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thesightstoshowyou · 1 year ago

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Shoot for the Moon

Bo Sinclair X GN Reader

Warnings: None. Just fluff. Who am I?

Keys jingle as you cut the engine. The thrum ceases and a moment of tranquil silence passes before the nighttime sounds rise to life all around. Crickets and frogs chirp, night herons splash, a barred owl calls. Cypress, oak, and maple trees creak and rustle in a gentle breeze. Car door hinges squeal as you slip from your vehicle and your boots swish in tall grasses as you make your way to the trunk.

Carefully, you unpack the telescope, flashlight, guides, and notepads. The scents of damp earth and decaying wood wash over you as you move. Already, the oppressive Louisiana humidity sticks your hair to your forehead, yet you wear a jacket and jeans to protect your limbs from mosquitos and ticks.

Satisfied with a small, nearby clearing, you meticulously set up your equipment. You peek through the eye piece and adjust the telescope’s position incrementally. Little flashlight clutched between your teeth, you scratch notes on the illuminated portion of paper before repeating the process.

An hour or so in, you abruptly surface from the lull of peaceful concentration. At first, you’re not certain what distracts you, but then you recognize the silence. All the wildlife has gone quiet, disturbed by something close by.

You frown and quiet your own breath, tilting your head to listen intently. To your left, a sharp snap; twigs underfoot. Something stalks through the brush, just out of sight.

A bear, maybe, or a stray dog. Your mind whirs with the possibilities, but you will yourself to stay calm. Nothing you can’t handle.

However, when a man emerges from the tree line, your heart stutters. Fear and confusion take root in your brain and you must consciously fight back the panic to keep your thoughts clear.

Where the hell had he come from? There isn’t a town or house around for miles, as far as you’re aware. You’d carefully chosen this particular spot for that very reason.

The man saunters toward you, hands buried in the pockets of the deep blue coveralls he wears. His pace is leisurely, every step measured and deliberate, meant to instill dread. You can’t make out the details of his face through the gloom and the cap perched atop his head does you no favors.

“Yer out here awfully late,” he notes, the pleasant drawl of his voice disturbing the hush of the clearing. He nods toward the crescent moon hanging low in the sky as though you need his help to tell it’s nighttime.

“Could say the same about you,” you respond, slipping the flashlight into your palm. You could blind him if he gets too close.

He stops his advance about twenty feet away, head tilting slightly as he studies you and your equipment. “Folks out this late don’t often have the best intentions.”

Pot, meet kettle. You resist the urge to call him out and instead motion to your telescope. “Just star gazing. I wasn’t aware this was private property. I’ll go—

“Nah, s’not private. Yer good, sugar.” He takes a few steps closer. The muscles in your shoulders tense. You swallow thickly, mind racing. What now?

You speak before you can stop yourself, “I, uh, I just found Saturn. It’s nice and clear tonight. Wanna see?” The man stops abruptly, obviously taken aback. He’s silent for a moment, contemplating.

“…Yer serious?” he questions. His steps are tentative now, cautious. You caught him off guard, it seems.

Roll with it. “Yeah!” You wave him over and allow the excitement to take control of your vocal cords, “And the Milky Way is so pretty right now. We can look at that next….”

He’s close enough now that you can make out the incredulous expression on his face…his very handsome face. The scents of engine oil, burnt grease, and metal hit you and the outfit suddenly makes sense. Still, you question why he’s out for a midnight stroll in such a remote area wearing his work garb.

You scoot out of the way and instruct him to look through the eye piece. He shoots you one more skeptical glance before carefully leaning over and peering into the telescope. You smell him now too: Cigarette smoke, faint aftershave, and woody musk that is not at all unpleasant.

You watch the exact moment the man spots the planet. What you can see of his face lights up and he shifts his body in toward the telescope, hunching more to get a better angle through the eyepiece. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs, hand coming up and hovering over the finderscope, hesitant to touch. You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face.

“So beautiful, right? Do you see the rings?”

“Sure do,” he replies, straightening and flashing you a hesitant, crooked smile. Your thoughts are almost derailed by the charm of it, but the eagerness to teach keeps you grounded.

“Here, scooch over a sec, lemme just readjust it….” You quickly check your notes then fiddle with the telescope. You’re overly aware of the man standing next to you, but he surprises you with polite silence, hands on his hips, apparently content to watch you work.

“Here, look,” you excitedly tell him as soon as it’s adjusted. With a quizzical expression, he leans down again, though there’s more enthusiasm in his movement this time.

“…What am I lookin’ at?” he asks, glancing over at you expectantly.

You giggle and mutter a quick, “Oh right,” before launching into an explanation. You gesture and describe, the animation in your voice and knowledge on the subject captivating the stranger.

He watches you speak with a mixture of admiration and bemusement on his face, like he can’t believe he’s listening so attentively, but doesn’t want to miss a word. All previous tension evaporates as you show him the charts you’ve drawn and move the telescope to and fro.

“Oh, and you should be able to see Phobos right now—

“What’s yer name, darlin’?” the man interrupts suddenly. You glance up at him and realize just how close he stands. Your shoulder brushes his chest, his body heat palpable. You’re glad for the darkness when your cheeks burn.

You do your best not to trip over your own name when he smirks, sudden shyness drying your throat and making your heart skip a beat. There’s irritation there too, annoyance with his smugness. You’re easier to read than you’d hoped, apparently.

“Bo,” he tells you as he holds out his hand. You turn to face him and accept his outstretched palm. It is then you notice your watch.

“Oh christ, it’s late. I really gotta go!”Hurriedly, you gather up your notes and pack away your equipment. Bo watches quietly and you can tell by the way he stands so stock still that he’s contemplating something.

You don’t give him a chance to decide on whatever it was he was planning when he entered the clearing.

“I, uh…I was gonna come back on Thursday if, you know, if you wanted to learn more.” Bo blinks at you, genuine surprise on his face. You’re just as shocked by your own words. Offering to meet a strange man with questionable intentions, alone, in the middle of rural Louisiana to teach him amateur astronomy?

Have you lost your damn mind?

Yet, the way he’d engaged with the subject and how eagerly he listened makes you think there’s something more to this man. The initial trajectory of your meeting had changed, hadn’t it? There was a spark, a yearning for connection. He wants to learn, and you want to teach.

That, or you’re completely delusional.

“Next Thursday?” You nod at his question. He tips his head again, like he’s thinking. Slipping his hands back into his pockets, he shrugs. “I can try and make it.”

He does make it on Thursday. You do too. And again on Saturday. And the following Friday. And Monday.

Sunday finds you seated on a blanket, Bo at your side, flashlight in your mouth and pen in had. Around you, the nighttime creatures sing their songs. Your trusty telescope points to the sky, ready to capture the comet you’re tracking.

You’re relaxed in his presence now. You’ve decided to attribute your initial meeting to simple chance. He hasn’t given you a reason not to trust him, and you’re not going to look for one.

Your name murmured in a hushed and careful tone breaks your reverie. You hum in response before lowering the flashlight and glancing up. The look in Bo’s baby blues freezes you in place and brings heat to your cheeks.

He’s closer than you anticipated. He removed his hat at some point and his dark hair is ruffled like he hastily ran his fingers through it. That self-satisfied smirk you tell yourself you hate pulls at the side of his mouth and there’s warmth in his eyes as they trace the curve of your lips.

“Been tryin’ t’kiss ya for the past ten minutes,” he teases, his hand reaching out to playfully flick the pen in your hand. You release a breathy laugh as your heart flutters in your chest like a trapped bird.

“Oh, um…s-sorry,” is all you can manage, mouth curving in a weak smile. Your teeth worry your bottom lip when Bo slides closer to cradle your face in his palms.

“Looks like I finally get t’teach ya somethin’ huh?” he jokes, lips ghosting across yours.

You huff, “Oh shut up,” but there’s no real bite to your words. Bo chuckles affectionately and smoothes his thumbs over your hair.

His next words are soft, the vulnerability in them meant only for your ears. “You been real sweet, darlin’. Ain’t nobody taught me anythin’ like you.”

“Oh,” you breathe, moved by his admission. The gratitude in it warms you deep in your chest. Bo wrinkles his nose.

“Alright, enough a’ that. Turnin’ me into a fuckin’ sap.” Your next scoff and eye roll is cut off when he finally claims your mouth in a searing kiss.

Overhead, stars twinkle, your silent spectators.

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #thesightstoshowyou #house of wax (2005)#slasher x reader #beauregard sinclair #sights dreams #yes indeed this came to me in another dream #I’m glad for my brain sometimes

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subtlebloodshed · 3 months ago

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Preacher's Daughter

Chapter One: Family Tree (Intro)

description- Haunted by the sins of her small-town past, the preacher’s daughter speeds down the highway, running from the blood on her hands. But when her car breaks down near the forgotten town of Ambrose, she finds herself trapped with no way out—and no one coming to save her.

word count- 6.9k

chapter cw. bo sinclair x f!reader, fem terms, religious imagery/discussion/reader, grooming/pedophila/underage rape (not a ship), discussion of SA, realistic CSA victim, complicated family issues, abortion, religious guilt, graphic violence, murder, graphic depiction of blood, vomit mention, alcohol, smoking, theft, fleeing a crime, dissociation, mental health, emotional distress, reader is basically my oc

Copyright © 2025. All rights reserved. This work, including all written content, is the original creation of subtlebloodshed/hybristosomniac. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this material in any form without express written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. The characters, events, and places depicted in this work are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

an. i spent way too much time writing this. this is the background for the reader mainly. context with this is important going forward. i hope you enjoy<3

Nothing back in Nebraska would ever feel like home again. You had given too many years of your life being judged by your father’s congregation. Other than your mama, of course—a kind but timid woman—she had never shielded you from the town’s cruelty.

Not when you were nine years old and got caught running through the fields in your brother’s old denim shorts, worn soft with age but still seen as indecent in the eyes of the congregation. That Sunday, your father’s sermon was on the sin of temptation. You sat in the front pew, the soft cotton of your dress suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin as he spoke of the devil’s influence. You were too young to understand why the church ladies whispered about you afterward, or why your mama wouldn’t meet your eyes when she helped you undress that night.

By the time you were fourteen, you had learned how to rebel quietly. You started sneaking out your window after dark, barefoot across the dewy grass, running into the arms of a boy who smelled like stolen cigarettes and car grease. Caleb. He was two years older, handsome in a sun-bleached, small-town kind of way, and he knew how to hot-wire his daddy’s truck. You spent most of your nights with your feet up on the dashboard, watching the flickering neon sign of the diner on the county line as you passed it by. Sometimes he pressed you up against the passenger door, his kisses clumsy and sour, tasting like the beer he had stolen from the gas station.

You loved him, or at least, you loved the freedom that came with him. You loved the way he laughed too loudly at his own jokes and how he called you his girl with an exaggerated Southern drawl, just to make you blush. You loved the way he made you feel reckless and young, like the preacher’s daughter was just a girl with bare legs and a crooked smile.

But the town always found a way to take things from you.

When you were sixteen, you finally were able to admit that an older man from your father’s bishop Isaiah had cornered you after a service the first time years ago, pressed his hands where they didn’t belong, and took something from you that you didn’t know you could lose. It took everything in you to ask for help with what had been happening. And the town? They blamed you for it.

“A girl like that? She had it coming.”

“Nothing but a Jezebel, parading around with the devil between her legs.”

No charges were filed, Isaiah still came to dinner every Tuesday, and no one ever spoke of it unless it was in whispers between hymns.

You did as you were told after that. You stopped asking questions. Stopped pushing boundaries. You had stopped being.

Then, your body betrayed you.

You didn’t know what was happening at first. You hadn’t thought about it, not after what had been happening to you. But when your skirts got tighter, when exhaustion weighed down on your limbs, when the sickness consumed you in waves every morning—you knew.

You hadn’t told anyone. You hadn’t needed to.

They had seen it in the way you held yourself. How you covered your stomach when you sat down, in the way you started avoiding the communion line, afraid that drinking the wine would make you more of a sinner than you already were. They repeated the same thoughts you had about yourself:

“How could she do this to her family?”

“How shameful, no matter how Godly the family, seems that Satan can’t be kept out.”

One evening your mama came bustling through your room, a travel bag in her hands, like she had made a decision she was too terrified to rethink.

“We’re going on a women’s evangelism trip into the city, you need to pack.”

You had done as you were told.

You had never been to Lincoln before, at least not like that. The biggest city in Nebraska, but it still felt small compared to the weight pressing down on your chest as you sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your mother’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She didn’t speak to you once, as if she were grappling with something herself.

The waiting room was quiet, except for the scratch of pens on clipboards and the hum of the overhead radio playing some secular music you’d never been allowed to listen to. Your mother sat beside you, her hands folded into her lap, eyes distant and almost glazed over. She didn’t tell you it would be okay, she didn’t ask if this was what you wanted—she had already decided for you.

“We won’t speak of this when we get home,” she said simply, and that was final.

The procedure itself was just a blur—cold, gloved hands, dull pain, empty murmured reassurances of a nurse who probably saw girls like you every day. You had wanted to cry, but you swallowed it down instead and dug your teeth into your inner cheeks till they bled. The taste of iron consumed the sobs, buried them so deep down where no one would ever find them.

The drive home was silent. A steady hum of the tires mixed with the wind and the road stretching endlessly ahead.

You just stared out the window, watching the sun fade out, bleeding pink and orange into the sky. Your fingers curled around the paper bag from the gas station like it was a lifeline. Mama had stopped to get you cola and some crackers, but you weren’t hungry. You still felt the nausea twisting in your gut, pulled so tight you feared you might split in two and spill.

You thought that Mama might never say anything at all. But then she did.

“Your daddy wasn’t my first choice, you know,” her eyes were fixed on the road ahead and her voice seemed steady, yet both of her hands gripped the wheel tight enough her knuckles turned white.

“But he had God’s voice behind him, and who was I to argue with that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath, but you felt it all the same.

Your chest tightened. Your throat closed up around words you couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need her to say his name.

“I didn’t want that for you.”

The car was silent after that. She didn’t cry, didn’t look at you. She just drove. The road stretched ahead of you, but you were still stuck somewhere behind it—back in that house, sitting stiffly in the pew, listening to his voice fill the rafters, preaching forgiveness with hands that had never known it.

And you knew.

She had been you once.

You hadn’t known what to feel when it was over. Relief? Guilt? Nothing at all?

But the town felt it for you.

Words, damn words like a wildfire spread nearly the moment you returned. You had been careful, you really had. Your mother never even let you out of her sight. But it didn’t matter. Maybe someone had seen you in Lincoln? Maybe the older women in the church could sense something different about you—like bloodhounds sniffing out sin.

Either way, the whispers had started before you’d even processed what you’d been through.

“She went away for a week, came back thinner.”

“The preacher’s daughter? I’d always known she was fast.”

“Her poor father, God rest his soul. How could he live with what she’s done?”

And then came the day you heard your brother talking to your mother in the kitchen.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. You had only come in for a glass of water, but the moment you heard Caleb’s name, you froze. You pressed your back to the wall just beyond the doorway, fingers pressed to the chipped wood, holding your breath.

“Left out last week,” your brother was saying, his voice low and bitter. “Didn’t even tell his mama he was goin’. Just... took off. Enlisted.”

Your stomach twisted painfully, bile rising in your throat.

Enlisted.

You shut your eyes, leaning heavily into the wall.

Your mother’s voice came next, low, like she didn’t want you to hear.

“He didn’t even come say goodbye?”

“No, ma’am.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the last time you had seen Caleb. The way he had looked at you—the heaviness in his eyes, the way he had clenched his jaw and stepped back when you tried to touch him.

And then he left.

Left you. Not a word. Not a note. Nothing.

And you knew—you would never see him again. He would never come back.

Not for you.

Because you were already ruined. And he didn’t know how to hold something broken. So he left you behind.

Your whole world had stopped.

And the town just kept right on moving.

The Sunday after Caleb left, you sat in the same pew you always had—the one near the front, close enough for your father’s eyes to find you when he stood at the pulpit. The wooden bench had always felt too stiff beneath you, too straight-backed, too polished and unyielding. But that day, it had been unbearable.

You had felt their eyes crawling over you. The deacon’s wife behind you had clutched her Bible so tightly the cover had warped in her hands, her nails bitten down to the quick. The older men had lingered on you too long—calloused fingers turning the pages of their hymnals, but their eyes had never lifted from your back. The same men who had once tipped their hats at you when you passed by, the ones who had called you sweetheart and asked about your grades, now wore looks you hadn’t recognized. Their eyes had been hungry. Knowing.

The women had been worse.

They had clutched their pearls and whispered behind gloved hands, only lowering their voices just enough to feign decency. The same women who had once fussed over your hair after Sunday school, the ones who had praised your mama for raising such a lovely girl, now shook their heads when they had looked at you. They hadn’t even bothered hiding it.

You didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. You had felt the judgment in the way they had refused to meet your eyes, in the way they had exchanged quick glances when you had walked by.

Slut.

Whore.

You had stared at your lap, at the hem of your dress where your fingers had curled against the stiff, modest fabric. You had picked at a loose thread near your knee, pulling and twisting it until the fabric had puckered, fighting the urge to bolt. You hadn’t sung along when the choir had risen. You hadn’t listened to your father’s voice when he had spoken. It had been just a low, droning hum—familiar and far away, like you hadn’t even been there.

You had sat in that same spot your whole life, but now you had felt like an intruder. Like someone had come and skin you alive, draped your hollow carcass in your Sunday best, and placed you right back where you were supposed to be.

But everyone had known it hadn’t really been you anymore.

You hadn’t been the preacher’s daughter anymore.

You had been the ruined girl.

And no one had spoken to you outright. Not at first.

They had never needed to.

It had been in the way the girls you had grown up with had drifted away in clusters, casting you brief, wide-eyed glances like you had been something contagious—as if they could catch indecency. It had been in the way their mamas had gripped their wrists a little tighter when you had passed by at the grocery store. It had been in the way Mr. Allen, who had once given you a quarter for every A on your report card, had suddenly refused to look you in the eye when you had handed him your money at the counter.

But the men—the men had been different now.

The first time you had caught one of them staring too long, you had convinced yourself you were imagining it.

You hadn’t been.

The boy who had bagged your groceries had suddenly let his hands brush against yours too many times. The clerk at the gas station had leaned too far over the counter when he had spoken to you, smiling like he had known something he shouldn’t have. When you had passed by groups of farmhands in town, they had stared you down without looking away. Their eyes had been slow and heavy, dragging over you like they were trying to commit the shape of you to memory.

You had started walking faster, keeping your eyes down, but it hadn’t mattered. They had already seen you. And it made you sick to know why.

Because you had known it hadn’t been the men who had told them.

It had been the women.

The mothers. The wives. The same women who should have clutched you to their chests and shielded you, who should have whispered, “We believe you, baby. We believe you.”

Instead, they had left you for dead.

The whispers had grown louder over time, thickening the air in the town like smoke. It didn't matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. The town had spoken for you.

You had never felt safe in that town. It had started long before you had even hit sixteen. But now? It had been like you were strung up by the neck, asphyxiating with every judgmental stare, every passing double-natured comment.

You had lived like that for two years, praying to God every night for forgiveness, asking why people ignored one of His most important teachings. Judgment had burned through you while loneliness had left a cold pit inside of you. Your father had barely spoken to you, leaving you behind on outings, raising your older brother above you as his golden child. And slowly, it had gone from not sitting next to the family in the church, to you being barred from coming at all.

“Whores aren’t permitted in God’s house. Not if I’m there.” He’d said as he had shoved you back into your bedroom when you had come out in your Sunday best. He had ordered you down onto your knees, throwing a Bible into your lap.

“Read, pray, beg, maybe someday God can grant you forgiveness.”

Your mother had never said a word, not even when you had started packing your bags. Maybe she had thought you were getting rid of old clothes, or maybe she had known exactly what you had been doing and had chosen to pretend otherwise.

You couldn’t have lived in that house, that town, that body.

The night before you had left, you had been in the kitchen helping your mama do dishes, staring at the same floral wallpaper that had been there since you were a child, when she had finally spoken on it.

“Where will you go?” she had asked, her voice hushed and defeated, as if she had known she wouldn’t get the answer she had been looking for.

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay here.”

She nodded. She hadn’t asked you to stay. Not to even write. She had just nodded, like she had known there had been no other way for this to end.

—

You had left the next day, your car packed full of what you would need and a bit of cash your mama had slipped you the night before. On the way out of town, you had made one stop: Isaiah’s house. He had lived alone, by choice he’d always said—that had been why he hadn’t taken a wife. Though you had known it had been more an issue of him preferring little girls to grown women.

You had been polite about it, knocking on the door and waiting for him to answer. When he had, he had been surprised to see you there. Isaiah had looked on either side of you for prying eyes before he had invited you in.

“Girl, what are you doing here?” he had asked, his gaze holding an air of confusion.

“I need to talk to you.” You had said, eyes dull as you had looked over him.

“Showin’ up without warning ain’t like you.” He had mused and shaken his head at you, his gait leading him back into the kitchen.

Isaiah had already been heading for the kitchen before you had even shut the door, muttering something under his breath, but you had barely heard him. The soft click of the lock sliding into place had felt louder than it should’ve—too sharp, too final—but your hands had still stayed on the knob longer than they had needed to. You hadn’t known why. Maybe you had already been contemplating turning around and walking out. Or maybe some part of you had already known you wouldn’t.

“You drink yet?” he said, casual as anything. You barely heard the words, too focused on the muted thump of the fridge opening and the hiss of the beer can being cracked open.

You stayed by the door, unsure, feet heavy and useless. You felt like a guest in your own body—lingering in some kind of in-between place, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

The house smelled the same.

Cheap cigarettes and old wood. Sweat clung to the couch cushions. The faint, sour trace of whiskey hung in the curtains. You stood in the doorway, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides. The skin along your back prickled with an old, familiar heat.

“Don’t tell me you’re still playin’ holier-than-thou.” His voice came louder this time, a sneer clinging to the words. “You’re an adult now. Reckon that made you a big girl.”

You heard the beer tap against the counter twice—one, two—before you felt it press cold into your hand. You flinched without meaning to. Isaiah didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, and he just liked it.

“Here.” His eyes were hooded, expectant, the lines around them wrinkling slightly with something close to amusement. When you didn’t take it, he nudged the can against your knuckles again, firmer this time. “Go on. I won’t tell your mama.”

Your fingers curled around the can then automatically, though your hands felt numb. You stared down at it like you didn’t know what it was. You’d never even liked beer all that much. Caleb used to drink it, though. That cheap kind that made his breath sour when he kissed you. Caleb, oh, Caleb.

Isaiah nodded for you to follow him to the couch, plucking the beer from your other hand and guiding you by the elbow into the living room.

And before you even realized it, you sat down.

Right there. In the same spot you always had.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, the crinkling killing the silence of the room. He slipped one between your lips wordlessly and you accepted it because you didn’t know what else to do, your lips curling around it.

Isaiah let out a low, breathy chuckle when you didn’t move. “Come on, big girls smoke too.” He sparked up his own cigarette and leaned over, grabbing your chin so he could press the tip against yours. You pulled, getting it to light so you could get his hands off of you.

You inhaled too fast, too deep, and the smoke hit the back of your throat harsh and bitter. You coughed once, sharp and dry, the sound catching in your chest. Isaiah only chuckled again, leaning back into the couch with a lazy sort of satisfaction, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. The white curl of smoke slipped from between his lips, slow and deliberate, filling the stale air between you.

“Been a while, huh?” he mused, eyes cutting sideways to watch you. His voice was low, drawling, coated with mock sympathy. “You’re outta practice.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the cigarette in your hand, the trembling flame at the end, the small tendril of smoke rising into the dim room. You’d never liked smoking either, you still didn’t. But you took another drag anyway, the burn heavy in your chest, bitter on your tongue. The taste reminded you of Caleb, grounding you in a way.

Isaiah smiled faintly at that. Pleased. Like you were already doing what he wanted without even being asked.

His free hand slid across his thigh, slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to stop him. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You just sat there, sinking deeper into the couch, your body sluggish and foreign.

“You’re different now,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. The way he looked at you made your stomach churn, like he was studying you, inspecting you. Appraising you. His eyes trailed over your face slowly, heavy-lidded and lazy.

“Quieter,” he added after a moment. His lips parted slightly, just barely, like he was about to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl out lazily between his teeth.

“You always were a quiet little thing, though,” Isaiah went on, voice low and familiar, like he was trying to make the words sound fond, as if he was daring you to remember. “Always so sweet. So polite.” His lips twitched faintly at the corner, and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Mindin’ your manners even when you shouldn’t have.”

The cigarette wavered between your fingers. You exhaled heavily through your nose, feeling the burn of it scrape down the back of your throat.

Isaiah reached over then, so sudden and fluid it didn’t seem like you had time to react. His hand brushed against your knee, fingers curling lightly just above the bone, testing the weight of his touch.

You flinched. You didn’t mean to, but you did. You felt your muscles tense automatically, your whole leg stiffening under his grip.

He noticed, of course he did. His fingers tightened slightly, just barely, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you felt it. Enough to remind you that he could do worse.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, the room too quiet, the smoke thick and heavy in the air.

Then he smiled, that slow, lazy stretch of his mouth—like he was mocking you, daring you to move.

“Still shy, huh?” he muttered, voice low and almost affectionate. His thumb brushed slowly along the inside of your knee, the rough pad of it dragging over your skin. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t swallow.

You took another long pull from the cigarette just to keep your hands occupied so you wouldn’t have to feel the way they were trembling in your lap.

Isaiah’s eyes stayed on you, sharp and gleaming beneath the smoke-laden haze. You felt them moving over you, deliberate and heavy, following the slow, mechanical rise and fall of your chest.

His hand slid further up your thigh, slowly. Testing you, waiting for you to flinch.

“I have to use the restroom,” you muttered quickly, suddenly standing up and kicking over your beer in your stumble. The cigarette between your fingers was quickly tossed into the ashtray on the side table as you practically booked it through the kitchen to the bathroom. Your eyes caught a shine on the counter; a knife. It was no butcher’s knife, rather more of a midsized one, serrated on the end.

Isaiah followed you into the kitchen, throwing away the now empty beer can and glancing up at you. “You ran off pretty fast, angel, had me worryin’ ‘bout you,” he hummed, hands finding their way to your hips from behind. “Come’re…”

You squirmed, trying to turn around and your hands pushed at him to get him off. “Isaiah, don’t. I don’t want…”

His hand slid up your side, slow and deliberate, flattening against your stomach and holding you in place. You squirmed harder, your fingers twisting around his wrist, trying to shove him off, but he barely budged. His grip only tightened slightly, pulling you back against him with a low, satisfied hum.

“Shh…” he cooed, his breath warm against your neck, thick with stale beer and smoke. “You’re alright, angel.”

You shook your head quickly, a sharp, jerking motion, your nails biting into his skin as you writhed in his hold. But he didn’t let you go.

Instead, he moved fast—too fast. His hand shot up, catching you by the back of the head. His fingers threaded into your hair, gripping hard at the roots, and shoved you forward.

Your chest hit the counter with a dull thud, the edge biting into your ribs. Your hands shot out, palms slapping against the cold surface to brace yourself, but he was already on you, pressing down harder. His weight bore into you, flattening you against the counter, your cheek mashed against the worn laminate.

Your breath stuttered out of you in a sharp gasp. You clawed at the counter, your fingers slipping against the smooth surface, scrambling for purchase.

His other hand slid down, catching at the small of your back. His palm pressed flat, pushing down just enough to arch you slightly, keeping you still. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve of your spine like he was measuring it, feeling how you fit under him.

“Mm…” he exhaled softly, almost thoughtful, his breath feathering against the back of your neck. “You were real jumpy tonight. Why was that, huh?” His tone was mockingly sweet, almost pitying, like he was talking to a child. “What had you so worked up?”

You tried to push back again, twisting under his grip, but it only made him press you down harder. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, yanking your head back slightly, just enough to make your throat stretch. You let out a sharp, choked gasp at the sudden tug, your eyes squeezing shut.

His mouth dipped closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, amused murmur.

“You grew up real pretty,” he drawled, almost pleased. His hand on your back flexed slightly, pressing down again, firmer this time. “Though, I miss when you were eager to please.”

You shivered beneath him, your stomach twisting violently, bile rising thick and sour in your throat. Your eyes flicked to the knife on the counter. You couldn’t reach it, not with your head against the counter.

“Isaiah,” you choked out, barely above a whisper, your voice trembling. “Don’t. Please.”

His hand dragged down your back slowly, deliberately, the rough pad of his palm scraping over the back of your dress.

“Aw, now,” he murmured, his voice lilting with mock sympathy. “No need for all that.”

His lips brushed against your ear again, warm and wet, and you squeezed your eyes shut, a sharp tremor running through you.

“You came back, didn’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “That meant you missed me.”

His hand slipped under your dress and you froze. Every horrible, haunting memory flashing through your head.

Suddenly, you were thirteen again on your knees in the church basement. Your hands were clasped together so tight in your lap that your whole body trembled. Isaiah was standing in front of you and he was guiding you through a prayer you’ve never heard before. His big hand guided through your hair while your head pressed against his thigh.

“You’re so well behaved, angel. Open those pretty eyes for me.” He’d murmured, his hand moved from the top of your head under your chin. He tilted your head up, thumb caressing your bottom lip as you obeyed. When his eyes met yours, he let out a groan of appreciation and pressed the digit to your tongue.

“Good girl. Open up a little more. Yeah, that’s it.”

Then, you were fifteen, bent over the worn desk in his office. The wood was splintered at the edges, one of the legs uneven, making it wobble slightly under your weight. Your cheek was pressed against a stack of hymnals, the cracked leather biting into your skin. The faint scent of dust and old paper clung to the pages, but all you could breathe in was him; his heavy cologne, the bitter tang of whiskey on his breath, the musk of sweat clinging to his shirt.

You could still feel the sharp bite of the desk against your hip bones, the uneven leg rattling slightly with every shallow gasp. You had stared at the wall—the peeling floral wallpaper, the faint water stain in the corner. You had counted the cracks in the plaster just to keep yourself anchored, just to feel like you were somewhere else.

Then, you were seventeen, in the seat of his car. It was the old, beat-up sedan he drove, the backseat perpetually cluttered with sermon notes and empty coffee cups. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn in places, the foam poking through in jagged strips. You remembered the smell of the stale air freshener; cheap pine, masking the scent of cigarettes.

Tears were streaming down your face as you clung to him in the driver’s seat. The other girls had bullied you out of the youth group that night. No one ever seemed to want you around. Isaiah found you crying and took your hand, leading you to his car without a word.

“I know, angel, and I’m sorry. I know you feel alone. But I’m here.” He’d mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, letting his hands run over your back.

And for once, he actually just drove you back home.

Maybe that’s why you thought coming here would give you the apology you deserved.

Then, you were back in the kitchen. Isaiah’s hand was still on you, splayed wide across your lower back, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your dress. You were still bent against the counter, your cheek pressed to the laminate, cold and unyielding. The sharp scent of stale beer clung to his breath, warm and humid against your ear.

And in that moment, something in you just snapped.

Your hand found the handle of the blade in a flash and you turned as much as you could. The blade sank into him with a sickening, wet sound—a dull, meaty schluck as it punched through skin and muscle. You had aimed low and blind, but somehow, you struck true. The tip buried deep into his side, slipping just under the ribcage, slicing clean into where his liver would be.

Isaiah staggered back with a ragged, wet gasp, clutching at his side. His hand slapped over the wound, slick and clumsy, fingers trembling as they pressed against the gaping tear in his flesh. Blood seeped through the cracks in his knuckles, spilling in thick, syrupy ribbons down his wrist, dripping to the floor in uneven splatters.

He slumped heavily against the opposite counter, his knees bending slightly as his weight buckled. His breath rasped out in broken, uneven pants, shallow and wet, hitching violently in his throat.

“Angel, baby, please, don’t do this…” He begged.

Isaiah’s eyes widened slightly, his chest stuttering with a broken wheeze. His hand pressed harder to the wound, smearing more blood across his shirt, as though he could somehow hold himself together, somehow keep everything from slipping through his fingers.

Your vision swam violently, the edges blurred and hazy, smearing together in a disorienting whirl of color. Your ears rang with a shrill, hollow static, drowning out the wet, labored gasps rattling from Isaiah’s throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the floor tilting unevenly beneath your feet, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you thought you might collapse.

“No, no, no, Isaiah, I’m—” You stuttered out, dropping the knife and grabbing him as he fell to the floor. His weight slumped heavily against you, knocking you back slightly as his legs buckled. You staggered, your knees nearly giving out beneath you as you sank to the floor with him, clutching at his trembling body. Your hands were slick with his blood, slipping against the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of it seeping into your skin, sticky and hot.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, don’t…God, in Heaven, be m-merciful…” You whimpered. Your hands pressed down hard over the wound, trembling violently as you tried to hold him together, trying to stop the blood that wouldn’t stop coming. It poured in sluggish, red waves between your fingers, thick and warm, slicking your hands, clinging to your skin in sticky rivulets.

Isaiah’s breath came in shallow, broken gasps, each one thinner, wetter, more rugged than the last. His chest stuttered faintly beneath your hands, the faint rise and fall uneven and weak. His bloodied fingers clutched at your arm, trembling violently, his grip already weakening.

You could feel the wet, sluggish stutter of his pulse beneath your palms. Weak. Slowing. Too slow. He was fading too fast to get help. But too slow to be humane.

And you knew—God, you knew—he was going to die either way.

Either slowly, choking on his own blood, whimpering as he suffocated…

You pulled his head into your lap, cradling it with trembling hands. His bloodied hair clung to your fingers, damp and sticky, but you still smoothed it back gently, softly, as though it might somehow comfort him. Your other hand fumbled blindly for the knife, slick with blood, your grip weak and shaking.

With a fractured breath, you brought the blade to his throat, your fingers trembling so violently you could barely keep it steady. Tears blurred your vision, hot and thick, streaking down your cheeks and dripping into his hair.

“Lord, forgive me…” you choked out, your voice breaking on the words. Your chest heaved with a sharp, ragged sob. “I’m…I’m sorry…”

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you pressed the blade down and dragged it across firm and quick.

His blood came fast, pouring over your hands in a hot, heavy rush. It was like he was giving all of himself to you, baptizing you in his life. You gasped, the air catching in your throat, and the sound of it tore through you like a sob you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body trembled, your grip on him tightening as you rocked slightly, tears falling from your eyes in jagged, uneven drops, landing on his cooling skin.

You held him longer than you should have—you knew it, but you couldn’t make yourself let go. His body was already going cold against yours, the warmth draining from him. The blood beneath you had started to thicken, congealing into sticky, clumpy patches that clung to your skin, leaving a slick, foul mess.

The room was eerily still. Too still. The only sound was the soft drip of blood hitting the tile, slow and steady, falling from your hands, your arms, as you shook. It smelled like iron, stale beer, sweat, and smoke. It smelled like him.

And then, reality hit you. You blinked, feeling dazed, your eyes unfocused and heavy. You pulled your hands from his body, slowly, shakily. The blood was so thick on your hands that it felt like they weren’t even yours anymore. Your chest hitched again, a soft, broken breath escaping as you stared at your trembling fingers, the dark, sticky smear of his blood stretching between them like a sickening string.

Your legs were stiff from kneeling too long, sore and unsteady, buckling slightly as you tried to push yourself up. Your palms slid against the counter as you braced yourself, leaving red streaks on the worn surface. The room around you swam, the walls tilting and bending, but you fought to say upright, your knees threatening to buckle again.

You didn’t think, you didn’t process—you just moved. Your body knew what to do even if your mind didn’t. You found his wallet on the counter, the old, cracked leather sticky with blood where it had fallen. With shaking hands, you pulled out every bill you could find, stuffing it in your pockets, his cash, his cards.

Your breath was shallow, coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your chest was tight, your throat raw. You stumbled through the house, bumping into the walls, tripping over the rug. Your fingers fumbled, unable to find their way as you yanked open drawers and cabinets. You found more cash, tucked under a pile of receipts, and shoved it into your bag.

The floor wobbled beneath you as you made your way to the door, your hands slick and trembling. Blood stained everything you touched—counter edges, fridge handles, doorframes—leaving a trail of red wherever you went. You yanked the door open, feeling the sticky resistance of the knob, and stepped outside.

The air was thick and heavy, suffocating. You stumbled barefoot across the porch, your feet slapping against the dirt, the gravel biting into your soles. But you barely felt it. You barely felt anything.

Your car sat where you had left it hours ago, crooked in the patch of dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, fumbling as you grabbed for the door handle. It slid open with an unsteady pull, and you clambered inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a hollow thud.

Your fingers were clumsy as you reached for the keys, your hands weak and uncoordinated. You forced the key into the ignition and twisted it. The engine sputtered once, then roared to life with a low, grinding hum. You gripped the wheel, your knuckles white, and slammed your foot down on the gas.

The tires spun, sending gravel flying as you peeled out, the car jerking forward in a cloud of dust and dirt. Your hands were slick with blood, smearing the cracked leather of the steering wheel, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even look back.

You just kept driving, too fast, too erratic, but you didn’t care. Your mind was a blur, your vision too cloudy to focus, the road ahead just a faint stretch of darkness. The headlights cut through the night, but your mind was so far away, you couldn’t make sense of it. You didn’t need to.

You just kept driving.

—

Bo sat on the porch, one boot propped up on the railing, the other tapping rhythmically against the wood. The smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the thick, sticky air, mixing with the sour scent of rain that was starting to roll in from the horizon. He flicked the ash off the end, watching it flutter away in the wind, and sighed.

Ambrose was as quiet as ever. Empty. There hadn't been a soul through this town in weeks, maybe months. Nothing but the steady hum of insects and the occasional gust of wind pushing the dust around. He liked it, in a way. The silence made it easier to hear his thoughts, but hell, there was only so much thinking a man could do before it got boring.

A storm was brewing off in the distance—clouds heavy and dark, swirling like a storm ready to eat the town alive. He could feel the pressure in the air, thick and sticky, like the whole world was waiting for something. His fingers drummed against the side of the porch, the rhythm of the storm creeping into him, making him restless.

There wasn't much to do in Ambrose anymore. Vincent was holed up inside doing whatever it was he did—Bo had stopped paying attention to him. Lester... well, Lester wasn't exactly company, but he was around. The dog, Jonesy, was more of a companion than anyone else, and even he had his moments when he was more trouble than he was worth.

Bo took another drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he exhaled, watching the way it hung in the air, thick and heavy. The town was dead. There were no tourists passing through, no one to catch, no one to play with. He hadn’t seen another living soul in so long, he was starting to think they all just... disappeared. Maybe they were all part of the town’s secrets. Maybe they were never here at all.

The rain was getting closer now, the sky blackening, and the wind kicked up, rattling the trees. He flicked his cigarette away, watching it land in the dirt, and stood, stretching. A storm was always good for something. A little chaos. A little change.

But even as the first drops began to fall, it wasn’t enough. He needed something more. Needed some kind of distraction. Anything. Bo shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the empty streets again. It was going to be a long night.

taglist. @yongbokversion

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x oc #bo sinclair fanfiction #house of wax #house of wax fanfiction #slasher fandom #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #bo sinclair smut #bo sinclair fluff #beauregard sinclair

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kittyshenhe · 8 months ago

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I had a dream were Bo was driving his truck at night and my head layed on his shoulder, hugging his arm while sleeping. He was amused and thought it was cute.

I'm, uh... uhm...

#i don't even like this guy that much but #bo sinclair #beauregard sinclair #bo sinclair house of wax #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you

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small-sinclair · 4 months ago

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His Sun

Bo Sinclair x pregnant!reader

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

“Co’ere,” Bo says softly, his hand reaching out to you. There’s a gleam in his eye, something new to him. “Darlin’ rose, come closer?”

Absorbing the sunlight on your freckle kissed skin, it looked like you were gliding through the rays as if they were water. Though the wooden floors absorbed most of the light, you were still the brightest star in the universe. How did he get so lucky? What star fell from the sky and decided to spend its final light on him? If he could bask in your golden rays, he would die with his heart shimmering like cooper coil.

His hands were calloused as you took his, and he pulled you down for your back against his chest. Subconsciously, his hand reached around your growing bump as if he were protecting it from the dust of his own darkness.

“Six months in and you’re still as pretty as ever,” he drawls, kissing the top of your head. “Sugar, think they hear us talk? Hear your pretty voice an’ me going off?”

He shudders silently as your hand slipped over his. “I would like to think they do,” you answered, rubbing your thumb over his knuckle. “You nervous about the doctor’s appointment tomorrow?”

Huffing a breath, he buried his face between the corner of your jaw. He nods slowly as his other hand wrapped around your chest, squeezing you slightly. “They said twins, doll,” concern laced his words, “what if they’re not…if they…shit, I can’t think of stand the thought of they’re—“

“They won’t be like you or Vincent,” you reassured, running your other hand through his hair. Your fingers brushed the long, jagged scar on the back of his head, and it made him tense up and growl a warning. “Dr. Henrik—“

“What if he’s wrong?” He cuts your words off as he turns his head to look at you, but he stayed on your shoulder. “What if they’re connected? I can’t,” he tried to find his words in a scrambled notebook, “I don’t want my children to go through what Vinny an’ I did. I don’t wanna see’em get bullied for a scar or anything.”

You shifted slightly in his arms to see him better, and you lifted his face up. “Beauregard, listen,” you thumbed the scar on his chin. It was so old that it was nearly a foreign thing to his face but the pain still lingered. “Our children will know love and be loved because we love,” your words felt like a heavy yet warm hug to him, and he couldn’t help but believe in your words, “and you are not your parents. We aren’t like them.”

“Mama said—“

“She lied about calling you a monster,” you already knew what he was going to say, “because I see you, Bo. I see you.” Your lips brushed against his before claiming a small kiss. “I mean it when I say it. You’ll do great.”

The weight of the world rolled off his shoulders after your kiss and encouragement. You truly are a wishing star. “Thank you, darlin’,” he said, pulling you back in his to his heart. The uneasy barbed wires that stung his air and heart washed away. “If I keep gettin’ worried, just…just remind me, okay?”

“Okay,” you kisses his cheek then nestled into his warmth. “I love you, Bo.”

He responded with a kiss on the neck and tightening his arms, grunting an acknowledgment. He’ll say it; give him time. That’s all he needs, really: time. Time to grow with you and his sons, time to find out who he’ll be when his children are here, and time to change the scarred past to a better future. You and Jasmine are here, the daughter he has no blood with but he’ll kill anyone for her. Now she won’t be lonely as much as he was before Lester was born.

He felt your weight loosen in his arms and heard soft puffs of air leave your lips. As far as he’s concerned, you are the sun and Jasmine the stars. He? He’s the lucky sky that gets you all to himself.

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vikkirosko · 2 years ago

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🧢 Bo Sinclair x Reader Oneshot Beauregard 🧰

Bo had just come home where your whole little family lived when he heard you giggling. When he looked into the kitchen, he saw you and Lester. His brother came home earlier and you were clearly chatting sweetly about something. When you noticed your boyfriend, the smile on your face became even wider, as if he was the cause of your laughter.

"You seem to be having a really good time here"

"Lester was just telling me about the times when you were kids"

You and Lester giggled again. Bo raised an eyebrow, not understanding what exactly his brother could have said that made you so amused, but neither you nor Lester were in a hurry to tell him about it. You got up from the table and approached Bo with a smile.

"Sit down at the table, there will be dinner soon, and I'll go get Vincent"

"Of course, baby"

You kissed him on the cheek and headed to the museum, knowing that Vincent was there.

"Baby! When you go back, grab a beer from the refrigerator in my auto repair shop!"

"Of course, Beauregard!"

You ran away laughing, and Bo froze. It took him a few seconds to realize exactly what his brother had told you.

"Lester, come here..."

Bo heard his brother quickly running out of the kitchen, laughing and not wanting to listen to his displeasure. He just sighed heavily at this, realizing that sooner or later you would have found out his full name. He was waiting for you to come back with Vincent, knowing that his full name wasn't the reason he had to worry.

#Slashers #Slashers x Reader #Slashers Oneshots #Bo Sinclair #Bo Sinclair x Reader

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mandowifey · 2 years ago

Note

For your match up requests can you surprise me? 🥰💙

Of course I can, you lovely bean you. Once again I am a cheater and I know who n' what you like, so with that being said...

I assign you; Bo and Vincent Sinclair!

Note: This is NSFW. Strictly because of gore, blood, violence, and mentions of sexual activities. There are allusions to non-con, as well as dub-con, some domestic violence, and forced relationships. Just overall dead dove, stay safe kiddos! This was also not proofread or edited, and my first time writing for them!

Be gentle.

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

There was something deeply unsettling about the smell of burning meat.

When coagulated fat boiled and broke down it released a nauseating odor that permeated the humid Summer air. Sometimes it could take on the smell of barbecue, which was dependent on what animal was chosen.

You didn't care much for it either way.

Lester tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, using one bloodied hand to wave at you before focusing on dragging the decomposing deer toward the burn pile. You offer a tight-lipped smile in return, not wanting to give the impression you didn't have manners. Those were the most important thing to have around this place.

"Jee-zus Christ, why the fuck are you doin' this so close to town?"

The sound of a slamming truck door made you jump, and that familiar voice had you frozen in place. Your fight or flight instincts always had you ready to bolt, but over time and many failed attempts you had learned it was best to stay put. Boots crunch in gravel and you struggle to stay still.

"Ain't got nowhere else t'do it, Bo." Lester retorts before turning his head to spit.

Bo came to a stop beside you and sucked his teeth as his arms folded. You stare forward without looking. Your vision is tunneled now, and all you are aware of is the chirping of birds and crickets. There is a silence that lulls between you, and you've stopped breathing.

"What do you think, firefly?" Came the dull drawl of Bo's voice as his head turned to face you.

Aside from the regular torture, it seemed that Bo enjoyed antagonizing you with biased questions. Always putting you in the middle of things and forcing you to pick a side. The illusion of choice, as you knew agreeing with anyone but him, got you punished.

Both brothers were staring at you now. Bo, with his arms folded and Lester with a fist on his hip. Of the two, you knew Lester handled disappointment far better. That made things marginally easier, though disappointing him still left you uneasy. Aware that you were expected to respond, you begin blinking the sting of smoke out of your eyes. Finally, you cast a gaze upwards, daring to look at the more imposing man beside you.

"T-the breeze c-carries the smell," your voice was a squeak. "S-should try to f-find a different spot, m-maybe-"

A large hand claps your back and makes you gasp.

"Y'see, even she knows better." Bo grinned into his words while his brother scoffed. "Next time find a better spot." He warned, his expression tightened and some of that southern charm lifted, revealing just a glimpse of what he really was under the veil.

Lester waves his hand dismissively and mutters to himself as Bo leads you to his truck. You are silent as you climb into the passenger side, and do not look at the older man as he settles behind the wheel with a grunt. The old engine sputters and then rumbles to life, rattling the frame of the truck.

"Why're you lollygaggin' around with him for?"

The glass of the window cools your forehead as sweat beads along your temple and upper lip. After such a short period outside, the humidity sapped your energy and most of the moisture inside you. Leaving you with a dry mouth and some fatigue. You wanted a clever answer for Bo, something smart and witty that'd appease him, but nothing came to mind.

Impatiently, Bo grips a fist into your hair and yanks your head in his direction. The pain causes you to wince, but you don't fight it. You knew better. Instead, your glassy eyes stare up at him as your face contorts into something apologetic.

"Did the heat fry your fuckin' brain, kid? Answer me." His eyes flick from the dirt road to you.

"I think he gets lonely." Your voice was quiet. "He asked if I wanted to tag along, n' I said sure. That's all."

Blunt nails stung your scalp, his grip relenting only marginally at the answer. Bo snorts and shoves your head away from him.

"Well aint you just a bleedin' heart as always." His large hand fell to your knee, callouses rubbing over the smooth skin before slipping under the hem of your dress. "You wanna fuck him too?"

You knew where this was going. The same thing happened when it came to Vincent. Bo was a confident man with a sizeable ego but got sore as hell when the topic of his brothers came up. He wanted to be your favorite, but he also felt entitled to you, like he owned you. There were impossible, silent conditions he imposed upon you that left you guessing what the right thing was to say.

The trial and error wove itself as scars in various places on your skin. Cruel reminders of what failed attempts got you. Bo liked to caress them, kiss them, tell you what a shame it was to mar that lovely derma and how he wished you hadn't made him do it. Vincent was the opposite. His hands traced along marks while holding you close, remembering which ones he had meticulously stitched together.

When Bo's hand encroached on the junction of your thighs, you were tensing. "No, I don't wanna fuck him." His fingers curl into the yielding flesh of your inner thigh. He said nothing because he was waiting for more out of you. "I-I only wanna fuck you, Bo. P-promise."

He sucked his teeth again and tapped his thumb against the steering wheel, his hand no longer moving. "You sure 'bout that princess? I've seen how you look at Vincent." The words soured on his tongue, causing his brows to vex and his fingers to bruise into your thighs. To call him territorial was an injustice.

"That's a good girl." His palm clapped your leg twice before withdrawing from your dress and back to the wheel. "You're gonna show me once we get to the house."

Nausea settled in your stomach like a bowling ball. Between that and the unbearable heat, you felt certain you were going to puke. You nod because you have no choice, and unless you wanted to be strung up in the dungeon below the station, you had to play the part.

Left to ruminate in your thoughts, Bo drove silently up towards the old home. When he parked, he caught your wrist as you were climbing out. "Straight to the bedroom." His voice lost its pleasant southern twang and had become something angry. His eyes were dark, focused pools staring at you from below the line of his cap.

"O-of course, right away." The power behind his grip would leave your wrist decorated in finger shaped bruises.

Traversing the incline to the front door, you nudge inside and wipe sweat off your face. Before you could move up the old steps, something touches your shoulder and makes you jump.

"Vincent!" You whisper.

Vincent stood tall and silent, staring down at you through black holes in his mask. It had taken quite some time for you to adjust to, but still, the emotionless face could be quite uneasy. More than once, you had seen it from your peripherals, when in the shower or hanging your clothes up to dry. You knew Vincent had a fascination with watching you and often played into being oblivious to indulge him.

The hand on your shoulder withdrew, and he upturned his palm. Your eyes soften, and you offer your wrist. This was routine when you returned from Bo, and while Vincent was no gentle saint, he was far more kinder to you than the latter. His fingers close around your wrist in a gentle but encompassing grip as he begins to look you over.

"No new ones today."

He turns your other arm over, then tilts your chin and checks your throat. Inside the house was much cooler, yet you felt your body getting hot. You couldn't say if he cared out of compassion or pity, though you assumed it was the same care a farmer had towards their livestock. A press to your lips made your eyes widen and warmth bloom across your cheeks.

Your lips part for him as he presses over your bottom teeth and part of your tongue. With your jaw opened wide, you felt fear. Bo had always mentioned how terrible it would be if they had to remove some teeth for bad behavior. While Vincent had a softer touch, he had no problem bruising and taking from you what he could.

Heavy footfalls made you jump, and your eyes go wide. Vincent released your jaw and shoved you up the stairs knowingly. You don't hesitate or look back as you clamber the stairs and round the corner as the front door swings open. Bo's muffled voice emanates up through the floorboards below, and you silence your steps. Tip toeing into the bedroom, you flail your hands out in the dark, your memory of the layout serving you well as you navigate blindly to the bed.

Slipping your dress to your ankles, you step out of your shoes and climb onto the bed. His smell lingers there on the pillow beside yours, which prompts you to turn your head away. In the silence, you hear your pulse and nervous breathing. Your heart sounds like a frightened animal beating against a cage. You also hear Bo asking Vincent to do something for him. Perhaps he was sending him away from the house, back to the museum, where he wouldn't be nearby to listen.

Maybe he was asking him to come watch, to humilate you further by fucking you in front of him. You wouldn't put it past Bo to taunt his brother in such a way. It was no secret Vincent was charmed by you, and while that was no comfort in its own, you delighted in the fact it pissed his brother off.

Everything fell silent as your heart settled to a slower pace. Then, you could hear the steady climbing of stairs and a low whistling tune. Your throat was dry and head pounding from lack of water. If you could spare the moisture, you would have shed tears. After so many weeks trapped in Ambrose, you had hoped that the fear would go away. Instead, the fear had turned into uncertainty; how long would they keep you alive? You wondered if they would grow bored and discard you in the burn pile, or perhaps Vincent would cherish you as one of his figures. You tried to avoid those thoughts.

The whistling and footsteps came to a stop outside the door. "Honey," the knob twists and light cascaded across your bare form. His silhouette was massive and imposing in the doorway. There was a jaunt to his tone now, almost sing-song.

"I'm home "

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