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cami040405 · 3 days ago

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I absolutely love the way you write Bo, you’re amazing! Wondering if you could do a Bo where reader has just hurt/killed a tourist to protect Bo and he helps them through the shock etc. thanks!!!!

Oneshot: The First Time You Bled for Me - Bo Sinclar X Reader

Summary: When a violent tourist attacks Bo Sinclair in a barn, you instinctively kill the man to save him. In the aftermath, you’re overwhelmed with shock, guilt, and emotional turmoil, never having taken a life before.

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Trauma Response, Implied Death

A/N: I'm so glad you like my writing. I loved writing this request. I love writing about Bo Sinclair being sweet and caring to the reader. I hope you enjoy!

The barn door slammed shut with a jarring clang.

You turned on your heel just in time to see Bo thrown backward, hitting the ground hard — shoulder-first — with a heavy grunt that punched the air from his lungs.

"Bo!" you cried, moving before you even knew what you were doing.

The tourist — a tall man in his late twenties, lanky but wild-eyed, blood smearing the corner of his mouth — loomed over him. His face was twisted into something feral and panicked. In his shaking hand was a hunting knife, and he was screaming something incoherent about “being set up” and “not dying here.”

Bo rolled onto his back, eyes wide, one hand up defensively. "Don’t you fuckin’—!"

The man raised the knife.

You didn’t think. There was no calculation, no weighing of options. Only instinct. Only him.

Your hand closed around the tire iron resting on the workbench nearby — one Bo had tossed there earlier after fixing up a car — and you moved fast, legs pounding the dirt floor as you barreled into the man.

The first swing was desperate. It caught the tourist in the side of the head — hard enough that his neck snapped sideways, mouth slurring something broken.

The second was for certainty. Down, straight across the back of his skull.

He crumpled like wet paper.

There was a sickening sound as he hit the ground, twitching for just a moment before falling still. The knife slipped from his fingers with a clatter.

And then silence.

You stood there, chest heaving, your hand wrapped so tightly around the tire iron that your fingers had gone white. The metal felt hot, slippery. Your ears were ringing, your blood cold.

Your gaze dropped to the body. His legs were twisted under him, one arm crooked wrong. Blood had already started to pool beneath his temple, soaking into the straw and dirt.

"Jesus…" you breathed.

Bo sat up slowly with a groan, one hand braced on his ribs. “Fucker caught me off guard. That son of a bitch—” He winced. “He was gonna gut me.”

You didn’t answer. Your body was frozen again, but this time it wasn’t shock from witnessing something — it was from doing something.

Bo looked up at you. Really looked.

The tremble in your arms. The way your shoulders had gone tight and stiff. The way your breath came in shudders like you were trying not to throw up or cry.

He stood carefully. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice even, controlled. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, eyes wide. “He was going to stab you. He—he had it over your chest, Bo. I didn’t even think. I just— I just hit him.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” he said immediately. “You saved me.”

You let out a breath that cracked in the middle. “He was screaming. He was saying he wouldn’t die here. He was so fast, and then he had you—”

Bo stepped closer, slowly, like he was approaching a panicked animal. “I know. I was there, sugar. I felt the tip of that blade. I saw the look in his eyes. He was gone.”

Your eyes locked with his, wild with disbelief. “I killed him.”

Bo was quiet for a beat. His expression didn’t harden or scold. It was… complicated. Something softer, more shaken than he probably meant to show.

“You saved me,” he repeated, slower now. “Ain’t no shame in that. I wouldn’t be standin’ here if it weren’t for you.”

You looked down at your hands. The tire iron had slipped to the floor without you noticing. Your palms were sticky with blood, your fingertips trembling.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you whispered.

Bo’s breath hitched. He moved beside you and, without hesitation, reached out. His hand curled gently around your wrist — testing, as if making sure you wouldn’t flinch away.

When you didn’t, he pulled your hand to his chest. Right over his heart. It thumped, steady and strong, beneath your fingers.

“That’s 'cause you ain’t a killer,” he said. “Not really. You just—” his voice caught slightly, “you did what you had to do. You bled for someone you love.”

The word love rang between you both, unspoken until now, hanging like smoke in the heat of it all.

“I’ve never…” You bit your lip hard. “I’ve never hurt someone like that before. Not even in a fight. I didn’t even mean to kill him. I just—he was going to hurt you. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Bo leaned his forehead against yours, breathing deep. “I ain’t gonna lie and say it gets easier. But it does start to make sense.”

You closed your eyes, fighting the bile rising in your throat.

“He looked scared before he died.”

Bo’s hands slid up to cup the sides of your face gently. “So were you. So was I. Difference is, you did somethin’ about it.”

You broke.

The sob tore out of you with no warning. It was sharp and sudden, and you folded in on yourself — Bo catching you mid-collapse, holding you tight as your body gave out.

He sank to his knees with you, one arm around your waist, the other cradling your head to his shoulder. “It’s alright,” he murmured, low and steady. “I got you. Let it out.”

You were shaking now. The adrenaline was gone, and in its place was an overwhelming cocktail of nausea, grief, and something that felt like guilt even though you’d had no choice.

Bo rocked you slowly, fingers stroking the back of your head.

“He would’ve killed me,” he whispered. “I saw it in his eyes. You were faster. Smarter. You saved my goddamn life, baby.”

“But I killed someone—”

“For me,” he said fiercely. “You chose me. You did what you had to. And I’ll never forget that.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“You hear me? You come first now. Always. I won’t let anyone lay a fuckin’ finger on you after this.”

You nodded weakly, chest still heaving, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

His eyes flicked toward the body, then back to you. “We’ll clean this up. Together. But right now? All I care about is you.”

And in the hollow echo of the barn, still thick with the scent of blood and dust, you finally let yourself breathe. Just a little.

He didn’t let go.

Bo takes you back to the house to clean up — emotionally and physically.

Bo helped you to your feet with surprising gentleness. His arm never left your back as you walked in silence through the woods behind the barn, keeping to the shadows, keeping close. Your hands were still sticky. The blood had dried in places, your fingernails caked dark.

The moment the screen door of the Sinclair house creaked open, Bo was guiding you straight into the bathroom. The light was dim, yellow-tinted, and it made everything feel softer — less like a crime scene, more like a confession booth.

He turned on the tap. Warm water hissed to life, steaming slowly.

“Sit,” he said quietly, motioning to the edge of the tub. You obeyed without a word.

He didn’t say much as he worked. Rolled up his sleeves. Took a clean washcloth and soaked it in the hot water. He knelt in front of you — the same man who once fixed carburetors with blood under his nails now blotting yours with careful hands.

“I got it,” he murmured, when you flinched. “Lemme take care of you, sugar.”

The blood came off slow, as if your body didn’t want to let go of the proof. His touch was meticulous. He never scrubbed, just pressed, dabbed, wiped.

At one point, he looked up at you — eyes steady under the halo of bathroom light. “Ain’t your blood, but I know it feels like it is.”

Your throat tightened.

He rinsed the cloth again, this time cupping your cheek gently as he wiped a drying smear across your jaw. “You ain’t dirty to me.”

You stared at him, blinking back tears. “Why are you being so soft?”

Bo gave a breath of a laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. “Because you broke somethin’ in yourself today. For me. Least I can do is help hold the pieces together.”

You couldn’t sleep.

The room was too quiet. Too still. Like the world was waiting to see what you’d become.

Bo lay beside you, shirtless and half-asleep, one arm draped over your stomach. But you were wide awake — staring at the ceiling, a cold knot lodged behind your ribs.

“I keep seeing his face,” you whispered.

Bo stirred. “Mmh?”

“That guy. The tourist. I keep seeing his eyes.”

Bo’s hand slid up to your ribs, slow and grounding. “Nightmares?”

“No. Worse. Memories.” You turned your head toward him. “Bo… I don’t feel like me anymore.”

He blinked awake, sat up a little, leaning on one elbow. “You still are. Just changed. That ain’t always bad.”

“What if it is? What if killing him twisted something in me?” Your voice cracked. “What if this is who I am now?”

Bo didn’t speak right away.

Then, in a rough voice: “You ever wonder if I used to be different?”

Your breath caught.

“I wasn’t born bad,” he said, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. “But first time I killed someone? It weren’t to protect nobody. It was ‘cause I was mad. Real mad. And scared. And cornered. Ain’t proud of it.”

He looked over at you.

“But you? You killed to save someone. That matters. That’s love. That don’t make you a monster. Makes you brave.”

He touched your chest, where your heart pounded loud beneath your ribs. “This still beats. That means you still feel. Means you care.”

You let out a shaky breath, and this time when you turned into his chest, you weren’t falling apart.

You were being held together.

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