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visceravalentines · 2 months

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fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

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small-sinclair · 11 months

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Never Leave

Dad!Bo x preg!fem reader

Tw: nightmare, blood, death

“Say you’ll never leave me?” Bo whispers, resting your head on his shoulder. Blood drips from your chest like a waterfall even when he tries to to stop it with his hands. He’s choking back tears as he rocks back and forth. “Say it, y/n. Just say it.”

“I’ll nev-never leave y-you,” you stuttered, trying so hard to breath, to stay awake. “I-I won’t leave.”

“Stay with me? Love me?”

You brought a shaky hand to his cheek, and he holds it there, kissing the palm. His eyes shimmer as tears fall like an open dam. “Y/n? Don-don’t leave me. Don’t leave’ me alone.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, but it’s too heavy and too much all at once. You look up and smile to yourself. The stars are out tonight. You love stars.

“Bo,” you breathed. “Stars… the stars are out…”

He watched a tear leave your eyes as the light blew out like a candle.

******************

Bo wakes up screaming your name. Sweat covered his forehead as his head snapped over to your spot in bed.

You weren’t there.

“No,” he breathed, his breath shaky and scared. “No. Y/n?” He got out of bed in a flash. “Y/n!” It’s a dream, it has to be!

Bo flew down the steps and rounded the corner towards the kitchen. He lets out a tired sigh when he sees you with a pint of ice cream on the counter and a spoon in your mouth. You looked back at him like a deer in the head lights before eating your ice cream again.

“Baby,” he stammers as he enter the room. He starts to cry when he hugs you tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut as he liters you with quick kisses. “Darlin’, don’t leave lik’ ‘at again.”

You stood confused but you hug him. You rubbed his back and let him cry in your shoulder. “Where’s this coming from?” You asked. “Nightmare?”

He doesn’t say anything as he sobs in your shoulder. He thought he lost you. He thought you and Dallas were gone for good. He can’t lose you… he can’t. “Don’t leave me. Never leave.” He let’s up and rested his head against your forehead. “Never leave.”

You run his fingers through his curls and nod. “I won’t, honeycomb,” you kissed his lips. “I promise.” You look back at the counter then at him. “Baby wants ice cream.”

“Yeah?” He tries to center himself, and you can see he’s really trying.

Then an idea hits.

“I know what’ll cheer you up. Wanna feel something cool?” You take his hands and lower them to your stomach. He looked at you confused then eyes lit up as he felt a little kick. He looked down then back up, mouth a gap. The nightmare that he had soon became a memory as he felt another kick. He laughs nervously and happily, sad tears turning into joy.

“Our-our boy?” He asked in disbelief. “He’s kickin’?”

“And wants ice cream,” you added, nodding at the carton behind him. “He woke me up and brought me to the freezer. I think he wants that.”

He grabs the ice cream and hands it to you. You started wolfing it down, humming in content. You look back up at him, smile, and rested your head on his shoulder. He swings an arm around you before kissing your head.

“Besides,” you started, “the boy needs you. I need you. Jasmine needs you— why would I leave a perfectly good man that loves me?” Your hand held his cheek, and he held it there, kissing the palm. “I love you, Beauregard.”

He leans into you touch. The nightmare tuck behind his brain and never came back. He has love for you. Only you. “I love you more, y/n.”

And what a promise that makes him whole.

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kerokreature · 1 year

Text

Some Sinclair Headcannons because I have brain rot

These are Sinclair Brothers and Reader who cooks for them a lot

Enjoy

Absolutely lost his shit when he found out you know how to cook and cook well because of his little domestic fantasy

Begs you too cook for him and the family like. “Please Darlin’ can you make another pot roast.” “Please sweetheart can you just fix me something and bring it down into town?”

He’s a southern boy, which means you will absolutely absolutely be making him shit like okra? But especially since this Louisiana he’s going to lose it when you make things like Jambalaya, Crayfish, Étouffée etc

If you bake on top of it he’s gonna lose his shit.

Like I think he kinda subtly has a sweet tooth and especially likes snacks

So if you like bake cookies or something he can just munch on during the day? Game fucking over.

He’s going to be such a flirt when you’re cooking or baking

He’s going to be downright dirty bab out it

Regardless of gender he’s going to call his little house wife, emphasis on his.

He’s the most likely to gift you his mom’s old recipe cards

Lester

Coming in with the excited “Shit you can cook too!?”

Loves anything you make

Prepare to work with some road kill, boy straight up said it’s a waste of meat

But road venison is good as hell, you’re gonna be making deer steaks 10/10

He’ll be so gentle about his requests. “My possum do you think it’d be too much trouble to make some soup”

When you make it he’ll shower you in praise and gentle kisses, he’d be so excited, he would eat every bite

He’d be over excited if you ever packed him a lunch like

He’d just give you that big lop sided grin, turn those soft eyes on you and kiss your forehead. He’d be so so touched

He’s a good respectful southern boy so he wouldn’t go in your kitchen while you’re cooking.

If you also bake boy would he be excited, I picture him losing his mind for cakes especially

Like a rich chocolate cake that’s really spongy and some coffee?? Oh yeah that’s the life

Vincent

He would think it’s beautiful that you cook

He would love to watch you cook, he’d likely sketch you doing so

I feel like he’d bring you cookbooks and recipe cards

He’d be so delicate if you let him help, carefully handing you herbs and spices and watching the perfect mixture you’re creating

Even if you’re a chaotic ass cook (see: author) he’d think you’re perfect, that it’s even more of an art form that you can be so messy and make perfect food

He wouldn’t ever allow you to say something didn’t turn out right. You are not allowed to doubt your cooking, your art . He won’t have it.

He’d be gentle in shushing you, sighing at you that it’s perfect, and he’d make sure you saw him eat every last bite.

I don’t think he’d request things per se unless you asked him what he wanted and then he’d probably sign his response after some thought.

He’s shower you in affection over what you make him, and likely make you something as a gift in return

He doesn’t have as much of a sweet tooth as the other two but he’d still love if you bake

I think his favorite would be Beignets.

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adalwolfgang · 10 months

Text

Just a little snippet of something I’m working on….

“Do it,” he taunted, his smile turning smug.

Typical. Men always thought they knew everything.

“Alright,” she said, and punched him square in the face.

#reader insert #x reader #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #bo sinclair #slashers x reader #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair house of wax #house of wax x reader #bo sinclair x female reader #bo sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair fluff #bo sinclair smut #bo sinclair fanfiction #brian van holt

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emmyfairy · 10 months

Text

Sound of Rain

Bo Sinclair x reader

guys I’m so soft for him 😩 feedback welcome!

not my gif

Rain was pattering down on the roof, the tinny sound echoing inwards towards the kitchen, melding with the soft snores of a dog, scraping of firm hands whittling a chunk of wood, and the shuffling of sleeves against canvas.

The temperature was a bit cool as you stepped outside, a slight humidity hanging in the air, a calmness caressed your being as your eyes settled onto what you were searching for.

Bo sat in one of the porch’s creaky chairs, posture relaxed and settled, cigarette in hand, beer on the small table next to him.

He looked peaceful, a look he didn’t often sport regrettably.

You let the door clack behind you, wanting to alert the man of your presence, though, you could never startle him, he’s always been far too aware of his surroundings for that, especially with you. He could sense whenever you’re near, he says it’s instinct, you say it’s love.

Luckily he acknowledges your presence with him on the porch, tilting his head back, not looking at you, but opening up his bubble of calm.

You find yourself in the chair next to his, the table in between the pair of you, no one says anything, choosing instead to listen to the rain.

After a few minutes of listening to the pitter-pattering, and watching the droplets splash, you turn your gaze towards Bo. Your eyes trace the lines of his face, handsome angles you know well, jaw less tense than normal, curls soft and pliant without product.

His eyebrow closest to you quirks, a silent question, he was fighting a small smirk from forming, he’d never admit it but he loves when you watch him like this, it makes him feel loved.

You give a small hum, not wanting to say the wrong thing and ruin the aura of the moment.

Turning your eyes towards his drink, finding parallels between the falling rain and the dripping condensation on the glass, you reach out to take a sip.

The taste is a bit bitter on your tongue, but knowing he had already drunk from it made it sweeter.

He doesn’t say anything, simply raising his cigarette to take a puff, knowing he’d give you anything you could ever ask for, no matter what.

The rain begins to beat down heavier than before, a mist ricocheting from the drops hitting the wooden floor in front of your chairs.

Bo shifts, and you can’t help but feel a sadness creeping in, knowing this moment of perfection was ending.

You watch him, as you do, he reaches out, flicking his cigarette away, and gulping down the last dregs of the beer. Placing the empty glass back down onto the table he stands, eyes burrowing into yours, until you stand as well.

Tilting his head as he looks at you, Bo seems uncharacteristically soft, not that you were complaining, but it isn’t often he lets his guard down so much, especially outside of the sanctity of your shared bedroom.

You’re broken from your thoughts when the man wraps his large hand around yours, warmth spreading from the heat of his palm despite the cold glass he’d just been holding.

“C’mon darlin, let’s get ya to bed.”

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair imagine #slashers x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax #house of wax fanfiction #sinclair brothers #bo sinclair x gender neutral reader #my wiritng

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fandom-imagines · 7 months

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Bad idea, right?

Fandom: House of Wax

Pairing: Ex!Bo Sinclair x Reader

Warnings: Exes-to-Lovers, implied nsfw, mainly dialogue, reader doesn't know about Ambrose, not proofread.

Inspired by bad idea right by Olivia Rodrigo!

Seeing the name ‘Bo Sinclair’ pop up in her phone a couple of months after they had officially ended things was not something that Y/N expected during her night-in with her friends.

As the four of them were seated around her best friend’s coffee table, the loud text-tone of Y/N’s phone broke the conversation that they were having and at first, she seriously debated ignoring it.

“It can’t be anybody important,” she said to the group. “It’s probably just my boss asking me to work a shift tomorrow!”

The three girlfriends giggled, each raising their eyebrow in a questioning manner.

“Just answer it!” One said, tossing the woman’s phone to her, one which she caught with expert accuracy.

“Fine.” She huffed, a sound which was cut short when she read the texters name.

Thankfully, nobody noticed the way her eyes widened in both shock and confusion, the emotions intensifying the moment her phone began ringing.

Bo Sinclair is calling.

Answer. Decline.

It was at that moment Y/N realised that she had never changed his contact image. It was still a photo she took of him whilst they were drunk in Ambrose.

“Sorry,” she muttered to the group, leaving the room to answer the call.

It was as though her body was on autopilot as she answered the phone, his name falling from her lips just as easily as it had when they were a couple.

“Bo? I haven’t heard from you in a couple of months, is everything okay?” Y/N asked, assuming it must be bad for him to call her. After all, he was the one who broke up with her after they had an argument about him keeping secrets from her.

The line was silent for a moment, and she wondered if he had changed his mind, realised his mistake, and hung up. That was, until he spoke.

It wasn’t anything huge, just her name, but it was enough to have her heart racing, past feelings resurfacing at the sound.

“That’s me,” came her response, a forced chuckle shortly following.

“You should come over.” He said.

“What…?”

“You heard me.”

The door to the room she was previously in opened, startling Y/N. She knew then that she had been caught, cheeks flushed and hands shaking; she simply prayed they wouldn’t judge her too much.

“Y/N?” Her best friend asked, smirking as she took in the appearance of the woman on the phone.

“Think about it, Darling. I’ve texted you my new address.” Were Bo’s final words as he hung up the phone, the device suddenly feeling one-hundred times heavier than before.

“Is everything okay?” Rachel, her best and closest friend, asked with concern. “Who was that?”

With a harsh swallow, Y/N spoke. “That was Bo.”

“Bo? As in your ex? What did he want?”

“He wants me to go over, just moved or something.”

“At this time? You can’t seriously be considering it, Y/N! He’s your ex-boyfriend, for crying out loud!” Rachel exclaimed in shock, remembering how heartbroken her friend was when Bo broke up with her.

“Yes, I know that he’s my ex, but can’t two people reconnect?” Y/N asked. “I only see him as a friend!” The biggest lie I ever said, being her immediate thought after she finished speaking.

“You can’t be serious?” Rachel was clearly unimpressed with Y/N’s choices but knew she was in no spot to say anything; everyone makes bad choices. “It’s a bad idea, right, but I can’t stop you.”

With a smile, Y/N spoke. “Fuck it, it’s fine.”

With a smile on her own face, Rachel repeated her words. “Fuck it, it’s fine.”

As she reached Bo’s new house in Ambrose, she hadn’t expected him to be stood at the door with a small smirk, giving her reason to believe to he had been waiting for her to pull up.

“What did you tell your friends?” He asked, widening the door for her to enter the house.

“That I was going home to sleep,”

“Well, you never said where or that you were in my sheets. I guess you could say you just tripped and fell into it.” He joked, still smirking.

“Seeing you tonight, it’s a bad idea, right?” Y/N spoke aloud, watching the way Bo’s smirk widened at her internal debate. “I should probably not.”

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” He said, as though he had heard the previous conversation with Rachel.

Watching Y/N stood in front of him once again had Bo’s chest feeling a way that he wasn’t used to feeling. He didn’t miss her, no, no way! He only saw her as a friend, somebody to hook up with! The biggest lie he ever said.

Y/N watched as he stared at her, seemingly too deep in thought to even notice her moving towards him. Judging by the way he flinched as her hands landed on his shoulders, she knew he hadn’t been paying attention at all.

Bo, who was now well-aware of her touch, leant in to connect their lips, his arm wrapping around her waist in an instant. The feeling of her lips against his after months apart had both parties reacting in ways that they didn’t know were humanly possible.

One of Y/N’s hands moved from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers interlocking with his hair, tugging sharply as Bo bit on her lower, drawing a moan from her. Bo’s free hand reached to toy with the fabric of her shirt, tugging it over her head.

“Should we go upstairs?”

Neither of them knew how to react.

Bo, who wasn’t exactly the best at expressing his emotions, watched as the woman he still loved prepared to leave. He didn’t want her to but didn’t know how to express that without seeming ‘weak’.

“You don’t need to go,” Bo muttered, almost too quiet for Y/N to hear.

“What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Bo knew he had to tell her the truth, no matter how much he didn’t want to. “I don’t want you to leave. Not again.” He admitted, cheeks warming at the confession.

“You… don’t?” She asked him, genuine curiosity and confusion in her orbs. “Why?”

“Because… Fuck are you really going to make me say it?”

“Say what, Bo?”

“Because I still love you, okay!?” He yelled, and he was grateful that Vincent was visiting Lester that night. “I mean, fuck, I’m- I’m sorry, all right? I shouldn’t have lied to you, but I was scared what you would say if you knew the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“Everything! The town, Vincent, Lester, me…. If you knew the truth, you’d never look at me the same.”

As Y/N stared at him, concern evident, Bo winced slightly. He wasn’t exactly used to expressing his emotions, especially not these types of emotions, but as she moved to sit beside him, he couldn’t stop the words leaving his lips.

“Please don’t leave again, Y/N…”

“I won’t, Bo, but only if you tell me the truth.”

#idk what this is #house of wax #house of wax x reader #house of wax imagine #house of wax imagines #house of wax fanfic #house of wax fanfiction #house of wax smut #house of wax bo #house of wax bo sinclair #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair imagine #bo sinclair imagines #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair fanfic #bo sinclair smut #olivia rodrigo

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a-writer-on-elm-street · 1 year

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Shows Of Affection With Bo:

(obviously these are all my own opinions so if you don't agree then that's totally fine just please don't hate👍😊)

It's very rare he'll allow hugs and if he ever does let you hug him, it's incredibly awkward, like his body will be so stiff against yours it's like hugging a sheet of cardboard.

Although there have been a couple of times when he's been able to easily melt into your embrace, his hands resting comfortably on the small of your back, his chin resting on top of your head. This usually occurs during rare moments when he lets his guard down, when he allows himself to be vulnerable with you.

A lot of the time if you're sitting close to him, he'll have his hand resting on your thigh. He doesn't even do it intentionally anymore, it's just instinct at this point. And you still can't decide if it's his way of showing affection or his way of staking claim. Or maybe it's a mix of both? Either way, you'd rather not question it.

Whilst he remains incredibly awkward with hugging, he'll never say no to kissing. Although he's never satisfied with a simple peck, he has to practically devour you when he kisses you.

When there's no one around, he'll let you hold his hand, might even let you play with the ring on his finger if you're lucky.

When you finally tell him you love him, he'll probably just scoff before telling you to shut your mouth. But inside, he's probably losing his shit because no one's told him that in so long. And he definitely didn't expect you to be the one saying it.

It'll definitely take him a lot longer to say "I love you", simply because he's afraid of making a fool of himself. And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's afraid to love someone, because everyone else has left him, with the exception of his brothers.

But when he finally does say "I love you", he absolutely makes it difficult. He'll be on his way out one morning and you'll hear him mutter something under his breath. You could've swore he just said he loved you, but that couldn't have been right, could it?

You'll find yourself chasing after him, catching him just as he's about to get into his truck and leave. "Did I hear that right?" You'll ask, noticing how he immediately looks away from you. "Hear what? I didn't say nothin'." "You just said you love me. I heard you!" He'll just readjust his cap on his head and jump into his truck before telling you to shut up, and then he'll drive away like nothing ever happened. But you don't care, because he loves you.

[Main Masterlist] [Bo Masterlist]

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mothmanwife · 1 year

Text

Scars

Bo Sinclair x Reader (NSFW, reader has a vagina, mentions of past child abuse)

Somehow, you got lost in the middle of nowhere in the deep south. Louisiana ? Florida? You really aren’t sure where you are considering your GPS isn’t even registering your location. You scan your surroundings and see nothing but your busted car and a thicket of deep greenery on all sides. This was not in your plans. Considering how the car would struggle to start when you turned the key, you’ve guessed that the battery was dead. Carefully, taking a small knife and your keys with a pepper-spray keychain attached, you decided to walk to the nearest road. A beat up Chevy truck eventually pulled up and the stench of roadkill emanated from it. Reflexively, you covered your nose as the truck pulled up beside you. A man rolls down his window, smiling at you. For some reason, a chill runs down your spine, and you remove your hand from your nose so as to not seem rude. “You looking for some help?” He offered. Normally, you wouldn’t talk to strangers, but this was dire.

“Yeah, actually. Do you know where I could get a car battery?”

His smile widens, the creepy air about him growing thicker, “Sure, I know a guy. I could take ya to him… Ambrose ain’t that far from here.”

Hesitantly, you sigh. You’ve seen plenty of horror movies where an unexpecting person goes missing forever in this exact scenario. Unfortunately, there seems to be no other way. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

Without much fanfare, you open the passenger door and sidle into the seat. An awkward silence fills the truck for a few minutes before you politely ask, ”Could you roll down a window? It’s a bit hot.”

The man nods and begins to roll his window down, ”Sorry about that,” he adds.

“It’s alright, thanks,” You answer, a bit unsure of how to continue. You figure you could at least make some small talk and ask, ”What’s your name?”

His eyes widened in surprise, his eyebrows raising. He must not get asked that question very often.

“You can call me Lester,” he chirps, as if you made his day. When he pulls up to the edge of town, you catch a glimpse of the town named Ambrose.

“Thank you, Lester. I appreciate it.”

“It ain’t nothing,” he bashfully replies. He hops back into the truck and waves you off as you enter Ambrose and start your search for the mechanic. You wander around the small town, the empty streets making you feel especially alone. A gas station catches your eyes and you make your way over there quickly, only to find no one there. You searched around, calling out for assistance, but to no avail. Suddenly, you can hear faint organ music playing from a nearby church. You found it odd that church would be in session at this hour on a weekday, but pay it no mind any further, given you’re in the deep south. You push on the church doors lightly, peeking inside for only a moment before seeing a man on his knees at a wake. Quickly, you shut the door and walk away, embarrassed for peeking into a funeral. Not long after, the man at the wake barges out.

“What’dya thinking of doing interrupting a funeral for?”

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been looking everywhere for this mechanic..I just want to get back home before dark… I’m so sorry…” You explain, tears welling up in your eyes. You were far from home and so afraid; with him yelling at you, the pressure began to finally get to you. His expression softens slightly, but then scoffs and shakes his head.

After a moment, he sighs,“Alright, I’ll meet ya at the station after the service is finished.” He slinks back into the church, closing the door tightly behind. After a bit of waiting, you decide to check the rest of the town out. The wax museum had caught your attention, but you tried to abstain considering it seemed closed. Trespassing was not on your list for the day, but then again, none of this was. Against your better judgment, you cave into your impulsivity and decide to go inside. Your jaw begins to drop as you gawk at everything around you. The walls, floors, and ceilings were made of wax as well as the lifelike figures on display. Cautiously, you tip-toe through the exhibit, trying your best not to bump into any of the art pieces. A tingling feeling of dread washed over you as you noticed the eyes of the figures seemed like they were following you as you made your way around the exhibit. The artwork was so intricate and detailed that it intrigued you, but the feeling of being alone in a room full of lifelike sculptures was enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot two matching high chairs. They were the only objects in the entire museum that didn’t seem to be made from wax. You could tell that they were aged quite a bit, but what really caught your attention was the restraints on the one labeled ‘Bo’. You wondered if this was part of the exhibit in the museum, and if so, why? A shiver overcame you as you began to get even more creeped out being alone in a closed wax museum. Walking out, you head back to the mechanic’s shop. It was still empty and you started to wonder if the man who ran the place would ever return. You slip your phone out of your pocket again in hopes that maybe you could catch a signal, but to no avail. A couple of hours have already gone by since you arrived in this small town. You sigh deeply, sliding your cell back into your jeans. Suddenly, the man you met at the church appears behind you, announcing himself by clearing his throat.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to keep ya waiting. Had to finish some things up, y know how funerals are.” His tone seemed friendly but the sneer he gave made you feel guilty once again.

“It’s no trouble at all, really. And sorry, again.. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s alright, the person was just… close to me, is all. Anyway, what can I help ya for?”

“I’m looking for a car battery”

“Well, I can’t just go off just that, can I? What kinda car d’ya got?”

“I have a 2000 Honda Civic…”

A smirk creeps onto his lips as he replies, ”Well, darlin’, I don’t have the battery you need here at the shop, but I’ll give you a ride to the house. I get my shipments there.”

“It’s okay, I’ll wait here,” You barter, not wanting to go to this man’s house. It’s already bad enough you’re stuck in a town you’ve never heard of with no cell-phone reception, but now he wanted to take you to his own domicile? This seemed like a bad idea.

The man runs his hand through his slicked back hair, shaking his head a little before saying, “I wouldn’t want to leave you alone. There’s some real crazies out there. Besides, you did need to get home before dark, right?”

The mechanic’s blue eyes scanned you up and down, and you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. You gripped the pepper spray in your pocket for reassurance. In truth, he was quite attractive, but something seemed off. You mull it over, weighing out the pros and cons. It was true that you needed to get the battery and be on your way home as soon as possible, and staying any longer in this town gave you the creeps. Given the circumstances, you reluctantly agreed to follow yet another stranger to another location. You hopped into his black Chevy truck, which at least seemed to be in better condition than your last ride. Uncomfortable silence filled the confined space making time seem to slow. Trying to pass the time, you decided to attempt small talk. You had hoped that maybe it’d break the ice, and that it’d calm your nerves. He wouldn’t be a stranger anymore once you get to know him better, right?

“So, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, I been living in Ambrose my whole life. This town means everything to me.”

He sounded so proud of his hometown, you wondered if maybe this town has more going for it than originally thought. The man’s warm drawl seemed almost inviting; it’s apparent he’s probably popular with the ladies. You caught him glancing over at you and he grinned, his tone flirtatious, “Enough about me, tell me about yourself, beautiful. You’re obviously not from around here, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“You mean, other than a car battery?”

He snickered at your sarcasm, the awkwardness slowly started to dissipate between the two of you.

“Of course,” he chuckled. A hum escaped your lips, as you pondered over actually telling him what you were traveling for. Did he seem trustworthy? If he weren’t, you wouldn’t have gotten in the truck with him, right? You decided to play coy, not fully wanting to go into detail.

“That’s a secret,” you chuckled. He raised an eyebrow at you, smirking slightly.

“Oh? Is that so? That doesn’t seem very fair, darlin’. I answered your question, it’d only be right for you to answer mine.” His smile was too charming to resist, so you caved.

“Fine,” you huffed, playfully, “I guess I’ll just have to tell you, then.” He darted his eyes towards you, glancing at you with a shit-eating grin before focusing back on the road.

“I’m waiting, sweetheart.”

You nudged him gently, giggling. “Well, I was on my way to a convention when my car went out on me. You know the rest, yeah?”

“What kind of convention?”

“Now, now. It’s my turn to ask a question again.” “Shoot.” You thought of a question to ask, your eyes starting to wander across his body. His face was attractive with a pronounced jawline and his blue eyes glued to the road. Due to your proximity, you took notice of the smell of cigarettes and cologne. The smell of mild tobacco with the sandalwood cologne was intoxicating. Your eyes trailed down his body and settled to look at his hands on the steering wheel and that’s when your eyes caught it. You noticed his wrists peeking out of his sleeves; they were marked with raised scars, the coloration slightly off from the rest of him. Your mind started to race, so many inquiries bubbling to the surface now that you couldn’t think straight, your lips slightly parted but no words would come out. The man glanced back over when he noticed where you were looking. He began to bristle, sneering at you with a soured expression. “What the hell you starin’ at?” He snaps.

“Nothing! I was just wondering… I, uh, never caught your name.” You meekly responded, trying to smooth things over again. He gave you a quizzical look, not sure what you’re playing at before answering.

“Name’s Bo, Ambrose’s finest mechanic.” He smirked, fake bravado filled his voice. The realization hit you, everything clicking into place. Could the seat you saw at the museum have been made to confine a real child then? And that child is the man sitting next to you right now? He noticed your hesitation and gave you a dark look. A gnawing feeling of guilt panged your chest, knowing that he must have gone through some horrific things as a child. You understood what it felt like to have been treated wrongly as a child, so you offered him comfort.

“Oh… that must mean…I’m so sorry.” Words jumbled from your mouth, not able to properly form your thoughts. You reached out to touch his hand, to which he jolted back.

“Hey now, missy, you’re getting the wrong idea,” he hissed defensively. He slammed on the brakes and unlocked the doors.

“Bo, I know what it’s like…” You plead to him, trying to show him compassion. Bo was helping you out, you felt like you owed him the human decency of kindness, something he probably wasn’t used to. Besides, your parents treated you unfairly as a child, too. You were fully aware of how it can affect someone.

“You don’t know shit, get the hell out of my truck.” He yelled, his face red with rage. You hesitated for a moment, but then furrowed your brows. You begrudgingly slid out of the truck before slamming the door behind you.

“Fine! I don’t need you anyway, asshole!” You lied. He quickly drove off, leaving you behind. The dust and exhaust flew up into your face, causing you to cough and sputter. Once you caught your breath, you huffed and sat on the ground by the road. You started to wonder if maybe you could just cut your losses and hitch-hike back home. You noticed no other cars were passing by, except you did see a familiar black Chevy start to come back your way. Bo pulled up by you again, rolling down his window.

“Why’d you turn around?” You asked.

“You still need a car battery, and I’m the only mechanic in town. Hop in.”

At this, your eyes grew wide and you took this chance to get back into the truck. Once you got into the truck, he took a deep breath before turning to look at you. “Did you mean what you said? You understand this?” He pulled back his sleeves to reveal the scars clearer, a look of repressed anger and hurt welling up behind his eyes. The pained expression and his watery eyes broke your heart; his openness was shocking, although you understand the need for connection. This example of genuine vulnerability pushed you to share your story with him as well.

“I had parents who abused me as a child, as well… The scars they leave aren’t just physical, they’re mental too,” you softly replied, “It’s not your fault…” “I was always the bad kid, the scapegoat, the evil twin…” He admitted, his chest heaving as the raw feelings he had been suppressing started to surface. You gingerly took his hand in yours, rubbing your thumb against his skin.

“Sometimes, the ones we seek validation from the most are the ones who torture us by withholding it.” You murmured. “But you don’t have to seek out their validation anymore. You’re your own person, and I know we just met, but…”

Bo cut you off by gently kissing you on the lips. Your eyes fluttered in shock, but you melted into the kiss, wrapping your hands around him. Thinking went out the door a while ago, and you were only relying on your instincts now. He pulled away and stared into your eyes, his face showcasing the relief he felt. Your heart began to pound, giving into the irrational urges consuming your mind. In that moment, you had to have him. Lips crashed into each other, sloppy and wet with wanton desire. His large, calloused hands began to ghost over your body, eliciting soft sighs to escape your lips.

“You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve seen pass through this town…” He whispered into your ear. Goosebumps covered your skin, a heat rushed down to your pubic area. You could feel your slit begin to get slick at his attention, body begging for more. He pulled away for a moment, but only to pull you into the backseats of his truck. He began to palm at your breasts, squeezing gently.

“Tell me what you want,” Bo breathlessly commanded. His eyes were transfixed onto your face, boring into your eyes. Bo was as enamored by you as you were him, and the look in his eyes pushed you over the edge.

“Give it to me, Bo. I need you to fuck me.” You begged, practically mewling for his member to be shoved inside you. This was all he needed to hear as he ripped your clothes off and started to rub his member against your aching slit. He slowly teased the entrance before rubbing it against your sensitive nub. Bo smirked as you shuddered underneath his touch; he enjoyed every moment of teasing you, making you want him more and more. Then, suddenly, he slipped his cock in slowly as he watched the face you made, grinning to himself. You softly moaned at him entering you, feeling the walls of your entrance stretch.

“Fuck… you’re thick…” You muttered. He chuckled darkly, beginning to pick up the speed. You felt every movement and every twitch inside you, hitting the right nerves to make you cry out. You tried to hide your face in embarrassment as his cock hit deep inside you, almost ashamed at how good he was making you feel. Bo couldn’t have that, though. “I want to see it. I want to see that pretty face.” He grabbed your wrists and pulled them away from your face, now pinning them onto the seat with one hand. He smirked, taking in the view again.

“I love watching your eyes roll back, and watching those lips of yours part as you moan…” He uttered out between grunts. He started to fuck you harder, taking his free hand to rub against your throbbing clit. The pleasure was building up, you could tell you were about to hit the climax soon. You cried out his name as your hole clenched around his member upon release. His rhythm got faster, taking full advantage of your tightening pussy, letting it milk him dry. Suddenly, you felt his hot, thick cum release into you. He collapsed on top of you, gasping for breath, holding you close.

“So, you want to take a vacation in Ambrose?”

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #house of wax #bo sinclair fanfiction #house of wax 2005 #house of wax fanfiction #slasher x reader #slasher imagines #first time writing a fanfic in a while be nice #my writing

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creepswrites · 11 months

Note

Dear, writter

May i've a request for Thomas hewitt, Bubba Sawyer,bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Vince Sinclair, With a hot wife fem reader, I want to see their life being a father to a hot fem reader. Because that is my dream. 💫Fluff💫

Please.... Your writing is so gorgeous 💋💋 master 🌹🌹🌹

Thank you so much

From your followers:

@kawaistrawberry21

awww i'm glad you like my writing!! hopefully you enjoy this :D

SLASHERS with a F! S/O who is their hot wife

THOMAS HEWITT

Everyone in town was shocked when you and Thomas got married

Thomas included but he never said anything about it

His family thought you were way out of his league, Hoyt was never afraid to comment on this to your face

But you love Thomas, he was a good man

So when he'd finally, finally, proposed to you, of course you'd said yes

When he found out you were having his child? He was over the moon

Luda May was almost as overjoyed, already making arrangements for the baby's room, making clothes, etc

She couldn't wait to be a grandmother and Thomas couldn't wait to be a father

When the baby's due date was getting closer, you could tell Thomas was nervous about if the baby would come out looking like him

But you reassured him that, no matter what your baby looked like, you would love it the same way you loved him

He was good with the baby, so gentle and patient, always happy to help when it cried

If Hoyt ever tried to give either of you a hard time, Thomas actually violently defended you, sometimes tossing Hoyt across the room with one arm

He'd never let anything hurt you or your baby

BUBBA SAWYER

Like Thomas, everyone was surprised when you and Bubba got married

Though his family were far more excited about it! After all, their brother was quite the catch

You got along well with his family even before you moved in, with Chop Top and Nubbins always commenting to Bubba how lucky he was to have such a hot wife

It always made your husband get all flustered, babbling soft nonsense. He was cute

When you got pregnant, Bubba and the Sawyer family were over the moon

Family was extremely important to them and they were happy for you and Bubba

When Nubbins made a very ugly little hat for the baby, you accepted it but told him gently it'd be too big for their head but that you'd grow into it. He was excited about that prospect

Chop Top and Drayton helped Bubba set up the nursery so you could just relax

And when the baby was born, Bubba was so scared of holding something so fragile and precious

But you helped him, guiding his arms to hold the baby, and he was in shock and awe

He'd never thought he'd get married, much less to someone as gorgeous as you, and have a child together

Bubba was a nervous father, usually letting your kid get away with anything so you had to be the rule-setter when it came to the kid

His brothers were menaces when it came to babysitting their niece or nephew

But both you and Bubba were happy. He'd protect you both, no matter what

BO SINCLAIR

Honestly? This was a major win in Bo's mind

If you think he doesn't show off for you, you're wrong. That man takes every opportunity to

He also definitely flexed to his brothers about scoring the hottest wife ever

Of course, his brothers were very nice and respectful with you, though Bo wouldn't let them be too friendly

He's got a jealousy streak

Whenever visitors arrive to Ambrose, he's always got his arm around you or bragging about you when you're not around

He's whipped, you've got him wrapped around your finger

But when you tell him your pregnant, you're shocked at how scared he becomes

Of course, he doesn't show it visibly, but you know your husband and you can tell when he's nervous about something

Eventually, when he starts trying to pull away from you, you corner him and make him talk

Some yelling and fighting ensues but he caves, confessing he's scared he wouldn't be a good father. I mean, he didn't exactly have the best role model and he didn't want you or your babies to suffer for it

But you reminded him you were in this together and he'd relax a little

You had twins, because of course you did, but this only seemed to make Bo all the more anxious

He didn't exactly... know what to do with a baby? He'd never really been around infants so he's looking to you for help on this one

When they're a bit older though, he'll let them hang out in the auto shop with him when he works

One day you come home to find him asleep on the couch with the twins curled up on his chest and you just melt

He's a good dad and a good husband

VINCENT SINCLAIR

Vincent was shocked you'd said yes when he proposed

He didn't consider himself attractive in the slightest but you said yes?!

I mean, you were stunning, he'd stared at you constantly even when you were dating and it certainly didn't stop when you were married

Bo and Lester were definitely jealous, teasing him to see him get flustered over how lucky he was

Unlike Bo, when he found out you were pregnant, he was excited

Nervous, absolutely, but everyone is nervous when they're having their first kid

He's so wary for you though, nearly had you on bedrest the entire pregnancy because he feared the worst

One time he caught you standing on a chair to reach something and he nearly had a conniption

But the twins came - because of course they were twins - and were healthy and beautiful

Vincent is so gentle with them, like they're the most precious things in the world to them

He makes little wax sculptures for their room to decorate it

Definitely encourages and supports creative hobbies for the kids! He gets them finger paints and crayons and the like

You've woken up in the night because of the babies crying but Vincent is already up, ready to help

Vincent's mastered carrying them both with an arm each and its very cute

Sometimes you catch him holding one of the twins and humming softly to them as they sleep in his arms, just swaying together in the kitchen

You feel so lucky but he feels even luckier to have you and your kids

LESTER SINCLAIR

Lester is by far the most... stable? So you'd been instantly drawn to that about him

He'd always get so flustered, bringing you flowers and blushing like a madman while you were dating

It took him the longest to propose to you though, he always felt like you were waaaay out of his league

Visitors came and would gawk at you and he'd feel a twinge of jealousy at the reminder that yeah, you could have anyone

But he did propose to you and you said yes because you wanted him, not anyone else

Neither of you had any shame in PDA, often holding hands or kissing in front of visitors

You lived with Lester and Jonesy in a little house on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by trees and very peaceful compared to the horrors of Ambrose

It had actually been Lester who suggested having a kid or two running around. After all, he had two older brothers so he was used to that business in a house with lots of people living in it

Over time, the two of you would have two kids, but they weren't twins

Lester was a good dad too! He was attentive and loving but he didn't let them get away with too much

He'd teach them how to shoot when they were a bit older because it was a fond memory he had with his own dad

Of course, Lester didn't have the best dad to draw comparison to

But at least he knew what not to do. Surely that counted for something?

You'd come home from working a short shift to find Lester and the kids playing in the backyard, running about with Jonesy as they played soccer

Both you and Lester would do anything for your kids and you knew he'd do anything for you

#🔪 creeps writes #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher x s/o #house of wax #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #the texas chainsaw massacre #bubba sawyer #bubba sawyer x reader #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #leatherface x you

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kiss-theggoat · 8 months

Note

Okay it’s a sad request but you know the slashers reacting to s/o being hurt? Can you do a slashers reaction to s/o thought to be killed by one of their victims. Only if you are comfortable with it of course!

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! Some of these might be a little out of character, so I apologize, but I hope you like it! 🖤

Slashers if Their S/O Was Badly Injured

Slashers Included: Thomas Hewitt, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Asa Emory, Michael Meyers, Sinclair Brothers

TW: VIOLENCE AND DEATH

Thomas Hewitt:

When Hoyt and Thomas brought home a group of teenagers going through Texas, one of the men got free and ran into the kitchen where you and Luda Mae were preparing dinner. He stole a knife from Luda, shoving her to the ground where she hit her head and it left you, held at knifepoint. You tried to lunge at him, but the knife entered your stomach, twisting and gnashing at your skin and muscle.

Hoyt finally came in, shooting the man who held the knife. You collapsed with him, blood pouring from your wound onto the tile and soaking into your clothes.

Thomas shoved Hoyt aside, hands trembling and eyes already welling with tears. His chest felt like a black hole as he watched you grow more pale by the second. With shaking hands he rolled you over, placing your head in his lap. He reached down to put pressure on the wound, unable to stifle his cries as he watched blood gush from between his fingers.

You started to cough and sputter, blood leaking from the side of your lips as he leaned down, unclipping his mask. His pressed gentle kisses to your eyelids as they grew heavier, holding you in his lap as he watched you fade away.

Billy Loomis:

You’d been at Stu’s party, but you weren’t supposed to be part of the plan. Billy walked around the house, making sure that everyone was dealt with before going to find Sydney. He stopped in his tracks when one body looked familiar.

He dropped to his knees, knife clattering away from him as he touched your shoulders gently. He whispered your name, watching as you bled onto the floor. You could barely breathe, slowly taking in wheezy breaths.

“Billy?” You whispered in horror, realizing that he’d been the one involved with your death. Billy’s jaw tensed as he leaned closer to you.

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be here.” He whispered, placing his hand gently on your cheek for a moment before he stood, retrieving his knife.

Stu Macher:

Stu had let you in on his and Billy’s plan, and when Billy agreed to let you help, he was ecstatic.

But on the night of, everything went wrong. It was the time to give each other injuries, and you stood there, holding the knife nervously, hesitant to stab Billy. You moved forward and plunged the knife into him, but at the last second you closed your eyes, accidentally stabbing him too deep. Billy fumed, growling at you to give him the knife.

When it was your turn, you’d wanted Stu to do it, but Billy insisted. He shoved the knife into your stomach, not even trying to hide the fact he has bad intentions.

Stu yelled, shoving Billy away from you and hanging onto you as you fell to the ground. He apologized profusely for getting you involved, crying as he moved your hair gently out of your face, holding you as you closer your eyes even though Billy yelled at him to get up.

Asa Emory:

You’d probably be in the house of traps when someone got free from the red box. They snuck into the room that you occupied, at first thinking you were a victim. You played along until you tried to maneuver them towards another trap, and instead, they shoved you into it.

You fell onto the ground right on top of a two by two foot mat full of nails. They stabbed through your chest, and you screamed in pain, trying to push yourself up off the nails but the pain was too intense.

Asa heard you and immediately knew where you were, maneuvering through his house to get to you. The victim was long gone by now, leaving you and Asa in silence. He was full of rage, eyes twinkling with anger and sadness. There was nothing he could do now, except for take it out on the rest of the victims inside the house.

Michael Meyers:

You hadn’t seen Michael for a while, and it was making you nervous. He usually came by your house daily, but it’d been almost a week. You went by the Meyers house at night, slinking inside to try to find Michael.

A searing pain radiated through your back, and as you slowly turned around you saw Michael’s eyes through his mask, wide and could tell how heavy he was breathing. You looked back and saw his signature knife protruding from your back, warm blood soaking into your jeans. You fell forward, coughing as you felt your chest starting to tighten.

Michael looked down at you before kneeling, a large hand touching the top of your back softly. He didn’t know what to do. He leaned down and looked at you in the eyes, watching them go still. His grip tightened on your shirt. He didn’t know how to process the fact that he’d hurt the only person he’d actually cared about.

Sinclair Brothers:

A stray survivor escaped Bo’s basement, spotting you. They were so on guard they didn’t even bother to talk to you, instead, they grabbed a wrench from Bo’s work bench and hit you across the face, making you fall to the ground immediately.

You had no idea what happened next, but all three Sinclair brothers surrounded you, kneeling. Bo grabbed your face gently, inspecting your wound when Lester said something to him, sounding panicked. Your ears were ringing and your vision was blurry. Bo couldn’t panic. He had to be calm, but Lester started to shake at seeing you bleeding.

Your cheek and upper eye socket was cut open, a sizeable gash leaking blood down your face and neck. Your entire face felt like it was on fire and your vision was shaking, it felt like you couldn’t think straight.

Vincent leaned down closer to your face, inspecting the wound gently, knowing that it was pretty severe. With shaky hands he held your cheeks, wiping some blood away from your eye gently.

“Don’t worry, Darlin…we’ll get you all patched up.” Bo whispered.

#slasher x reader #slashers #horror movies #horror fanfiction #slasher x y/n #house of wax fanfiction #bo sinclair fanfiction #lester sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #ghostface #billy loomis #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #stu macher #thomas hewitt x reader #asa emory #michael meyers

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slasher-male-wife · 7 months

Text

Horror characters with an s/o who's love language is biting

So I'm sorry for barely posting anything in forever I've just been in a bit of a funk for awhile. Anyway @k1nn1e-0n-ma1n was super insistent I write this so shout out to him and his Bo Sinclair brain rot. This also was slightly inspired by @osirisisv RZ Michael Myers drawing.

Includes: Bo Sinclair, RZ Michael Myers, Otis Driftwood, and Doomhead

Warnings: Violence kind of, Bo and Otis being a perverts kind of

Bo Sinclair

Lester was a biter as a child and Bo has a very high pain tolerance so you biting him doesn't hurt it just surprises him. He honestly didn't know what you did until he looked over and saw you biting his hand.

"The fuck are ya doin'?" He'll ask verbatim. He's not mad, he's just confused as to why at 5:47 on a Tuesday during him watching reruns of some 80's show you decided to bite him.

When you say it's a love language he immediately thinks it's a sex thing. You will quickly shut that down and he'll get a little less excited.

"I still don't understand why ya did that darlin." He'll say before pulling you either on top of him or underneath him and just holding you so you can't bite him again.

On occasion he'll let you bite him again, but if you do it when he doesn't want you too he'll storm off to wherever and ignore you until you make it up to him.

RZ Michael Myers

He has a very high pain tolerance but when he feels you biting him he'll immediately push you off of him or put you in a headlock. He won't let you out either unless you beg him.

He is very confused as to why you bit him, because to his understanding you're not supposed to hurt the people you love.

He's going to probably disappear for a few days to think this over, and because he doesn't want you to bite him again for a little bit. But he'll come back more understanding.

You can bite him, but only when he's prepared and you're willing to 'play fight' because let's be honest, play fighting with Michael is basically him thinking he's playing and you fighting for you life. Could put you in head lock again.

He honestly might just roll up his sleeve and indirectly ask you to bite him. But this will happen after a lot of talking about how biting him means you're not trying to hurt him you just love him.

Otis Driftwood

"Did you just fucking bite me?" He asks you. And honestly no matter where you bite him it's a bad idea because he would taste like cigarettes, blood, and dirt.

Will be mad until you explain you do it because you love him and he'll laugh. Will also think it's a sex thing but you quickly shut that down. He's a little disappointed but doesn't mind too awfully much.

He doesn't mind as long as you give him a proper warning before you do it. If you catch him off guard he'll honestly pull his arm or whatever part of him you bit and leave you alone for a few hours at the least

Because he's a little freak he'll ask you to try and bite him harder than you normally do it to see how much pain he can handle. You can probably draw blood before he tells you to stop.

Overtime he learns to love it and honestly doesn't mind too much anymore. If a victim tries to or actually bites him he'll laugh and tell you about it later. "Don't worry honey, they weren't as good as you."

Doomhead

He’s not exactly lucid all the time so he might not realize you’re biting him at first. When he does realize it he pulls his hand away and laughs about it. "Do I taste good to you or something sweetheart?"

Will tease you about it non-stop. Brings it up all the time even if there's nothing to do with it currently. He'll have a hard time understanding that you're doing it "out of love".

He might honestly buy you a dog chew toy as a joke if you bite him often enough. Or like one of those baby teething toys. He will laugh so hard about it, especially if you get embarrassed about it.

That's not to say he doesn't like when you bite him. He can find the repetitive feeling calming and it honestly might make him feel more lucid at times. But he'd never ask you to do it. He might gives you hints though

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x y/n #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #rz michael myers #otis driftwood x reader #otis driftwood #doomhead x reader #doomhead #slasher x y/n #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction

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visceravalentines · 1 year

Text

What did you do for Easter, Meg? Oh you know, colored eggs and wrote sacrilegious porn, hbu? Couldn't stop thinking about the comments on this post so surprise whores here you go

Worship

Dilf!Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

Bo has a few sins to confess and in the process he commits a whole bunch of new ones.

2.5k words. Smut. Super blasphemy, like so bad, and lots of religious ideas and phrasing. Oral (fem!receiving) and PnV sex in a semi-public extremely inappropriate place w/ creampie at the end bc that's what we deserve. Soft Bo, almost sub Bo if you squint. Reader wears a dress & heels and uses she/her pronouns. Extensive liberties taken with confessional booth architecture and suit pants physics.

A note: this can be read as a non-chronological part of my ongoing dilf Bo series or as a standalone.

You haven't been in this church since you were a teenager. Your eyes wander up and over the stained glass, the soaring rafters. It's a beautiful building, stately, tranquil.

"Got somethin' I need to confess," Bo whispers with his lips against your ear. Goosebumps roll down your skin.

You shoot a sidelong glance down the pew at your parents, less than two feet away. They're holiday Catholics and the sermon has them rapt, like tourists watching a wild animal from the safety of their vehicle.

You incline your head subtly in Bo's direction and hold your breath so you don't miss his next words.

"I can't get you outta my head."

You exhale slowly and shift on the bench, careful not to set the ancient wood creaking. When you sneak a look at him, he's the picture of innocence, taking in the gospel like a man who doesn't need it. You clasp your hands on your lap.

Casually, like he's commenting on the father's delivery, Bo leans in again and murmurs, "Bet you'd let me touch you here, huh? Get my hands under that little skirt...."

You shiver and shift. The bench tattles on you and your mother sends a reprimand your way with her eyes. You tug the hem of your skirt towards your knees and try to channel a modicum of the faux virtue sitting to your left.

He quiets down and behaves himself for just long enough that the flame flickering in your center dies down to an almost-appropriate level, but the heat of his leg against your bare thigh keeps you from turning all your thoughts to God. The weight of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the pew for Communion is a stitch past purity. The look he manages to slip you as the father places the wafer in his open mouth makes you feel like you need to get back in line for a second pass at contrition, and maybe this time you'll mean it.

His hand brushes across your ass as you scoot back into the pew and you think about obedience, how you hate to be told what to do but you'd drop to your knees for him right now, right here, if he'd promise to quell the simmer he's started between your legs.

The father is thanking those who helped prepare the picnic on the lawn outside and Bo props his arm on the back of the bench, leans close and lets his lips graze your skin, and whispers, "Meet me up there once everybody's outside." He gestures with a nod.

You look at him with wide eyes. "The confessional?" you hiss.

He winks at you.

You follow your parents out onto the green, but Bo doesn't follow you. In fact you lose him immediately in the crowd, can't help but search for him among the abundance of pastel dresses and khaki suits. You agree vapidly with everything your mother says about the mass, nod politely at all your dad's closest acquaintances.

You excuse yourself at the second or third possible opportunity, afraid of running into the father if you sneak back too soon. Your footsteps are deafening in the now silent sanctuary, your eager uncertainty echoing back at you like an accusation.

Bo is nowhere to be seen, but neither is the clergy, so you step lightly across the stone floor and approach the confessional booth. The penitent's bench is hardly private, hung with a red curtain that only conceals from the waist up. You duck instead into the priest's chamber and inch the door closed behind you, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding once you're safely out of sight.

The small space is dimly lit by a single bulb recessed in the ceiling and the fractured light coming in through the screen on the one side. There's a bench built into the back wall and furnished with a velvet cushion. You sit, adjusting your skirt, and think about guilt.

Abruptly the door flies open and Bo slips inside, closing it all the way behind him. He's appropriately debonair in a blue suit, white shirt, no tie. For a moment, he looks a touch harried, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the door is closed. But then he looks down at you, meets your gaze, and flashes you a grin.

"Well what do we have here?"

You move to stand and he shakes his head, fighting to shrug off his suit coat in the confined space. "Don't get up, darlin', you're perfect right there. Betcha this is the first time anyone with tits has sat in that seat."

You giggle, a touch nervous. He reaches his hand out for yours and brings your knuckles to his lips. His mustache prickles your skin.

"You enjoy the mass?"

You're not sure if he's serious. "...parts of it, yeah."

He smiles. "Which parts?"

You open your mouth for a sharp reply but your gaze is hung up on his lips and when he shifts his weight you become unbearably aware of how close his bulge is to your face.

Bo laughs low and squeezes your hand. "I myself had a hard time focusin' on the good word. Had my mind on...other things." He eyes you with something like mischief. "I was hopin' maybe you could help me...unburden myself."

The smell of him is slowly permeating the tiny space, overwriting the stuffy scent of incense and oiled wood with tobacco and aftershave. He barely fits, too tall, shoulders too broad. He could swallow you whole and you wish he would.

"Anything you want," you say softly.

Bracing himself against the walls, he sinks to his knees in front of you. The pattern of the screen is emblazoned on his face in light. The wood pops and creaks. You remember to breathe.

"I'm a sinner, darlin'." He gazes up at you through those lashes, smiling sheepishly, big hands curving around your calves. "Done too much wrong to confess. Can't even remember it all."

You touch his cheek, brush your thumb over the crow's feet at the corner of his eye. "Start small."

His hands slide down to your ankles and he works at the strap of your heels with ungainly fingers. "I been tellin' lies, baby." He slips off one shoe and starts on the other. "Your mama asked me if I've been seein' anyone and I said no." His thumb runs along the arch of your foot. "Your daddy asked me if I knew where you was the other night and I told him I didn't have a clue."

He wraps his fingers around your ankles and squeezes gently, and then pulls your legs open. You stifle a gasp, try to press your thighs together to maintain a smidgen of modesty.

Bo kisses your knees. His hands creep up the outside of your legs. "Been gamblin'. Riskin' my reputation, my livelihood."

"Why would you do that?" you whisper.

He grins against your skin. His fingers are sneaking beneath your skirt. "Well y'see, there's this girl...."

You bite your lip as he curls one finger around the waistband of your panties on either side and tugs them down your thighs.

"She ain't for me...but she's all I want. And that's another thing." He tucks your panties in his pocket and you pretend you don't notice. "I been plagued by lustful thoughts. Day and night I'm thinkin' about this girl, thinkin' about the sounds she makes...picturin' her underneath me...." He guides your knees apart, drags his mouth over your skin, lighting you up from the outside in. His shoulders are solid under your hands, a foundation to cling to.

"See, I know it's wrong, but whenever she's around me I just...forget myself. Start wonderin' what she's got on under her clothes, what I gotta do to get 'em off of her...." He nips at your flesh, one, two, three up your thigh, and you gasp each time. "Keeps me up at night wishin' she was in my bed." He pauses, looks at you with cocked eyebrows. "I think about her damn near every time I defile myself, which is...often."

You exhale slowly, release the death grip you have on his shirt and run your fingers through his hair. "Sounds like you've got a lot of penance to do."

Bo lets out a helpless chuckle. "I know it, baby. I'm desperate." He blinks up at you, looking earnest. "I'm hopin' you got some salvation to offer me."

"I might." You tug your skirt up, baring yourself to him, and he groans, fingers digging into your flesh. "But you've got to earn it."

He inches forward and pins your legs open on either side of his shoulders. "Never been much of a god-fearin' man," he says, "but I know how to worship." He bows his head and you close your eyes when you feel his breath on your skin. "What d'you know about devotion, angel?"

"Nothing," you say, breathless. "Teach me."

The first pass of his tongue is feather-light and devastating and you sigh as that flickering flame roils brightly back to life. He teases the edge of your entrance, warming you up with the heat of his attention. You make a small sound and he responds with a slow, insistent lick up the length of your slit that makes you whine and clutch at his hair.

He cradles your clit in the cup of his lips and venerates you with his tongue in lazy spirals, up and over, and your blood throbs in the same rhythm. He sucks gently, and then harder, and you moan in the bliss of transubstantiation as his mouth makes the mundane into the divine.

With a growl in the back of his throat he hoists your legs onto his shoulders and penetrates you with his tongue, lapping at your pussy in search of absolution. Your eyes bounce around the blank ceiling of the booth as your hips buck mindlessly against his chin. His mustache tickles your lips, beard coarse against your inner thighs.

"Bo," you gasp as he sucks hard at your clit, "oh, god."

"I'm a bad person, baby," he mumbles. "Promise."

"No." You try and fail to stifle a cry, back arching, toes curled. "You're so good...you're so good."

Between your gasps you hear the sound of footsteps on the stone. Your steady-building climax skids to a halt and you stare wide-eyed at the confessional door.

Bo doesn't stop. In fact, he redoubles his efforts.

You clamp your hand over your mouth, trying desperately to keep still even as your body flexes and writhes against your will. You can hear two voices--you recognize one as the father but the other could be anybody, some stranger, some sinner seeking Easter confession.

Bo seals his mouth over your cunt and grinds his tongue against your clit again and again, gripping your ass, holding you to him as you squirm and seek purchase on the featureless walls.

The voices are getting closer and against all odds, so is your release. You're past the point of redemption, couldn't stave it off if you wanted to.

"Bo," you squeak under your breath, clawing at the back of his neck, grasping the edge of the seat, "please--"

He grunts softly. He's devouring you, hellbent on a miracle, bound and determined to introduce you to God. And seconds later, when your cup runneth over and your spine arches against the velvet and you have to sink your teeth into the meat of your palm to keep from howling his name, you see starbursts of pastel pink and sky blue behind your eyes and figure this is probably the closest you'll get to the pearly gates.

Your breath is hitching in your chest and you feel him slip out of your hands and you whimper, floating back into your body, unsteady as you try to sit up straight on the bench. The voices and footsteps are fading and you breathe a sigh of relief and release.

His hands are on your arms and he's coaxing you to your feet, supporting your weight on behalf of your shaking legs, turning you around in the tight space and murmuring in your ear.

"Need you, baby, right now, c'mere. Need to be inside you. Let me--"

He takes your place on the bench. He's undone his belt, freed his cock from his pants, and you clamber eagerly into his lap and let him guide you down onto him. Your head lolls back as he pushes into you, fills your empty space. The image of him looking desperately up at you is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"Angel," he breathes as he takes your face in his hands and brings your mouth to his. His kisses are hot with lust, with greed, with envy of everyone who's ever touched your lips before him. You can smell yourself in his beard, sweet and heady like original sin.

You move, rocking back and forth on his cock, and he moves you, hands on your hips, your skirt in disarray, his shirt falling open as you wrestle with the buttons. He pulls you closer, pulls himself deeper, and you can feel his heart pounding when you brace yourself on his chest.

"Ain't gonna last long," he pants. "So fuckin' tight, baby, so perfect...."

"That's okay, that's okay," you say, stumbling over your words. The frame of the booth is groaning in legitimate complaint, the entire structure trembling slightly, and you're going to get caught, surely you are, and you'll be cast out together beyond the reach of forgiveness but that might be alright as long as you've got him with you.

You press yourself against him, as close as you can get and not close enough. He cums with his face buried in your chest and your name in his mouth like a prayer. The kick of his cock inside you grants you another little climax, a little death, little moans jarred from your lips with each waning thrust of his hips.

"Kiss me," you whisper, and he obeys, his eyes glazed, his gaze soft and adoring. His needy grip on your waist melts into caresses and you finger the buttons of his shirt like rosary beads. One is missing; you're both hopelessly disheveled, undeniably sin-touched. You push his hair off his forehead and back into place. "Did this help?"

He shakes his head and laughs quietly. "No."

"Made it worse."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"'S okay." He kisses you again. "You're forgiven."

#i know i know i write so much of bo eating pussy but you know what? you know what?? you're welcome okay?? leave me alone #this was supposed to be like a blurb but i just don't know how to shut up about this old man #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #dilf bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction #agaas #a gentleman and a scoundrel

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small-sinclair · 1 year

Text

Yours

A dabble based off @visceravalentines’s idea. Never wrote something like this, so it might be a borderline smut as the end? Might not be?? I don't know. I just wanted to try it out. Please let me know if I should write something like this again? Or not.

Bo x fem!reader

Tw: reader was his friend, slight mentions of sex, a bit of a slow burn, blood, fighting, mention of killings, marking

Welcomed readers: @lovely-cryptid and @fluffy-little-demon

When you first asked, you were in his chair in the basement, and he laughed at you. You were down stairs for a couple weeks now, your eyes looking over the photos of the woman before you, and you frown. You wondered how many girls he let kiss his skin with love and tender, but you thought you would be the first. Besides, you and him were friends before you had to leave Ambrose years ago. Being back and learning about his new life... your feeling for him never falter or changed.

Seeing his blue eyes and hearing his voice... he wasn't that wild teenager anymore that you once knew. He was more experience with life, knowing more about hate than love, more about death than life, more about blood and the workings of flesh than breathing. You hoped he was looking forward to seeing you again or just seeing a friend, but you were here in a chair, taped and tied to the handles. Though you should be scared and freaked out, you were oddly calm. Something in your head said that he still loved you, than he trusts you, but even wolves have to stock their loved one before they go for the kill, for their love, for their pound of flesh and blood.

Even when you were in high school, you two would jokingly leave marks on each other just to piss off your parents along with Trudy. Trudy never liked you, but you could give two shits less about her. When you came back, he wasn't too happy to see you. You didn't blamed him; you left town with your family without telling him. He still holds that forever and a day now, and you were okay with how upset he got. You didn't blame him, though, but you didn't think he would tie you to a chair. Now, when you asked if him if you could leave a little hickie on his neck, he laughed and shook his head before getting angry.

“Ya think I’m yours? HA!” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You should know better than that. Look where you're at, girl! You think I'll ever let you?" Bo stood over your tired body and tightened the restrains. "Nah... you don't deserve to mark me, to fuck me."

Bo stepped back from the chair and started to leave for upstairs. You swallowed hard, saying, "I love you, Beauregard."

He looks behind him, smirked, and shook his head. "No, ya don't love me, girl." He spat, "If ya really loved me, ya would've tol' me ya were leavin!" He slams and locks the door.

------------

The warm summer sun kissed your skin as you sat outside the of the shop. Bo's finally let you out for fresh air, and you were thankful.

It's been about two months since you were down stairs, and you gotten used to seeing his moods. There was Angry Bo, where he would yell at you, but he never laid a hand on you. He was close to once, making you flinch in the chair, but his hand lowered and he left the room. Then there was Normal Bo, where he could come down to feed you and give you water. He talked but never for long to become too attached, telling you the weather, the day, and a recap of the evening news from the night before. Sex God Bo, one of your favorite moods, where he would treat you like you were the coldest glass of water in the middle of a sand wasteland, and he did everything and anything to make you feel good along with himself. Drunk Bo, where he was emotional and talked about everything like how he was scared of killing people but he's used to it now, wishing that he wouldn't have nightmares of the brutal kills. Happy Bo, where he would come down to the basement in smiles and brightness. He would free your wrist and kiss the scars, that started to match his, and he would let you talk, hanging on every word as you told him about your adventures outside of Ambrose. Finally, Emotional Sober Bo, where he was more open about his emotions or just needed someone to tell him that he was a good person. That's when you realized his mind and mental health needed help.

He gave you a sundress that he picked off a victim last week, and it fit you perfectly. The cherries over the cream colored fabric felt soft against your skin, and you smiled. You sat outside in an old rocking chair while he was working on a car with the garage door open. He was standing in the sun as he worked over the hood. Music played from inside, playing hard rock and metal. He gave you some newspapers from the town over to read. Even though they are a couple days old, you read over each section.

"Oh, looks like there's a farmer's market this weekend," you said aloud.

Bo glanced over his shoulder at you then back to the engine. "Yeah? Might ask Les to bring back strawberries an' oranges."

"I think it's too early for oranges," you hummed, folding over the page to read the notices. "Maybe raspberries, but not oranges."

Since he let you out, the conversations between you two were comfortable.

"Raspberries?" Bo hummed. "Shit, I haven't had 'em in a while." His hands mover over some parts then grasped a tool, starting on removing the fan belt.

You read farther down and made a surprised hum. "Looks like Les made the paper."

Bo looked over to you and wiped his hands with he dirty red rag. He moves from the car to stand next to you. "Yeah? Where?"

You pointed at the picture. "Fishing tournament from last weekend."

He placed a hand on the back of the chair and leaned down to get a better look. The smell of oil and sweat mixed the air and circled you like a hawk over a mouse. "Would ya look at 'at," he hummed, his eyes brighter from the sweat. He leaned his head to the side as he read over the caption. "Seems like he won."

"Remember when he thought he caught the Loch Ness Monster in the creek?" You giggled, the memory of a younger Lester playing. "And Vincent pushed him in the water?"

He caught himself laughing at the memory. "That was a great summer," he hummed, his smile bright. Then it faded as he looked back at you as if he remembered your reason of being here. He leaned up from the chair then back at the paper.

He was so close to you, so close to his lips to steal a kiss, to steal his heart forever. He will never look at you the same as golden rays touch your hair, your eyes shining in the Ambrose sunlight. If he felt your lips now, how could he claim himself? How could his anger towards you stop burning? No... he can't. Not now when the car hood is up and the radio is playing a slow song. No. He can't let you take him like this town has. His soul was all he had left. How could he trust you not to leave again? His hand traced through your hair, his blue eyes lingering over the golden glitter.

Bo turned on his heel and went back to the car.

"I love you, Beauregard," you sung, a sweet grin over your lips.

He glanced back at your from over his shoulder then back at the car. "Shut up, y/n. Ya don't." He lit a cigarette and started working again.

-------------------

The Louisiana in the winter finally came, reaching a solid 30 degree at night. You're no longer in the garage, and you're now in the Sinclair. You were curled up against the warm blankets in Bo's bed, shaking under the covers. The two memories flashed in your mind while you tried to sleep, but you grew use to having Bo sleeping next to you in during windy nights like this.

When you heard Bo's steps coming up the steps, and the bedroom door opened. You heard him starting to undress himself, changing out of his work clothing. He shot two people tonight before the ice rain came, so it made it ever so harder to move his shoulders. The bitter cold always hurt his shoulders.

You slowly lifted your head as he slid into sleeping pants, keeping his shirt off for the night. There for fresh bruises from the fights today, making him wince as he moved. You rubbed your eyes as you looked at the fresh marks over him, the cuts and scrapes turning your stomach. He rubbed his eye and groaned as he moved from the dresser to the bed, limping slightly.

"Bo?"

"'M'okay," he lied. "Go t'sleep." He moved slowly as he walked to his side of the bed. "'M fine."

You turned on your side as he sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. The marks over his skin darken and swirled over him. You turned over to turn on the bedside light and looked back at him. Your stomach flipped at the sight of his skin. "Oh... Bo," you sighed sadly. You moved from your side of the bed and crawled behind him. "You're hurt."

"I said sleep, y/n," he snapped tiredly. "Don't worry."

"Let me take a look at you."

"No--"

You sat next to him and got up, ignoring his protest, and stood in front of him. Your face fell as you looked at his blacken eye, a hand print burned into his skin, and his shoulders harden from welts from being hit. His the old scars on his wrist were open and bleeding.

"Oh, Bo," you felt your heartbreaking as you took his hands.

He snapped them away. "Don't touch me!"

"You're hurt!" You reached up and took his hands again, hard and forceful. "We gotta wrap them."

"I just want to sleep!" He almost sounded like he was begging. Was he begging you right now?

"And I want to make sure you're okay and not bleeding all over the sheets!"

Bo took a deep breath then let it out. "Yer not my mother."

"Yeah, well, you make feel like one," you took looked over his hands. "Jeez, Bo! What happened?"

"Nothin'--"

"Don't lie to me," your eyes looked up at him, locking in a dangerous stare. "This doesn't look like nothing! Bo, what happened?" He bit his lower lip and looked away, breathing hitching and falling like rocks over the side of a mountain. You took a better look at the wrist and you felt sick. Those aren't old marks. Those are fresh, new. They're new. "Oh goodness, Bo!" You looked up at him in shock. "They put you in the chair."

"Shut up," he spat, his hands starting to shake. "Shut up, y/n."

You thought about his old high chair in the House of Wax and the memories while growing up. You knew something was going on at his home with between him and his parents. You knew that they would tie him down and scar him. The photos, the medical journals you found in Victor's office with details on how to treat Bo's anger, his scars. You knew.

"Let me help you."

"I don't need ya!"

You gripped his hands. "Yes, you do. You need help! Please, Bo," your sad eyes met his misty blues, "let me help you."

He clinched his jaw as his mind thought over killing you, but it would leave him lonely and by himself. Yeah, he had his brothers, but the memories that you two had and the thought of you... no, he's not attached. He's not. But your warm hands over his cold hands somehow made him feel safe in his own room for the first time. Finding you there ever night in his room, sleeping or awake reading a book in his bed, he's grown too used and longing for you. He hated it, but the very idea of angry or thoughts of harming you made him sick. What did you do to him?

He nodded over his shoulder to the bathroom. "First-aid's under the sink."

You smiled and stood up to get the supplies you needed.

As you worked, you two stayed silent as you worked over his wrists. He would flinch now and then while you cleaned and wrapped his wrists. You were careful not to hurt him even more, and, once you were finished, you laid his wrists down on his lap to put the band-aid box away. His fingers traced over your work carefully, thoughts running through his head as if he was thinking of ways to say 'thank you', to say anything. You came back and sat next to him.

"It's cold out there, lover boy," you said as you folded your hands over your lap. "You gotta be more careful."

He takes in a deep breath then let it out slowly. "Worry I won't come back?"

"More worry that you'll, well," you sighed and undid your hair to put it back up again. "I'm scared that you'll be hurt worse than this. I hate it when your bruised up by those people."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Bet you still wanna mark me."

"Don't threaten me with a good time." Your eyes went big as soon as those words left your lips. You blushed as you looked away from him, but his hand brought your head back to meet his eyes.

"Is that so?" He hummed, watching you nodded slowly. "Well, goodness me," he chuckled, shaking his head. "We were kids doin' 'at." You felt him tower over you, his weight pushing you to be under him. He brought his hands to be on each side of your body, his face hovering over you. He smiles then said, "How could I thank ya fer helpin' me?"

You looked at his eyes then at his chest, trailing down to his stomach. He knew what you wanted, but he just needed to hear it.

"Could... could I mark you?" You swallowed the lump on his throat. "Leave a hickie like old times?"

A devilish smirk formed. "We did 'at to piss off our parents," he leaned down, his lips dangerously close. "Who do ya plan on pissin' off?"

You closed your eyes as the butterflies flew like a storm under your skin. Your hands wrapped around his neck to test the waters, your eyes never leaving his. Something about his gaze didn't feel dangerous or warning like normally. Instead, they were burning with an obsessives of thoughts of you over him, you taking him, you being near his bleeding, burning, aching heart.

"Never belonged to anyone, girl," he drawled, his voice echoing throughout his body, sending shivers over your skin. "Never once did I belong. Always someone else's."

"Feeling lost?" You asked, your hand ghosting over the little scar on his chin. He got it when he fought a bully who picked on his brothers. "Told all your life this body ain't yours," you voice was a whisper as your thumb brushed away tiredness from the bags under his eyes. "How long have you lost?"

There was a flicker of light in his eyes as he looked away, his thoughts racing until he found his voice. "Since you left." He rested his head against the crook of your neck, leaving a trail of kisses over your skin and collar bone. "Make me yours again?" He murmurs against your shirt. "Just for tonight? Make me feel like I belong?"

You ran careful fingers over the bruises from the fights, feeling the hidden scars that the town left on his body. He was a road map of misery and trauma. The pain that he holds must be weighing on his shoulders like how Atlas holds the world. How tired is he?

Kiss him good night to soothe his aching bones and take him out of his misery.

You were careful to turn his head to see another faded scar on his neck. Doesn't he get tired of fighting? Of moving and breathing? Ambrose has a tight hold around his throat, so it has to be hard to breathe above the blood and decaying bones under wax and strings. Still, he was yours, and you would treasure him no matter his state. Underneath all that trauma and scars, bones and all, he was a scared boy looking for someone to hold his hand, to find his place among the living and dead.

Licking your lips, you kiss his neck gently to tease the waters. When he relaxed to your touch, you let your lips kiss over his skin, kissing the bruises and faded scars that Ambrose left on him, a roadmap of his mother's wishes and lashes. You lifted him up as you left a trail of marks and hearts, filling each with love and tenderness from his jaw down to his stomach, kissing over the faded bullet wound from a time before you, taking care to make sure he knew how much you loved him, how much you craved him. You laid him on his back and listened to him puff out gasps as your lips trailed farther down to his hips. There were burn marks from spilled waxed jars, burns and scars you thought he never had. You left traces of yourself over him, his cheeks redden over the touches.

Somehow, you left him breathless, and the near thought of it drove him over the edge. He imagined what his life would be like if he put a ring on your finger and he gets to call you by his name, forever coming home to someone that saw him beyond a monster, beyond a killer. This wasn't his body; it's yours.

All yours.

You crawled up and hung over his lips. "I love you, Beauregard."

His hands reached up, touching your face and hair. The anger he once felt for you washed away as soon as you breathed his name. His real name. He finally understood the lines and sunrises you were excited for. Once, you stood in the field of wildflowers, and you were smiling at him. He didn't understand then, but he does now. He knows.

"I love you more, y/n," he promised. He found his place, his mark, his hold in your gaze as he leaned up to steal a kiss, pulling you down in a tight embrace, but he was so careful not to harm you. "I love you," he breathed near your ear then placed a kiss. "I love you. I love you. I love you, y/n. I love you." He could get drunk off you, feeling every chain he had of you go, breaking from years of rust. "I love you."

"I love you, Beauregard," you said again, smiling against his lips., kissing the scar over his lip.

He was yours. All yours.

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kerokreature · 1 year

Text

Some Sinclair Headcannons since I have brain rot

This is for the Sinclair brothers x chubby!reader (gender neutral but with Afab)

CW: Mentions of weight, use of the word fat, body dysmorphia, mentions of eating insecurities

NSFW WARNING, THERE WILL BE NSFW AHEAD

Enjoy

Bo Sinclair

He is 1000% a chubby chaser

This boy likes em thick, it’s the “more of you to love mentality”

He will be so touchy feely, really he will be groping your tummy, running his hands up and down your curves like he’s sculpting a vase (not that Bo is the artistic type)

He wants his face buried between those thighs

He loves running his calloused hands over any stretch marks you may have, brushing over them as he works his way down

He’s going to make sleazy comments the whole time but when he leans in to your ear, his fingers tracing from your neck to your tummy. Hands pausing to grope your softness before his fingers push further to please what waits between your thighs- he almost almost sounds like he’s worshiping you when he says your beautiful and that all of you is his.

He would be so lewd with his teasing, nipping and biting at every stretch mark, softly and then more roughly squeezing at your body, especially to part your thighs for him. He loves when he can take hand fulls

All of you is gorgeous and fucking sexy to him

I Picture bo as the type to be into having his partner wear specific things for him (maybe it’s the control) and he would lose it when you do

He would praise every curve and where he can and can’t see certain things in what you’re wearing

“God Almighty Darlin’ that just looks perfect on you.” “Wow sweetheart, look at those curves.. can’t wait to unwrap them.”

Afab body mention ahead

He would grope you constantly, if you don’t want your chest groped he would back off a slight bit, but he’d want to use them as a pillow.

He’d want to press his fingers into your stomach, just below your navel until it hurt. God would he push on that spot (fertility or no) because that’s especially His

The way he would squeeze your thighs as he parts them. His groping would be especially rough as he holds one up to your chest before digging his fingers right into your core, greedy, starving, only stopping to tease that bundle of nerves so he can wrench more moans from your pretty mouth

Fluff continuation but about insecurities

If you’re insecure about eating in front of him because of your weight/shape etc. he would literally just feed you.

Spoonful by fucking spoonful and he might even praise you and run his hands over whatever it is you’re insecure about for good measure

Your Are His fucking perfect little lover, even if he torments and insults you it’s never ever about any of those insecurities

If he catches you staring in the mirror mentally beating yourself up, you’re going to catch him being soft

Hugging you from behind, gently whispering all the things he loves that you hate, tracing his fingers over you to show just where he means

Doesn’t matter if you think you’re heavy you’re getting pulled into his lap and he’s going to hold you like you’re nothing.

Yeah he’s likely teasing you during, Bo is just insatiable that way

Lester Sinclair

Oh boy he is also absolutely a chubby chaser, this boy is licensed by the damn state to be a chubby chase

He’s a pudge connoisseur one could say

Fuck is he gonna stare, but not rudely. He’s going to look at you like an august sunset. He’s going to gaze at you like you stepped out of a fairy tail. (He might even give Vincent a run for his money there)

He’s shy at first, or maybe less shy more just taking his time, but once your both comfortable he is on you.

When he’s tired after a long hard day you’re his pillow, the moment he’s out of the shower he is cuddling you and touching your skin

Less lewdly then Bo but he will have his hands on every part of you. Kisses pressed to each stretch mark, he’ll have to stop himself a thousand times from getting a bit rough but

God does he want to squeeze and grope and push into all of your plushness, he wants to feel you and trace the beauty that is you, he wants to worship you, praise you

And in the right light you can see he inherited Bo’s possessive streak. The way he pulls you in, eyes moving down your thick frame, the way his crooked grin spreads haphazardly across his face, chin jutting as he runs those work calloused hands over your thighs, that head tilt as his eyes narrow and sharpen. You can tell he’s thinking about how every curve is his.

But god would he still be gentle, agonizingly gentle

I Picture him with an oral fixation also so you’re getting kissed, licked and anything he can get his mouth on is going there

“you taste mighty sweet y/n” “goodness you’re soft, I can’t seem to keep my hands off of you my baby.” Between kisses and nips you can hear him whispering your name.

Afab body mention ahead

Your nipples, always, even if you’re uncomfortable with your chest he’ll coax and whisper to you as he kisses and licks over each mound of flesh before pulling your sensitive buds into his mouth, teeth brushing them but never too hard

Kisses and nips and licks would be trailed down your body, over each stretch mark until he’s parting your thighs, nipping and sucking the flesh once he parts them, teasing his way towards your core.

BOY IS A M U N C H OKAY?

His tongue would trace over that bundle of nerves and he would begin, every fold is claimed by his tongue as he pushes your thighs around his face.

And I mean he wants you to smother him with your thighs, taking you tensing and locking them around his head as a sign he’s treating his lover exactly as they deserve, and god he’s going in for the kill, he wants you trembling and orgasming on his tongue

Fluff continuation but about insecurities

You are perfect in his eyes but he knows how much it hurts when you hate how you look

He would hold you in the mirror, guide your eyes away from where you’re looking at yourself to look into his eyes instead

He’d remind you that you’re perfect to him, his hands carefully touching up and down your ribs to your hips

If you’re insecure about eating he’d softly reassure you, he’d tell you you’re perfect and have nothing to worry about

He’d remind you if anyone said anything he and his brothers would take care of it

He’d coax you with your favorite foods, he might even gently hand feed you

More oral fixation at play, he loves watching you eat, your lips move, he’s wild about it

Vincent Sinclair

Not necessarily a chaser but he adores your form

To him you are the work of Tiziano Vecelli

You are warm and all soft curves, the way your plush form interacts with the bed, with the linens

He draws and paints you regularly, he hangs them in his room, the basement, maybe even in the Museum

He watches, he gazes, at first he doesn’t touch. To him you look so soft and plush and strangely fragile that he could never, he’d ruin you

But when his fingers grace your skin he runs them over you like he’s sculpting you himself, like he’s memorizing every curve and angle, where your ribs curve into your hips, the way your stomach moves under his hand, the way your thighs curve into calf. Each of your fingers, your wrist, the curve of your upper arm and how it becomes bone at the shoulder, your neck, under your chin, your face

His fingers are so delicate as they dip over every curve, hill and valley, over your navel under your stomach, and of course between your thighs

Explores there for an eternity, picturing a thousand sunrises and sunsets as his fingers knead and rub at your inner thighs, pressing into the plush and soft flesh

His hands work over the curve of your ass, fingers dipping in to that crease where it meets your thigh

At points his fingers are so gentle it’s like he’s touching rice paper

He signs sweet things you, a bit hurriedly since he wants his hands on you. “Beautiful” “soft” “work of art” “adore” “mine” “love” nothing long enough to keep his hands away

Afab body mentions ahead

He can’t help but trace his way back up to your chest, his hands massaging the mounds of flesh there, fingers tweaking against your nipples, he’s likely enamored

But he just as quickly makes his way back down, running two fingers over your labia in long broad strokes, delicate and attentive

He’ll part his fingers to push down on either side of that bundle of nerves, tracing circles around it, your moans are like the swell of violin to him he barely dips his fingers inside, finding that spongy spot and pressing before he moves again

He has to feel you under him, all around him, throbbing on him as your thighs wrap his waist. He’s surprisingly rough now, pushing into you with resounding slaps, groping your sides a little less gently, the whole time his eyes bore down into you

He needs you on him just as much, no he doesn’t care if you think you’re heavy he’s placing you up on him himself, guiding your hips rhythmically, his hands tracing up as he gazes at you like you’re a marble statue

You’ll be wracked with orgasms, he needs to see, needs to feel just how your body moves and trembled as you finish, over and over again

Fluff continuation but about insecurities

He refuses to give you the opportunity to be insecure.

Or at least he tried to shut it down before it can happen

There’s so many paintings and sketches and even small carvings of you now, and he doesn’t think anyone should see you in any other way

If he finds you mentally picking yourself apart in the mirror he holds you, removing his mask to remind you that everyone is insecure sometimes as he signs sweet praises to you

If he sees you being insecure about food he’d sit with you through your meals, he wouldn’t look if you didn’t want him to

But he thinks you’re beautiful no matter what you’re doing and he’d let you know.

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