, expansive chest heaving from the chase, the swelter of the mid-August heat, and did nothing. The chainsaw rumbled in his hands, idling in front of him like a bulwark. His wide, wild, eyes never strayed from you, but you don't think he was even seeing you at that point - his mind muddled by the strange, unfathomable supplication you uttered, and the aberrant chase that ensued.
You didn't move - couldn't, really; not with the chainsaw so close to your jaw that you could feel the air pulsing across your skin from the centrifugal motion - and just watched him. Watched as his expression vacillated between several different emotions: disbelief, suspicion, anger before stuttering over two - curiosity. Embarrassment. It bled into wonderment.
Then anger again.
The chainsaw raised.
"Come on, big boy," you swallowed thickly, fear bludgeoning into your chest, but you didn't look down, didn't glance at the chainsaw. Your eyes are only for him. "You're not gonna at least fulfil my dying request?"
His arms tense. The chainsaw pitches forward.
"I really wish we met under different circumstances - maybe at a bar. I'd buy you a drink. Dance with you. I'd like to take you to dinner. A movie. Maybe go down to the drive-in and share a sundae." Your breath stutters out of your chest, but you push through it. "I think you're really handsome," - your words make him flinch, make his shoulders bunch up, muscles coiling in a way that has your mouth watering. "It's a shame it has to end like this. But won't you at least let me have a little kiss? You're gonna kill me, anyway, so why not let me pretend we're on the beach sharing a margarita before you do it?"
The chainsaw cuts off abruptly, and the silence that fills the room is oppressive and heavy. It almost feels more deafening than the roar of the saw.
He stands in front of you, heaving. Suspicion fills the divot between his brows, and he glares at you with bitter contempt bleeding into his narrowed eyes.
Your hands raise, placating. In surrender. His eyes dart to your empty hands, then back to you. He tugs on the cord of the saw in warning.
"I have no weapons," you breathe out, offering a smile that feels a little too dreamy, a little too serene for the horror that encapsulates you now. "I'm completely trapped. I can't fight you off - you're too-," you trail off, licking your lips as you take in the sight of him standing over you like a skyscraper; a mountain. The open, honest want in your gaze seems to bludgeon into him, and he takes a shuddering breath, eyes skirting to the end of the hallway. "Y-you're too big."
His gaze feels weighed, heavy, when it cuts back to you.
"I can't get away, and I'm not trying to."
It feels a little silly to admit to your own weakness in front of a predator, but - fuck. You really want a taste. Something inside of you must have broken when you watched this monster of a man carve open your friends, and then turn toward you with a deadly determination set on his brow.
"I just… I'm gonna die, anyway, so… I just want a kiss. I'll close my eyes, pretend we're somewhere nice, and then you-," death by chainsaw sounds absolutely excruciating, and panic wells inside your throat. You don't want to die. You don't want to, but - what other option is there? You choke on a sob, offering a watery smile at the man you're more than a little smitten with despite his wanting to murder you in a more gruesome way. "You can do whatever it is you're going to do… sound fair?"
His expansive chest rises and falls in quick succession. He lifts the chainsaw again, and you squeeze your eyes closed, unable to watch the blade tear into your flesh, trembling in front of him.
"If not you're not going to give me a kiss-," you choke again, tears leaking down your cheeks. "At least make it quick."
The awful revving never comes.
Death never happens.
The blade is tacky with blood and pulpy from the gnarled remains of your friends, but when it touches your cheek, it feels like a twisted parody of a caress. Viscera smears across your face when he draws the chainsaw back, and you crack open your bleary eyes to stare at him, blinking through the sheen of tears and sweat and grime (and now gore) that clings to you.
It's then that you see it. When he turns his head, ducking his chin to avoid your stare, you can't help but notice how red his ears are.
Sunburn. The heat. Blood. There are a number of reasons why the tips of his ears are stained that particular shade of roseate.
It's the coalescence, then, of his deep, gasping breath. The way his eyes seem to dance around the room, looking at everything but at you, and the way his hands tremble on the chainsaw.
He's almost timorous in the way he moves. Shy.
It makes your hunger grow. Cute, you think, swiping your tongue across the salt that gathered on your lips. He's cute.
The contrast makes you sway. How could a man so imposing, so inherently terrifying, be this adorable?
You ask him. The words are tremorous with the abrupt crash of adrenaline, the unignorable threat of death hanging over you, and the rapid thunder of your heart that reverberates through your body.
"How are you so-," his chin jerks toward you, and he flinches, tensing. Like he's waiting for scorn. Ridicule. Threats of death and curses hissed at him. "So cute?"
You think you broke him, then, with that simple word. It hardly was enough to sum up what you thought of him - endearing, adorable, massive, attractive, handsome, deadly, protector, predator - but it felt right when it slipped from your tacky lips, hanging in the stifling atmosphere between you.
Thomas -
Well. Shattered, you think, when you called him that. You tipped his world on its axis in the same way he threw you into this strange space of wanting, yearning, for a predator who tried to gut you with a chainsaw and rubbed your cheek in the gore left behind by the only people who mattered to you. Strange.
The world as you knew it was split apart at the seams in the midst of a growing paradox where you believed, quite suddenly, in the fantastical idea of soulmates and love at first sight.
Everything ceased to matter except the way your heart ached for something you couldn't understand.
You sometimes wonder if it was fate that brought you together. Or if it was the trauma that made you see this hulking beast of a man who partook in the unfathomable slaughter of other people and consumed their flesh, viewing everyone who wasn't family as cattle, as someone you wanted in a protective guise of survival and self-preservation.
There really isn't any explanation for this - you, Thomas, and all of the things that unfolded in the aftermath of a brutally humid day in a place where hell dug itself up from the depths and saturated the landscape with its macabre, horrific machinations - but:
You can't really be bothered to care.
You can understand why people might fear him, but then it dissolves into nothing, into this confounding thing, because how? How could they when he looks so sweet?
"You're perfect," you say, your hand sliding down his hot, throbbing flesh. "You're amazing. Wonderful-," he keens low in his throat at the duality of your words - the bare sincerity in the way the litany spills from your lips - and the careful way you touch him, bringing him nothing but white-hot pleasure. "-Amazing. I don't know what I'd do without you, Thomas."
His hips stutter, more prespend leaking across your knuckles as you pump his cock in a slow, steady caress.
The bright flush on his cheeks makes your teeth ache. You want him. Always. Always -
His fingers slip away from you, and his hand - wet with your excitement, your want - grasp at your hip desperately.
His hips lift off the bed, canting into the clench of your fist, and he very nearly bucks you off with his insistent thrusts, but his hand squeezes your flesh, steadying you.
You tremble. The heat of his palm sears into you, the clench makes your bone ache.
"I'd do anything for you," you whisper, words drenched in reverence as his eyes beg you for more.
Thomas shudders, a little whimper slipping past when you drag your hand up the full length of him, feeling his thick heft in your palm. He chokes on his whimper when your thumb rubs across his frenulum, stroking the sensitive skin until his cock weeps and his hips jerk into you.
His wide, feverish eyes bore into you; a silent plea for more, and you can never deny him. Not when he looks like this spread out below you: eyes delirious with want, his cock twitching pre-cum down the length of him, belly smeared with the milky release.
Your fingers tease the soft head of his cock, watching as bliss shutters across his face. His mouth drops open, chest heaves with his deep breaths - it's all so addicting. You could stare at Thomas in bliss for aeons, but it's his eyes that ensnare you. The way his lids flutter closed, only spring open when you squeeze his cock.
"You look so good, baby," you mewl, rocking your hips against his thigh when he pants into the balmy air.
He shivers when you pull your hand away from him, eyes opening to look at you questioningly. They widen - pupils blooming into a full black - when you bring your hand to your lips, tongue snaking out to get a taste of him. You moan when the salty release falls on your tongue. He tastes like the ocean. Briny. Bitter. You rather like the piquant tang of him.
Thomas lurches under you; his hips jouncing sharply when your lips seal around your thumb, cheeks hollowed to suck the soupçon of his release off of your skin.
Thomas is expressive: he wears his feelings in the dip of his brow, in the gleam of his eyes, and the clench of his jaw. The way your tongue rolls out to taste his release makes his brows raise to his hairline, eyes widening as desire floods them, turns his pretty slate hue inky black as his pupil broadens with that salacious want that makes his hips buck, arching his throbbing cock toward you like a fair string being stretched past its limits.
Your thigh is coated in his excitement; his burning cock leaks prespend all over you as he desperately rubs it against you, seeking friction.
You release your thumb with a pop that makes his chest rumble, makes his squeeze his eyes tightly together like he's in pain.
"You taste so good, too, baby."
You'd give him whatever he wanted, so when he looks at you again, trembling hiccups spilling out and making his chest and belly quiver, the need in his eyes so deep and wanting that it lures you in, you know you teased him enough. You don't mean to - Thomas just makes you insatiable. Drives you mad with it. Makes you dizzy with desire and need. Greedy for him.
Still -
You can't help yourself when you lean down, bracing your hands on his trembling chest, and press your mouth to his in a searing, needy kiss.
With his taste on your tongue, your lips pressed to his, you ask: are you ready, baby? and it's worth it alone for the vigorous way he nods his head, very nearly knocking his forehead into your nose, and the loud, agreeable whine he makes.
You give him one last, almost chaste, kiss before pushing off of his chest and steadying yourself above him. Straddling his lap always makes you feel so incredibly tiny - his hips are wide, so wide, and your legs stretch over him in a way that makes your muscles tense from the strain. He holds you as you move above him, hands fixed firmly on your hips.
The way he squeezes you once, twice, like he just can't help himself makes anticipation run down your spine. His mark will be on you before the end of the night.
You sink down his unending length, shivering from the sheer stretch of him inside of you, and throw your head back as that molten coil of unfettered pleasure spools deep in your abdomen where the head of his cock now sits, pushing hard and insistent against your walls. Like this, it always feels like he's so deep you could choke on him. It makes your head gummy with blinding pleasure that leaks into your marrow, making you stupid drunk on the too much too full way he fills you up.
Whimpering, you lift your shaky hand to the taut skin of your navel, stroking up and down your belly button.
"Mm… I can feel you, baby," you slur out, words drenched in the visceral quake of your pleasure. "You're so deep inside of me, Thomas-"
His hips jerk, jostling you suddenly. Your hand slap down on his broad, heaving chest at the unexpected movement, keening loudly at the absolute burn of pleasure that lacerates through you. It's too much, too much -
He's so deep inside of you, the blunt head of cock pushing into you like he wants to spear you open.
(And god, oh god, he feels so good you just might let him-)
Thomas whimpers, his hands immediately on your waist to keep you from toppling over. The sharp wail of an apology spills past his quivering lips and is quickly swallowed by a deep moan when you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest. The coarse hair on his chest rubs against your hardened nipples and the delicious scrape makes you suck in a deep breath. Like this, the stretch is almost unbearable - the thick base of his cock splits you wide, as thick as your wrist - but gulp down the whimpers when pries you open further as you bend down, bringing your mouth to his in a sloppy, shuddering kiss.
He's unpractised: his kisses are always so wet. Saliva dripping down your chin, mouth flooded with the taste of him. They're all tongue and teeth, hindered by the ruined skin around his mouth, patches chiselled out, but it's the best kiss you've ever had, and anything Thomas lacks in experience he makes up for in unbridled passion and enthusiasm.
You whimper into the kiss when his cock twitches deep inside of you, the feeling of it roiling through your core until you're panting with the ache of him so deep, impossibly deep inside of you.
Your head is cloudy; hazy with want and pleasure and the taste of him in your tongue, and the godly feeling of him stuffed inside of you, curling against your mettle. Your agenda sticks out in stark contrast to the liquid slurry of molten ecstasy coiling inside of your veins.
It's nearly impossible to lean up, bones heavy and body humming with electric want that buzzes down your spine, but somehow, you manage. Your palms press on his chest, feeling the rapid staccato of his heart under your hand. You take a moment to bask in the feel of his solid, firm chest expanding under you, mind going fuzzy at the inexorable sturdiness under your fingers despite him being so pliant under you, and the contrast of it all, of what he gives to you, what he allows you to take, makes you whimper again, heart thrumming with affection. And then, with a lingering kiss, you push off of him, already mourning the doughy feel of his belly moulding against your curves.
Sitting atop him like this, his hands gripping your waist to keep you from falling off as your legs struggle to find purchase in the mattress, thighs spread wide enough around the bulk of his waist that you already feel burn in your hips, you can't help but fall to pieces.
He's pure, unyielding iron inside of you. There is no give, no respite
Delirious, drunk off the stretch of him and the way he stuffs you so full, you think that if he was just a millimetre wider, just a hair bigger, he'd split you apart at the seams; unravel you until you were an unspooled, tangled mess of buzzing atoms on the verge of dissolving into the aether that leaks with the heat of your bodies. Clouded with the miasma of want and sex and salt that clings to you in a spindrift, you sink, willingly, into that hazy abyss where nothing matters but the way Thomas wrenches you open.
That taut tug, the rapid throb in the place where you meet sends bolts of pure electricity to every nerve ending in your body, reverberating through you like a strummed chord until you trembling, shivering with the raw sensation of just how good, how utterly, unexplainably good, it feels to be filled by the length of him, stretched to the brim with the girth of him until you're mewling out orisons of praise, of love, of adoration in his name.
He has the capacity to absolute ruin you, to wreck you in a way that will render you into nothing but a melting puddle of base molecules at his feet, saturating his toes in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, sulphur - the smeared residuum of what you once were now broken down into nothing by his hands - and god, if the thought alone doesn't send a ripple of undulating pleasure from your core to the very ends of your fingers, the tips of your toes.
Thomas squirms under you, restless and wanting to feel the drag of your sex clutching him so tight, so snug, in a vice that knocks the air from your lungs and sends a fluttery heat through your body.
It's easier when he takes you - when he fucks into your body, siphoning pleasure from you and leaving you gasping and panting into the sheets - because when he's inside of you, all thought is devoured by bliss; reason and logic have no foundations in chossy of his thrusts that batter your consciousness into a gummy slurry of him him him him. But you want this.
You want to ride him, to feel the delicious drag of his cock against your throbbing walls, to seat yourself in his lap where the bracket of his thighs pressed into you feels like home, and the soft give of his belly makes you drool with a fervid hunger you stopped trying to give meaning to long ago when he first pressed into you, his body the perfect equilibrium of white-hot iron wrapped in soft molasses.
The juxtaposition of his mountainous body, sturdy and unmovable, blanketed by a plushness that fills every gap and crevasse when he hugs you close seems to light up that little part of your brain that reverts back to a primal, animalistic being until you're feral with desire, with need.
It starts out slow: little, sinuous rolls of your hips to acclimate to the burn of him edging past your mettle. Your clumsy gyration is more for his benefit than yours - Thomas tends to get a little antsy, a little anxious about hurting you, and cautious swivels of your hips, barely lifting off of his cock more an inch or two, is meant to drive him mad with the urge to rut against you, to see that you can take him - all of him - until he's heaving with the strain to keep from bucking up into your wanting, eager body.
You could cum like this - with his large hand swallowing the thickest part of your thigh whole, and the other gripping the sheets beside your knee; his jaw clenching, opening, clenching again; his brow caught in a now permanent furrow; his eyes darting to place where you meet (his cock always giving a little jerk inside of you when he sees you split open on him) and then back up to your face, whiplash quick, as if he's afraid to be caught looking at how good you take his whole cock, and his eyes molten and dark with pleasure, rapture at the sight of you - it's enough to send you to that vertiginous precipice.
But -
You can't, you can't -
"Thomas…" his name slips, wonton and aching, from your lips, and it sounds like a benediction when it fills the balmy air that simmers between you.
His eyes are heavy when they land on your face, meeting your eyes. Wide and wild with frenzied pleasure, they bore into you until you're shaking from the weight of the rapture, the adoration, swimming in the Stygian depths.
Unable to help himself, his hips jerk up - once, twice - and the friction, the bludgeoning way he fills you, makes you arch your back, and moan at the sensation of it all. Thomas grunts beneath you, the voice rattling through your core, and you bear down, meeting his clumsy cants. Each desperate plunge has you singing hymns of veneration - broken gasps, mewling whines, and sharp moans - and he matches the mellifluous noises wrenched out of you with the baritone trill of his rough, raw grunts and belly-deep groans that scratch at strained coil inside of you with each little squall you pull out of him.
It's not enough, not yet -
You want his mark on your skin, you want to feel that unyielding pressure creaking against your bone as he brands your body. He isn't pertinacious about this - you caught the way he glanced at the garish bruise that looked worse than it felt, the unfettered curiosity, the little ember of satisfaction, that curled in his depths before he turned away, contrite and sorrowful. If there wasn't that little twinge of intrigue dancing in his gaze when he dropped his eyes and notified, for the first time, what your skin looked like when he gripped you tight, then you wouldn't be pushing so hard, but it was there. It was there, and you want more.
The thought alone has you quaking, has your mind clotting with feverish desperation for more, for his hands on your body, laying claim to your flesh.
It burns through you, and you bear down on him with a frenetic need for more, more, quickly getting swept out in the undertow of pleasure and rivets of bliss that curl inside of you, stemming from the apex of where you meet, where you slide down the length of him over and over again. The staticky haze of desire lashes through you with each plunge of his cock battering into your gummy, sensitive walls.
You glance down at him, watching with adoration as bliss split across his face when you settle into a demanding rhythm above him. His heavy eyes flutter - lidding and lifting, dropping to the apex of your thighs, then up to your face, snapping shut when you writhe on his cock -, and you're lost in the way he wears what he's feeling so clearly visible in his expression, so open, so honest. Your gaze fixes to him, lingering on the draw of his brow, the deep divot that sits between, the deep flush in his cheeks that spread all the way down to the tips of your fingers, the clenching of his jaw as he grits his teeth, or the way he relaxes, mouth falling open to drag in deep, greedy lungfuls of humid air in his heaving, gasping lungs.
Thomas is breathtaking.
The expressions he makes are cloying, desperate, and the sight of him whimpering, groaning, below you is enough to make your body bluster with a smouldering heat that billows through you; mind turning to ashes from the blaze of his skin sliding, slick with sweat, across your own.
The delectable sounds that are dredged up from deep within his belly, that ripples and shudders against you in the most delicious way, knock into you until you're teetering on the edge of that unforgiving metaphysical precipice. You can feel the plush give of his body, the firm, sturdy press of his hard muscle, and the deep press of his cock inside of you, but your mind is lost in an endless haze of pleasure, floating weightless in the incorporeal cosmos where the taste of ozone burns your tongue.
Want is the impetus that drives you. Your hand splays over his chest, finding purchase, as you lift the other to clutch at his wrist where his hand undulates over your hip - cautious and careful despite the thrum of pleasure cresting into him - and you squeeze, fingers curling over to press into his pulse point. Thomas jerks against you, hooded eyes snapping open, fixing his gaze where your hand grasps his atop your hip.
"I want it, baby-," he's already shaking his head, trying to pull away.
He's so good to you.
(Too good to you.)
"Thomas," you breathe his name, cooing softly to calm him down. "I want you to mark me, baby."
A low whine is drawn out of his throat. Fear. Worry. His brow tremors with his unease, his hesitance.
You bear down on him, taking him deep. "Please, Thomas… didn't you like them?"
He hesitates. His fingers flex around your hips.
Thomas won't lie to you. He never does.
"Because I did. I loved them."
He's overwhelmed - vacillating between glancing at his hand gripping your waist, your smaller fingers clinging to his wrist, to the apex of your thighs where you take him deep, so deep -, and he's getting close. His mouth drops open, heavy pants rattling through his chest, his belly ripping with the heaving gasps.
You shudder at the feeling of him inside of you, at his gaze burning into you, pleading for respite.
"Do you like when I mark you, Thomas?" His head jerks up, eyes darting to yours, and he nods, quick and eager. It makes you purr. "I like your marks on me just as much."
You let it sit with him. Let him mull over your words while you arch your back, and brace yourself on his heaving chest, taking him deeper, faster.
It starts as a scintilla of white-hot pleasure; a slow burn in the pit of your abdomen that roils into a molten coil that begins to burgeon, to build, until a crater opens wide, the tremors wracking through your body until every synapse inside of you is filled to the brim with liquid ecstasy that spumes inside of your core.
Your limbs are filled with honeyed bliss, mind a chanting gale of Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas, and oh god so good so good so good as your nails cling to his chest for purchase amid the torrent inside of you that lashes out until you're stupid, drunk, sloppy off the way he fits inside of you, stretching you wide, and carving out place so deep, so unfathomably good, that it knocks all thought that isn't the deep ache of his cock inside of you, the doughy flesh beneath your hands, and the heady scent of sex and sweat that fills your nose. Each little jerk of his hips makes you quake, makes your eyes roll until you see the cosmos in the back of your skull.
And then you feel it.
His fingers curl over your hip, tips digging into your flesh. The bite of them sends heat fluxing to your core - molten and throbbing - until your limbs are deliquesced, mind a honeyed slurry of pleasure. The ache, the pressure - of his hands on you, squeezing and gripping you tight; of the full, fat feeling of his cock twitching inside - all burrows into you until you're floating back into that haze of blunt, unyielding ecstasy.
A litany of moans, broken, choked hymns of his name, spills from your lips as pleasure spools in your belly. Your nails grip his chest as Thomas bucks into you, holding you steady as he seeks his pleasure.
Your back arches in bliss, your spine liquifying as ecstasy spumes inside of you sending electric shocks of honeyed pleasure through your body until you're dizzy with the intoxicating sensation swelling inside of you.
You're so close, so close -
He tenses under you, heaving, and you gaze down at him, panting out his name in tandem with each deep plunge he makes into you.
"Come on, baby…" you mewl, tossing your head back as undulating pleasure wracks through you. "Cum for me, Thomas-"
The sounds he makes, and the feel of his hands on your hips, tip you over that precipice - a throaty growl, a deep groan, a firm squeeze - and you're gone. Lost in a haze of liquid pleasure as the molten coil inside of you pulls taut, snapping when his firm grip on your hips makes your bones creak.
Thomas spasms under you, letting out a deep, guttural groan that rolls through your palms, and sends you spiralling. You're superlunary. Mind a blanket of nothing but the smouldering heat, the potent, heady scent that surrounds you - the thick tang of sex, sweat, and the unmistakable musk of Thomas, something rich, metallic and humus - and the feel of him, his palms burning your feverish skin, his cock jerking sharply inside of you, his solid, hard body under you, bucking into you.
You're pulsing around him, throbbing in tandem with your rapid heartbeat.
It's so good, too good, and you grind down on him, greedily seeking more of that addicting pleasure he brings you.
His cock jerks inside of you; molten heat blooming as he cums inside of you. You can feel him throbbing as he spends himself in your wanting body.
Your head drops - exhausted, body buzzing with the tremors of your release - and you pitch forward, hands sliding up his chest until your palms are resting on his collarbones. The movement makes your hips twinge with a deep-seated ache, and you gasp at the throb of pain that rings through your bones.
Despite the smarting in your hip bones, a slow smile curls on your lips. Satisfaction roils through you.
It'll bruise, you're sure.
You glance up, catching Thomas' eyes. "That felt so good, baby."
His face is rubicund, chest dusted with the hue, and the sight of it has you biting your lip to keep from cooing aloud at how adorable he is.
His eyes are lidded, hazy with the remnants of his bliss - and exhaustion.
"My poor baby," you pout, leaning down, and the motion makes his spent cock shift inside of you, and the feel of him, of his cum leaking out, makes you shiver. Without the slurry of dopamine and oxytocin dulling the sting, you feel the ache, the stretch, more than ever, and you struggle to hide a wince.
He notices, of course, and his eyes spring open. Concern immediately floods the bliss in his glassy glaze, and he makes a soft, worried trill in the back of his throat. The sound is raspy, gravelly - from fatigue, from dryness, overuse - and you fight to hide another shiver at the ragged lilt that spills out. It sends a jolt of pleasure to your spine, heat fluttering in your belly.
"I’m fine, Thomas," you pant, peppering kisses across his sweaty face to ground yourself. "But let's get you to sleep, yeah?"
(Because if you don't, if he keeps making noises like that, you might just take him again-)
Thomas is still worried, anxiously fretting over you, but he slowly acquiesces to your gentle insistence that you were fine - more than fine. His hands settle on your waist to steady you as you slowly clamber off of his lap, mindful of the ache inside of you thrumming with your ginger movements.
Thomas guides you, refusing to let go of you for even a second, and you bask in the aftercare he provides - wordless comforting stability - melting just a little more at the soft coos he lets out. He doesn't settle until you're nestled into his side until you give a verbal affirmation that you're okay, you're fine, it's okay, and even then, he frets.
Despite the weight in his lids as he gazes at you, eyes dropping with fatigue and exhaustion that drapes itself over his shoulders, he doesn't relent until he knows that you're safe, secure, and wrapped up in his arms.
He's too tired for cleanup, and your legs feel like sap when you sprawl out beside him. You won't make it on your own without collapsing into a heap of liquified flesh on the floor, and while Thomas would fight through the exhaustion to help you without even a groan of frustration, you can't bring yourself to do that to him. Not when he was settled so peacefully in bed already before your insatiable whims pulled him from that vital slumber.
Something for tomorrow, then.
There is a twinge in your hips when you rest, relaxing into the mattress. Your bones smart with discomfort, but even with the ache inside of you, it feels so good. So satisfying.
Thomas bundles you in his arm, pulling you taut to his side with your head resting on his still heaving chest. The rapid flutter of his chest echoes in your ear, the perfect lullaby, as his fingers soothe over the skin on your hip, brushing over the bruise in what feels like an apology, but the hum in his chest sounds very much like a satisfied purr.
His hands are appurtenant on your flesh. His mark, too.
He rumbles into your crown, breathing in your scent, and you find yourself following suit until the taste of him is heavy on your tongue and filling your lungs until they threaten to burst with the miasma of his smell - gunpowder, phosgene, humus; the ocean, petrichor. Thomas presses a kiss to your head, a soothing purr reverberating through his chest until your bones peal in response.
You feel his fingers brush over your hips before settling over the unmistakable bruise that will be present tomorrow, and find yourself smiling, nuzzling your face into his chest.
His mark. You suckle your own where his heart beats, steady and strong, and find rapture in the way his taste settles on your tongue.
Home is in his arms: his heart pulsing in your ear lulling you into a deep slumber, his rumbles bringing an inexorable sense of safety, and security.
………
The black of his pupils completely eclipses the sapphire plumes until a pit of coal remains; his wide eyes are fixed on the smears of midnight, amber, and violet smudged across your skin.
The slight tremor to his hand makes you think that, perhaps, it's contrition gnarling in those unfathomable depths, but there is something about the greedy way his eyes open, entirely fixated on your flesh, that makes you doubt any sorrow is congealing inside of Thomas right now. His hands twitch. Curling into fists, then splaying wide across his thighs, rubbing the moisture away, back into fists - an unconscious action that gives away a little bit more into what he might be feeling as he looks at you, decorated in the marks you begged him for.
The way his hungry, leaden gaze devours the marks on your skin, roaming over the near-perfect facsimile of his hands, fills you with a deep, almost delirious thrum of satisfaction. The want in his gaze is a visceral thing that reverberates through your bones until you're quaking with the aftershocks that rattle through you. Possession. Hunger.
He, like you, is only human.
It's hard for him to hide the way he feels when he stares at the bruises he left behind on your flesh, a (woefully semi) permanent reminder of how his hands touched your skin, and how much you wanted him to do it.
The divot between his thick, dark brows deepens when you stretch your arms over your head, locking your fingers around your other wrist in a parody of a loose halo.
He can't seem to stop the rapacious way his mouth drops open, tongue lolling out to swipe across his bottom lip (where, you're sure, an impression of your front teeth still remain embedded in the plump flesh) when the contusions on your body flex and flutter with your slow, languid movements.
When you roll your hips, giving him quite the view of what the full length of his palm looks like smeared over your hips, he can't hide the deep, shuddering breath, or the tacky click in his now dry throat when he tries to swallow.
You make his mouth a desert. He makes your body burn.
"I like them," your voice is nothing but a gentle rasp; smoke coiling up, dissolving into the aether. "I like them a lot, Thomas."
He shudders, and you think of the quaking mountains rumbling through the aftershocks as the plates below the surface clatter and slide together. There is a roar billowing up from the depths; a drawn-out rattle.
Greedy thing, you think, when his hands lash out - almost against his will - and then hover there, stopping abruptly. He blinks slowly, as if coming back to himself, and then gazes at the way his knuckles just barely kiss your skin.
His Adam's apple buoys. Once, twice. Thrice. His fingers twitch when you arch your back, eyes wide and wanting as he stares at the way your spine curves; the knobs in your vertebrae flexing with careful motions you make. Enticing him. Luring him in.
Thomas makes a low sound in his throat - a noise not unlike that of a wounded animal - and then his hands are on you.
Your breath stutters, catching in your oesophagus, when his worn, rough hands close around your waist, bleeding unfathomable heat into your body. The way his fingers smooth over your sensitive skin has you tensing as every atom in your body splits apart with his gentle, reverent touch. Static thrums down your spine until pools at the base in a sea of electricity that makes every nerve, every synapse, inside of you go haywire.
With his hands on your skin, you see a tangled web of nebulae exploding into existence behind your eyelids; phosphenes so refulgent it nearly blinds you as they dance across your vision.
His flesh is a lambent heat on your body.
Goosebumps erupt. You shiver, trembling when those massive hands that easily swallow you whole slide down. You watch them in the mirror as they meet the swell of your hips, settling in the inky black bruises he left behind until they're consumed by his palm. Gone. Covered up.
Your hands drop when your knees threaten to buckle under you, catching on his broad shoulders. You have to stand on your tiptoes just to link your fingers at the jut of his spine, elbows locked as you stretch your body out.
Your head barely passes his first rib.
They told stories, warnings, about falling into the clutches of giants - he'll devour your flesh and torture you for eternity; he'll lock you away, hide you from the world - but they failed to tell you how easily you'd find home in his arms.
"It's nice, yeah?" You murmur as you drop your hand to his, palm sliding across the hair tangled on his arm, before slipping your fingers between the spaces of his own. He spreads them easily, letting you in, and then closes his thick fingers tight, trapping you palm to hand. You lean into his broad back, tipping your chin to stare up at him in the mirror. "They're so pretty-"
And it seems almost unfathomable to him that any mark on your body - that anything other than unmarred skin - could be seen as nothing short of sacrilegious, but when you pull his hand down, letting the jaundiced start of the bruise peek out beneath your hands (the difference in size almost comical, almost making him feel like a beast while simultaneously making you ascend to another plane of existence where the sight of his overly massive hand - his palm nearly the side of your head - makes you see nothing but nirvana when you stare at it), his head tilts, and it's enough.
But not yet.
So, you pull it down a bit more where the ecchymosis is stained rufescent, plum, flaxen, showing him just a bit more like you revealing a dirty secret.
It's the amber in the centre, the little smear that peeks over his index finger that gets him. His thumb strokes across the hue, rubbing the mark tenderly, barely grazing it as if he was afraid of hurting you.
"It doesn't," you say, ignoring the sting in your hip bone. A secret you'll take to your grave. "It doesn't hurt at all. I love your mark on me, Thomas-"
He groans low and desperate, the noise echoing through your bones. His hands clench around your waist - an unconscious squeeze that has fireworks crackling down your spine - and drops his head to nuzzle your crown.
"Don't you?" Your hands slide back, fingers curl delicately over the thickness of his wrist, stroking over his throbbing pulse point. He flexes, fingers digging into your flesh - of his own accord this time; intentional, purposeful - and the shudder of his breath rattles across your spine. "Don't you like them, too, Thomas?"
He makes a mournful noise in the back of his throat - something so achingly woeful that you almost, almost, feel a little bad for ruining him like this, corrupting him - but then his gaze shifts, his molten eyes meet yours in the grimy mirror. The light overhead, flushed pale yellow and flickering, can't hide the unbridled satisfaction from the inky depths. Hunger swims in the unending abyss. Want. Possession.
You arch into him again, feeding that little part of himself that just can't get enough of you, of this, of the way your skin colours with just a deliberate press of his fingertips, and Thomas breaks.
His hands slide down, shaking from worry, fear, want, and grip the sensitive skin of your thigh. His thumb pushes into the valley where your thigh and the plush curve of your ass meet, his hands spreading wide under your hip bone. And then he grips you tight.
It's unyielding. Firm. Nothing at all like the accidental clutch that caused the bruises to blossom on your skin, and for the first time since meeting him, you understand why they warned you about him.
Thomas would never hurt you, of course, but his grip is ironclad when he holds you; inescapable.
Your heart thunders in your chest, pounding with that dormant sense of primal preservation that rears up in the face of an atavistic predator, and -
A sick sense of satisfaction.
"Do it, baby," you whisper, turning your cheek to nuzzle your nose into the sweat-slicked skin of his chest, the hairs prickling across your face. He smells like sulphur and ash; the humus clinging to his skin is so potent that your eyes flutter, rolling back into your head as you greedily suck in deep lungfuls of his heady scent. "Mark me, Thomas-"
His hand tightens, but he's ever your gentle giant, and his other comes up, snaking between the valley of your breasts, locking to you his chest, and he coos low in his chest, a soft sound meant to soothe, to comfort. You hum at the mellifluous sound that floods your ear - the rapid patter of his heart filling the gaps. The cacophony of it all makes you melt, and you barely feel the burn of his palm branding your skin with another contusion in the shape of his hand.
Ownership. Possession. You wonder if he feels that same sick thrill that bludgeons into your chest as the vermillion marks you smatter across his body.
Your eyes blink open, languidly drifting to the mirror in front of you, and -
Oh.
Your lips curl into a soft, satiated smile.
Your tongue darts out, tasting the lingering salt from his skin, and you can't stop the purr from rattling through your chest when he pulls his trembling hand away from your skin, and blood blossoms under the surface, congealing as the burst capillaries weep crimson in the moulted shape of his palm.
"So pretty," you say again, voice liquid with want. "You make them look so beautiful, baby."
Thomas shudders. His thumb brushes over the fresh contusion. The first intentional one he left on your skin.
It's good. It's so good -
And you can't wait until you have a matching ring in the shape of his teeth on your shoulder. Something a little more permanent than a bruise.
But Thomas is a little too wrung out, a little too overwhelmed by the sight of a mark - something he was taught was wrong and immoral, bad - on your skin, and the oppositional feelings that swell in his chest when he looks at them staining your flesh, makes you back away from that thought for now. So, you let it sit in your chest, where all the other darkly possessive, greedy feelings reside.
You lean back, catching his eye in the mirror, and listen to the steady beat of your heart that seems to thrum out the syllables of his name.
When you turn your head, the responding echo sounds just like yours.
You think he must know this, somehow, when his chin lifts, eyes seeking out yours in the mirror. The deep slate brims with delectation. His gaze holds yours - happiness, want, adoration - before dropping down to the smear of vermillion that blooms from his hand, the burst capillaries pooling a pocket of blood under your skin that slowly turns indigo and amber as it sits. His thumb brushes over the haloed ring above the curve of his palm, and in the cobalt depths you see the briefest flash of contrition - worry over tarnishing your skin, hurting you, becoming the very beast they accused him of - and you nuzzle your cheek into his expansive chest, listening to the strong heat of his heart echoing in your ear.
"I love them," you affirm, words soft but pointed.
You hold his hand, keeping it steady and fixed on your hip, and grip the other, bringing his palm close to your mouth, pressing a kiss to the centre of his palm. Your eyes flutter shut when his grip on your hip, his arm fixed across your chest, tightens, bringing you closer. In his arms, it feels like home. Safety. Security.
There is a click in his throat when he swallows, and you glance at him in the mirror. His lids lift, eyes seeking yours once more. The breath shudders out of his chest, but the doubts are quelled. The shadows of worry that once lingered in the corner, seeping into the recesses of his heavy gaze, dissolve. Tentative want, burgeoning hunger blooms.
You press a kiss into his love line, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beating across your smile. He stares at you with dulia in his eyes: love, adoration.
You can't help but echo the words back.
"I love you," you whisper into his palm.
Happiness, adoration, blooms in his gaze. In the endless slate that stares down at you, the elation, the love, in his eyes remains unclouded, unpolluted, by needless thoughts that have no place in the Magellanic space between you.
You smile, nuzzling your lips into his love line when his pulse beats just for you.
………
It starts when Luda Mae spots the black ring on your collarbone when you bend down to grab the linen from the basket - a matching pair to the one you gave Thomas several nights ago when you convinced him that yes, his teeth scarring your skin was just divine.
It draws her attention mainly because Thomas can't stop staring at you, at it, despite the bales of hay that needed to be moved hours ago. He's distracted - that much is obvious by the way his gaze skirts toward you, your neck, then darts away with a roseate flush scorching the tips of his ears.
(Though, you're not exactly trying to hide it - especially not with the way it makes Thomas fumble when you reach up to touch it.)
You pretend not to notice the weight in his stare. The heaviness of his gaze, molten and wanting, on your flesh. On you.
There is a snort, and then: "stop this foolishness and just get her a damn ring already, Thomas."
You try to hide your dazed grin in the yellow sheets when Thomas lets out an embarrassed squawk, his head darting over to see if you'd heard what his mother said.
You busy yourself with the laundry, feigning obliviousness to the conversation that easily carried in the stagnant Texas swelter, but it's unignorable how the weight in his gaze seems to change with her words.
Thomas can't quite look you in the eye for the rest of the week, and you let him simmer on the idea for a bit, content to go at his pace.
But really - his mark on your flesh is a perfect gospel of his love, worth more than metal. He knows this, of course. Knows the pithy, concomitant meaning behind each kiss mark, each bruise, each nip you give each other.
A symbolic rendering of your presence on him, and his on you, and that, in itself, is more than enough for the two of you.
………
(Though, if your mind wanders, wondering what his big hands would look like, feel like, with a ring on his finger that belongs wholly to you - then that's your secret to keep.
And if that glassy look is sometimes reflected in his endless oceans of slate and cobalt when he stares at your hand, that insatiable hunger, greed, brimming up much the same as it does when you glance at him and think - well:
That's his, then, isn't it?
At least until he plucks up the courage to give you the little ring he fashioned himself. Until then, you’re content to pretend you don’t notice it sitting in his back pocket, or the way he reaches for it sometimes, just to make sure it’s still there.)
#thomas hewitt#thomas hewitt x reader#thomas hewitt x you#texas chainsaw massacre#slasher x reader#slashers#slasher x you#tcm 2003#tcm#leatherface#leatherface x you#leatherface x reader#shoegaze x slasher was not something i would have considered before but#here we are
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