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venus-haze · 7 months

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Celebrity Skin (Thomas Hewitt x Reader)

Summary: Your rollercoaster of a film career comes to its untimely end when you end up on Thomas Hewitt’s cutting room floor. He hopes you’ll be as much of a fan of his work as he is yours.

Note: Female reader, implied to be older than Thomas, but no other descriptors are used. This is mostly from Tommy’s perspective and extremely dark and bleak, so look at the warnings before deciding whether or not you want to read this. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Explicit and implied non-con, mentions of animal death and cannibalism, kidnapping, Hoyt is pretty much his own warning. Implied major character death. Hurt no comfort. No happy ending. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Hollywood was never going to see you again. No one would, as a matter of fact. That much had been set in stone as soon as you sped through Fuller, Texas. Ghost town. Full of nobodies and hicks. A pass-through on the road trip you’d treated yourself to after landing a movie with Paul Newman. He’d never see you again, either.

Almost as soon as you passed the county line, going 60 in a clearly marked 45, sirens blared behind you, and you cursed as you pulled over. You should’ve never pulled over.

“Got a good one for ya here Tommy,” Hoyt said, slapping the meat of your thigh as he presented you to the hulking man. “Says she’s some kinda actress.” He leaned in close to your face, a mean grin on his own. “Sure good at actin’ like she don’t want it.”

Your lips were split, dried blood and semen on your mouth and face. Could barely manage a snarl at his uncle, but you tried.

“Bet you’re gonna taste real sweet, pumpkin,” Hoyt taunted, smacking his lips before pushing you to Thomas.

You didn’t cry or scream as Thomas dragged you down to the basement. Hoyt beat that out of you already. Mean and vicious on the side of the road, or maybe in the back of his squad car. Didn’t matter. You were all but resigned to your fate until Thomas laid you down on his butcher’s block, securing you to it with the usual metal cuffs, deftly hammered in place. You only began struggling when you caught a glimpse of the knives and blades displayed prominently throughout his workshop. Too late.

Thomas paused, staring at your face, screwed up in pathetic agony as you begged him for mercy you wouldn't receive. Recognized it from somewhere. You had looked different, though. Face made-up, eyes glistening, hair perfectly styled. Like a dream.

He leaned in closer, and you blinked, teary-eyes transporting him back to his youth. Unforgiving summer breaks where he’d wake up early to help out on the farm before the heat of the day settled in. Sometimes his mama would scrounge up some change for him to go to Fuller’s lone movie theater in the afternoon. ‘Get a break from this heat, honey.’ She knew full well that wasn’t what drew him there. The darkness, the anonymity, for once everyone else was faceless and hidden like him. He wasn’t the main attraction, not even the sideshow.

It’d been years since he stepped foot in that theater. Slowly stopped going after Hoyt got him the job at the slaughterhouse. Just like that, though, he remembered you. A film noir wherein you were cast as the leading lady to a man who may as well have been old enough to be your father, but you looked like you loved him. Especially when you cried for him, tears sparkling as they silently, regally rolled down your pretty face one by one.

Over time, femme fatales fell out of fashion, and so had you not long after he’d stopped going to the movies. He’d catch glimpses of you, though. Staring at him from the cover of magazines like a star-crossed lover whenever you had a new movie coming out, less frequent as time went on. He was barely sixteen when he swiped a copy of Modern Screen, your enticing, full-color portrait on the cover, chock-full of interviews, gossip, and most importantly, photos. A ball gown and come-hither stare. Lounging half-naked poolside. In a skimpy black dress with a fox fur piece draped around your neck, cigarette holder between your pretty lips as you leaned over a bar, your cleavage nearly spilling out from your dress.

That one had made him feel funny. Made his pants tighter around the crotch as his imagination ran wild. Thought about presenting you with a cat pelt he’d skinned and sewn up himself. Instead of running and screaming in fear like the girls at school, you’d accept it graciously, wearing it like the fine fox fur. A gentle hand on his chest, simpering eyes as you asked softly how you could ever repay him because he was your leading man. A kiss on his cheek, and then more. So much more.

Back then, he never considered how pretty you’d look when you cried for him. Grabbing a nearby pair of rusty scissors, he cut through your clothes, damp from sweat and spit and god knew what else, stuck to your skin. He peeled them off of you, unwrapping his once in a lifetime gift and wasting no time in touching your bare stomach that seized beneath his touch. His hands drifted upward, taking each of your soft breasts in his big hands, rough and calloused from years of hard labor. He brushed his thumbs against your nipples, raised from exposure to the cool air in his basement hovel. Pinching one between his fingers, he tugged on it, eliciting a whimper from you as the skin painfully stretched to its limit until he finally let go.

Frustrated by your barrage of pleas and protests, he grabbed a nearby rag and shoved it in your mouth. You gagged, senses overwhelmed by the taste of rancid blood and unidentifiable bodily fluids. He pressed his fingers against your abused cunt, marveling in the wetness as you whined like a stupid little deer that’d gotten its leg blown off during the hunt, strained bleating to be put out of its misery with a bullet to the head or a snap of its neck.

He growled, pressing his masked lips to yours, the friction from the leather re-opening the cuts that had split along your lips. You choked on your makeshift gag, tears streaming down your dirty face. He was almost dizzy. Or maybe he was in love–sweaty palms, racing hearts, an animalistic urge to possess, to mark, to maim.

Hoyt was the one who eventually caught him with the magazine. Being a bit too loud, he supposed. Instead of the tongue lashing he’d been expecting, he received a proud pat on the back instead, ‘Nothin’ to be ashamed of Tommy. You’re a man. ‘s natural after all,' Hoyt said. 'Try to keep it quiet ‘round mama, though. She still thinks you’re innocent.’

Innocent. Despite how much his mama tried, he hadn’t been innocent in a long time. You hadn’t been either. Your romantic trysts were in headlines or discussed on radio gossip programs. Those had been frequent, and his brow furrowed as he wondered who the hell you were to deny him. Hollywood floozy. Too good for him, just like every other woman.

He unzipped his pants, pulling his length from his pants and feeling himself growing harder at your muffled screams of protest. His size. He knew he was big, far too big for you to handle, but you’d make it work. As if you had any other choice.

Stroking his length with one hand, he scratched at your belly with his blunt nails on the other hand, shuddering at the fleeting thought of you bigger, pregnant with his child. With a ragged breath, Thomas positioned his cock in front of your aching cunt, reveling in your whines as he pushed in just the tip, feeling you strain around him, warm and soft. ‘I love you, Tommy,’ you had purred in his fantasies. ‘I want you to make me yours. Give me everything.’

He grunted as he buried his length deeper in you, a high-pitched squeal in return. His face felt hot beneath his mask, his cock twitching as your pussy clenched around him. You wanted it. You wouldn’t be so wet and pliant if you didn’t. Grabbing your hips, he slammed his hips against yours, burying his face in your neck, feeling how your throat strained to express your pain despite the gag. How easily he could grab a nearby knife and cut through the tender flesh, knowing just where to slice so he could watch your blood pour out of you, probably sparkling and pretty like your tears. It was perfect, you were perfect. Better than he’d ever imagined.

Pressing his body weight against you, he pinned you further, your twisting torso trapped in place beneath him as he relentlessly pounded into you, his huge cock pushing your cunt to its limits, and even further than that when he hit your cervix. Your tears poured down your cheeks, blood trickling between your legs. He was so close, he could almost reach out and touch it.

He wanted to keep you around. Wasn’t sure how he could make an appeal to mama or Hoyt, though. Probably useless around the house, let alone the farm, just a pretty face for his own amusement. ‘Another mouth to feed,’ he could practically hear Hoyt snarl. He still felt bad about Uncle Monty, now he was a burden on mama and Hoyt too. Making an exception for you would be far too much to ask. Besides, he never had luck keeping pets growing up. Was always too rough with them, too morbidly curious. Maybe it’d be different with you.

Glancing at the chainsaw beside him, he slammed into you again, his dark gaze fixed on the blood-rusted power tool.

No. It wouldn’t be. Because being this deep inside you made him only want to go deeper, see the extent of his love. Watch your heart beating in your chest for him. Stand over you as you bled out, rib cage cracked open in the ultimate display of vulnerability. You’d provide for his family, and he’d savor every moment, every bite that touched his lips, feeling you inside him. It was the only way. You’d be a part of him forever. Till death do you part.

He came with a loud groan, a primal howl muffled by his mask. Your abused pussy milked his cock until his seed spilled inside you, and his length became soft again. Laying his head on your heaving chest, he listened to your heartbeat. Rapid like a little mouse.

Nuzzling his face against your breasts, he settled against your warm skin, basking in it while he still could. You’d be even warmer once he opened you up. All too familiar with that sensation. He closed his eyes, though, imagining you lovingly running your fingers through his hair, a sweet, fucked out smile on your face. But there was no place for a man like him in Hollywood, and no place for a woman like you in Fuller. Star-crossed. What a shame.

You had stopped making noises through your gag, either too exhausted or simply resigned to your fate, only whimpering when he finally pulled out of you, your pussy feeling almost painfully empty. Eyes glazed over, they fluttered shut for a moment, but opened as soon as his hand caressed your cheek, pulling the rag from your mouth.

He watched silently as you sucked in a much needed breath, bringing on a coughing fit with how dry your throat was. You dissolved in a fit of sobs that echoed in this vast underbelly of terror, exacerbated by his attempt to kiss your forehead, pressing the leather against the deep lines in your distressed face. You struggled weakly, fruitlessly against the metal cuffs that secured you to the table.

Unlike in your movies, there was no one to save you this time, no gruff private eye or surly police chief to come in guns blazing at the last minute. Hoyt had already made you well aware he was no admirable man of the law. You were lucky to have ended up with Thomas. He thought the screams that came from the women Hoyt kept around–albeit temporarily–were more difficult to listen to than that of someone he was disembodying.

Sadistic. Thomas never considered himself such, but he understood the appeal of ravaging, tearing apart in a display of power that never failed to send adrenaline running through his veins. He would savor your demise, his magnum opus, unable to imagine someone else coming along and piquing his interest as much as you had.

He revved the chainsaw, taking in your raw screams as he raised it over his head. Lamented not having a camera around to capture how perfect you looked awaiting your end at his hands. It’s what you were made for. His movie star on the cutting room floor.

#thomas hewitt x reader #tommy hewitt x reader #leatherface x reader #slasher x reader #leatherface #thomas hewitt #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre 2003 #texas chainsaw massacre the beginning #slasher fandom #slasher community #tcm

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barblaz-arts · 7 months

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OMG ITS SO COOL THAT ONE OF PUGSLEY’S KIDS IS A MANANANGGAL !! and a boy ??? mananaggal ?? (unless im completely misunderstanding that)

anyways as a filipino its just so cool to see stuff with my culture in it (those posts abt the wenclair fam going to jollibee made me so happy!!!)

btw, what made u decide to create those characters as pugsley’s kids?

Something that I'll give the show props for is subverting what would usually be represented genderwise for monsters. Gorgons are usually women, but they had a boy be one(the only thing I like about him--). And there isn't a lot of female werewolves out there in media. And I'm not talking about stories that are about werewolves. Cuz yknow. Duh of course there'd be female werewolves. But I'm talking about stories about monsters. If you have a show about different monsters or fantasy characters and there's a werewolf, they'd usually give you an angsty and/or wild dude as the main werewolf.

But Wednesday's(the show) main werewolf is a happy girly girl. The only other similar instance I can think of at the top of my head is Ruby from Once Upon A Time. That's probably why the twist in Ruby's episode was so shocking. You expect the dude to be the werewolf. Not the femme girl who dyes the tips of her hair and would probably cry if she ruins her manicure.

Anyways. Monsters that are always majorly represented by one gender is boooorrriiiiiing. Let's mix it up a little.

Sorry that got long.

So! About Pugsley's kids!

I'm not sure about the B&W series, but in the animated movies, Pugsley's a bit of a hopeless romantic. So growing up, I like to think he got around. The problem is he also has terrible luck with women, so none of them lasted, not because he's fickle -- he would fall in love deeply every single time -- but because he just has dog shit luck. He is Fester's nephew after all. So all three kids are Pugsley's from different baby mommas. I'll talk more about em later.

As for what made me choose em

Dante - I've previously mentioned that I headcanon Pugsley as a pyrokinetic because of his love for explosives. I think it'd be neat if he had a girlfriend who came from literal hell and had a baby demon with her

Jasper - some time back when the fandom was still super active, people making their nevermore sona was a trend on twitter. I actually wanted to join and have mine be a manananggal, but I couldn't because I was both busy and was never really a fan of drawing myself(not cuz of like self esteem issues. im pretty darn cute actually! i just prefer to draw other people). but i still wanted to draw a manananggal in Nevermore, and I figured just having it be an OC for Pugsley's child is the perfect opportunity

Briar - those faceless students are sooo damn cool. I love them a lot. I wanted more from them in the show. So I'm just making the content I craved for. Also a faceless little girl whose aunt is Wednesday, pokerface queen, and looks up to her for it? Too funny and cute of a thought to me.

#asks #next gen nevermore au

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