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Did somebody say John Price angst?

Main Masterlist (MDNI)

Warnings: Sensitive pregnancy topics (mentions of morning-after pill, etc). Angst. Hurt/no comfort. Fem!Reader.

The test laying on the counter stares back at you tauntingly, berating you for thinking anything other than the obvious. You didn’t want to be pregnant—you even took a morning-after pill for good measure—but still, the negative result displayed on the tiny digital screen stings like nothing ever has before. You can’t do anything but look down at the stupid stick with tears building in your eyes. 

     “Darlin’? Y’alright in there?” John’s concerned voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door, but you don’t respond.

     He jiggles the knob, grunting in disapproval when it doesn’t move. He resorts to knocking. 

     “Sweet’eart, let me in.”

     You sigh at his insistence and toss the pregnancy test in the garbage, trying to blink away the moisture in your eyes before slowly opening the bathroom door. He grins, but you do not return the gesture. 

     “Wha’ were ya doin’ in there, pretty girl?” He questions softly, cupping your cheeks in his big hands. 

     “This isn’t working, John,” you tilt your head out of his grasp, hugging yourself tightly. 

     He’s hurt by your actions—that much is obvious by the way his hands continue to hover around you despite their newfound emptiness—although he tries his best to hide it. He clears his throat and sniffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

     “What’s not workin’?” 

     You scoff in disbelief, rolling your eyes. He knows damn well what you’re talking about, but like always, is choosing to play dumb in hopes that the inevitable conversation will be avoided. 

     “Us. I can’t do this- this… what the fuck are we even doing?” You growl, finally allowing your eyes to meet his. 

     “It’s… we’re- we’re just havin’ fun,” he furrows his brow, but you can tell that even he doesn’t believe his own lie. 

     “Fun? You think it’s fun to ignore me for weeks just to randomly call me in the middle of the night for a quick fuck every once in a while? You think it’s fun to make me screw up my cycle with pills because you refuse to wear a condom?” You lean forward, jabbing your finger against his sternum harshly. “You think it’s fun to tell me you love me and then leave me every single time?”

     You can’t blink back the tears anymore. They fall of their own volition, warm and bitter and exhausted. John scratches his beard nervously, icy blue eyes darting around to look at anything but you. He knows he’s a coward but seeing you so hurt makes him nauseous. 

     “I don’t want to do this anymore,” you exhale slowly. “I can’t be with a man who doesn’t know what he wants.”

     “I do know what I want,” he rasps.

     “Do you, John? What do you want, then? Because it sure as hell isn’t a relationship,” you bark. 

     “I want- I want you.” 

     You laugh. You laugh because you know it isn’t you that he wants, but a warm cunt to sink into when the nights get cold and lonely. He wants someone to warm his bed so that he can wake up and feel whole instead of finding the looming reminder of what an empty man he really is. He wants loyalty without commitment, marriage without the papers or rings just in case he decides at the last minute that he wants out. 

     John isn’t as amused as you. He backs you against the wall and cages you in with his huge body, suffocating you with his hot breath. When he finally works up the courage to look at you again, there is something desperate shrouded beneath the authority in his eyes.

     “I want you,” he repeats as he nudges his nose against yours. “I want to be with you.”

     “That’s not true.”

     “It is-”

     “Yeah? Then retire. Retire from the field and stay home with me, John. Start a family with me.”  

     The man freezes and instantly you see the resignation settling along his features. You take the opportunity to shove him away, quickly wiping away the fresh onslaught of tears that stain your face. 

     “I fucking thought so,” you sneer. 

     “You know it’s not that bloody simple,” John hisses, haunches raised. “I would leave in an instant if I could, but my men-”    

     “Your men would still thrive as a team,” you interrupt. “Lieutenant Riley is well on his way to becoming a captain. Do you think he’s incapable? Or do you just think you’re so fucking important that everything would fall apart without you?” 

     All he can do is stare at you, huffing angrily like some sort of untamed beast. You wince—that was a deep cut, and you know it, but it’s far too late to take it back. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Might as well get it all out now. 

     “I’m tired of wasting my years on you, John. I want a baby. I want to get married and be a good wife to my husband, not just… some toy for a broken man to play with.”

     His gaze softens, and he leans in once more, resting his hands on your waist. It takes everything in you not to melt, give in and let him take you back to bed. God knows you want to. 

     “No, that’s not what you are,” John insists. “I can- I can give you those things, darlin’. I will give you those things. I just need more time.” 

     “You’ve needed ‘more time’ for two years,” you remind him defeatedly. “I used to believe that, but in all the time we’ve been sleeping together, you never once tried to actually convince me that I had anything more to look forward to besides another shag.”

     For the umpteenth time tonight, John Price is rendered speechless. You wait for a moment but when he remains silent, you only nod. 

     “I think you should leave.”

     This time, he doesn’t argue nor try to defend himself. You’ve thrown salt in his wound and he’s sewn it up for good; retribution. He knows that this is what he deserves. This is what he chose. He presses a kiss to your forehead and lets his lips linger for a moment too long. 

     “You’ll make a beautiful bride.”

     John leaves your house for the last time, and like the man you love, you become just as empty. 

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"House of Wax" is one of those movies I'll never tire of watching! So I thought, why not make an AU with Brahms and Mary? I've had this concept in mind for a while, so I'll leave you with a little of what I've been working on, just some doodles. Since the movie is about siblings, I decided to improvise a bit. To give Mary a brother, I used Mark (her genderbender). As for Brahms, since he has no other family, I borrowed Brahms from the original script to join this AU, and there we have the Heelshire siblings. Well, I think that's all, haha. I didn't elaborate further; it was just something I had in mind and wanted to have a little fun with the concept. Anyway, I hope you like it.

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His Sun

Bo Sinclair x pregnant!reader

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“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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vincent & bo sinclair as youngins 🥹

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Pretending this isn’t one of the most niche things I’ve ever drawn ❤️

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Doing an art trade with @remacant, did a redraw of this lovely drawing of theirs!

I don’t know how to draw dogs😭

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vincent often makes you pose so he can draw you. you’re stuck in awkward positions for a few hours while he studies and memorizes your body to draw. he notes all of your curves, the slight dip in your hips, a few long scars that line your back and your thighs. he briefly wonders how you got them, and plans to ask you later if you’re comfortable sharing. he makes sure to add the barely noticeable freckles across your face, and the birthmark that was so delicately placed on your jawline.

vincent is very satisfied with his work, he thinks he has captured you perfectly in his drawing, and he is excited to show you. you’re glad to finally be able to move and stretch. your heart flutters in your chest when he shows you the drawing, to see how someone else views you through their eyes feels surreal, you are so used to seeing yourself through mirrors, or cameras, that you overlook details about yourself that vincent didn’t. you didnt notice the tiny freckles on your collarbone, or the small moles on your mid back. you were sure vincent had memorized all these physical details about you. he already had your favorite foods and drinks memorized, he knew what toppings on pizza you preferred, how many ice cubes you liked to have in your drinks. he was a man that paid close attention to detail, but that wasn’t surprising given how he made such beautiful but intricate wax sculptures, he was talented, and you praised him every day for that.

he was also very caring toward you, a trait his brother, Bo, didn’t exactly possess. vincent always made sure to include you in things so you wouldn’t feel left out, he would let you draw in his sketch book, something he didn’t even let his brother touch— for some reason. you’ve looked through his sketches, and found nothing bad, so you weren’t sure why he guarded it so much. if anything, his sketches were beautiful, you even found a few he did of you, and you could easily tell that he did these on a whim when sitting near you. they weren’t as detailed as others, just a quick something to busy his hands, or maybe he just wanted to capture your face in that moment.

vincent loved you dearly, and you could feel it through his actions and words… or letters. that was another thing he did. late at night, when he was left with nothing but his thoughts, he would write you heartfelt letters explaining all of the traits he loved about you. these letters were often multiple pages, to make up for all of the things he doesn’t say.

in conclusion, he is an amazing partner, and you love everything about him, and everything that comes with being with him, which includes his brother, who can be a bit mean sometimes, but you’ve learned not to take it to heart.

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drowning is only as hard as you make it

bo sinclair x gn!reader

2k words. weird melancholy freak behavior. author's thinly disguised smoking fetish. established relationship (lol). Ambrose is lonely. that's it that's the fic.

He always manages to find you.  Every time.  It’s not a game anymore, not really; there’s no use keeping score when only one side is allowed to earn points.  There are no rules, no satisfaction in the victory.  You’d make your way back to the house even if he never showed up.  Today you’re not even hiding.

The row of vacant windows across the street catches the last lazy rays of sunlight.  A few eager fireflies pantomime shooting stars just above the freshly cut grass.  He mows the lawns regularly, every last one of them, dripping sweat in the sticky air.  You think it’s nonsensical.  He doesn’t care what you think.  At least it smells nice.  Nostalgic.  Painful.  

On an evening like this, there should be kids out.  Riding bikes, running through the neighbor’s yard.  Parents watching from their porches.  People chatting, relaxing.  Hell, maybe a dog or two.  But there is only you, and the fireflies.  

The heat of your cigarette creeps dangerously close to your fingers but you wring one last pull off the thing before you crush it against the step.  Scorch marks dot the woodgrain like initials carved in a tree, only better, because they’re anonymous.  Could've been left by anyone sitting sulking on these stairs and pondering ways to disappear.  Plausible deniability.  

Too bad you're the only one here.

You set your hand on the pack beside you, work another one out with your fingers without looking.  It’s all reflex.  It’s all muscle memory.  That’s all you are anymore, something that survives without thinking about it.  

In that shadowy place called Before, you only ever smoked on rare occasions. At parties or bars, always with friends, always a little drunk. You'd never admit it aloud but a part of you used to pride yourself on your restraint–you could stretch a single pack out over a month or more, until the tobacco had gone stale and the cigarettes tasted like dusty paper. Until it was less of a treat and more like a chore to get through the last few.  

Now you drop butts through the grate of your days like maybe you can fill up the emptiness with smoke.  

You sigh and light up, take a drag and let it sweep you up above the gutters.  You imagine the town might almost be pretty from up high.  Hard to tell from here.  

“Didn’t know this house had a chimney.”  

Some part of you remembers what it felt like to flinch when he got this close.  Another part remembers the way you buried your face in his back before he got up this morning.  You exhale nice and slow.  “Thought you knew everything.”  

“Now, we’ve talked about this.”  He leans against the rickety railing, white paint flaking off at the slightest disturbance.  “You know nothin’ good comes from thinkin’.”  

As a matter of fact, you’ve talked about everything already, but that’s never stopped him before.  You’ve heard all the stories sixteen times, could recount his childhood from memory one miserable year after another.  You know where he got that scar.  He knows all about your first kiss.  Eighth grade was hard for both of you for vastly different reasons.  He’s never been to your hometown but he could probably find your old house.  You’ve never met his mother, but you hate her just the same.  Favorite movie, worst fear, where were you on 9/11?  In a zombie apocalypse, he’d choose an ax.  You’d take the shotgun with exactly two shells.  It’s almost romantic, except, well.  

“Hey.”  He slams the heel of his hand against the railing and somewhere along the line, the wood splits with a crack.  “What’d I just say?”  

You look up, jarred loose from your spiral, and he’s shaking his head.  

“Damn fool.  Gimme those back.”  

He reaches out a hand and you slip one last smoke from the pack before you give it to him.  

“Lighter too, baby, c’mon.”  

You hesitate for a second, long enough he has to flex his fingers to make the point.  You hand him the lighter, keep the spare cigarette, tuck it behind your ear.

He peeks into the pack and his lip twitches. “Fuckin’ glutton.  This was full this mornin’.”  

“Sorry,” you deadpan.  

“Sure y’are.”  

You’ve had this conversation too, in just about every house on the street.  You wonder if he ever feels crazy, playing it all out over and over again.  Probably not. He's composed of repetition, a record that skips in the same place every time it's played. You feel crazy, fucking listening to it.  

You watch him work a cigarette loose, watch him hold it in his lips, watch the tendons flex across his knuckles as he lights up. For all the fucking smoke he blows, you still think he looks damn good as he exhales up towards the fading sun. One of life's little cruelties. 

“Y’know, supper ain't gonna make itself,” he says casually. Like he’s trying to piss you off.  He probably is.  

“You sure?” you shoot back, like you’re trying to piss him off.  You definitely are.  

He chuckles, unbothered. “I dunno, baby. Been wrong before.”

“Yeah?  Tell me more.” You're bold these days. Stupid. Dangerous, and not in the same way as the surgeon general's fine print. Dangerous in the present moment. Shaving seconds off your life like taking a pocketknife to a good chunk of wood. But games are more fun with two players. 

He doesn’t want to play, though.  Probably worn out from mowing all those fucking lawns.  He shrugs.  “Nothin’ more to tell.”  

“Pantry’s empty anyway,” you mutter.  The grocery list on the fridge has wrapped back on itself twice over.  He’s been cagey lately, reluctant to venture into town.  You’re down to canned goods old enough to read chapter books.  

“Guess we’ll starve.”  

“Guess so.”  You flick your rapidly shrinking cigarette and watch the ash fizzle frantically down and disappear. The chorus of crickets crescendoes to a dull roar in the silence.  

“You like these, huh?”

You're not sure what he means for a second before you realize he's talking about the cigarettes. You take another drag like you have to mull the taste over, really consider the question. He’s not a patient man, but he waits for your answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally on the tail of your exhale. “Best ones in a while.”

It’s the truth.  He's got his own brand and you like it too, but he's a fucking skinflint, and he only buys himself a pack when he's really hard up. Most of the time he scavenges off corpses and out of glove boxes. And you live off his scraps, so. 

Regretfully, you stub yours out as the flame hits the filter. Your throat is raw, tongue wrapped in the taste of tobacco. Everything in this town is racing to kill you and you wish something would win already. You can feel him watching you, now and always. 

“Somethin’ you need, sugar?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”  

He exhales with relish.  You think about the taste of smoke on his tongue and tobacco on his fingers and you grit your teeth.  He’s a vice in every sense.  

“You pissed at me?”  

What kind of question is that?  You peel a chunk of paint off the stair near your shoe.  “I’m always pissed at you.”  You mean it and you don’t and you’re braced for retribution either way, but none comes.  

“Fair enough.”  

You steal a wary glance in his direction.  He’s covered in flecks of grass.  He shed his overshirt in the heat of the day but it’s back on now, unbuttoned, the tee underneath smudged with green.  He lifts his hat, rubs his brow with the heel of his hand, tugs it back into place.  His face is a little sunburnt in spite of the thing.  

“You wanna fight?”  

You stop breathing for a second, sit very still.  He looks down at you, cocks an eyebrow.  He’s really asking.  

You think about it, really think about it.  Broken skin, broken glass.  No neighbors to scandalize.  You shake your head.  “No.”  

He shrugs, goes back to staring holes in the house across the street.  You almost want him to be disappointed, but his face is placid, expression impassive.  “Alright then.  ‘Nother time.”  

You furrow your brow, look at your shoes.  You pick at the paint, feel it slip beneath your nail like a splinter.  You’d bet five bucks you don’t have that he’ll be back to repaint these steps within the week.  It makes you want to rip them apart so he’d have more to do.  You’re not sure if he’d take that as a gift or as sabotage.  You’re not sure how you’d mean it.  

“How ‘bout we head inside, feel each other up?  See what happens?”  You look at him sharply.  He’s really asking.  “We can do it how you like it.”  

How you like it.  How do you like it?  Does he know?  Do you?

Your expression must be a funny one because he grins.  “What?  You a prude all the sudden?”  

No.  No, but.

You find the words wedged behind your teeth.  “You a gentleman all the sudden?”  

He snorts.  “C’mon now.”  He gives the railing one last yank, almost pulls it loose.  As he rounds the steps he drops his spent cigarette and crushes it underfoot.  “Scoot.”  

You make room on the stair and he sits down heavy beside you, takes up more than his fair share of space, same as always.  He smells like sun and sweat and grass and smoke.  His sleeve rides up and exposes the pink of his wrist.  He pulls it down without thinking about it.  You almost–almost–pull it back up.  

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out.  Don’t know what the fuck you want.”  

Now that's a dumb fucking thing to say. You want a thousand things.  A meal.  A clock that works.  Cable TV.  An article of clothing that doesn't reek of mothballs and someone else's fear. A normal conversation with a normal human being. Half a goddamn hour to yourself without the urge to lock the doors and set the house on fire. 

Anything.  Anything.  

“A light,” you say bitterly. 

To your surprise, he digs the lighter out of his pocket.  Holds it up to show you, like a peace offering.  He moves his boots down a step, pats his thigh.  “C’mere.” 

You straddle his lap and it’s like you’re walking in and out of a room at the same time.  Your hands find their place on either side of his chest and he’s warm to the touch like a dog lying in the sun.  His fingers play at the small of your back.  You can escape into the maze of abandoned homes or the pattern on the ceiling but you can’t slip away from those eyes at this distance.  They catch you like barbs on wire, as distant and cold as the sky.  

This is how you like it.  His head tipped back, looking up at you.  You run your thumb along the edge of his jaw and he almost–almost–smiles.  

He plucks the cigarette from behind your ear, flips it in his fingers.  You open your mouth.  He sets it on your tongue.  He flicks the lighter, brings it close, and when you breathe in you feel it–the poison of this place, yellow-green, permeating your lungs and all the rest of you.  No use in pretending.  No use fighting the current.  Drowning is only as hard as you make it.  

You wonder if he knows you’d come home even if he never came to find you.  Maybe that’s why he comes anyway.  Maybe that’s why you keep hiding.  So you both have something to look forward to.  Games are more fun with two players.  

It’s not worth thinking about.  Nothing good comes from thinking.  

You start to exhale and he tugs you close, sucking the smoke from your mouth, because he never can let you keep anything to yourself.  Maybe you don’t even want to. 

Your lips touch.  Tangerine thrums behind your eyes.  You’ll go to bed hungry tonight and so will he.  One shotgun, two shells.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs.  

You’re already working his shirt off his shoulders one-handed.  “Nothing I want.”  

He laughs once, almost breathless, leans back on the stairs so you have to lean with him.  “C’mon now.”  

You toss the cigarette into the dirt to free up both hands.

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free my boy he did nothing wrong

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Can i pls request slashers react if child/teen! Reader got shot(Not fatally, but they lost consciousness.) yk, similar to the walking dead scene when Judith got shot. I really want to see Sinclair brothers react to it

The brothers reacting to their offspring getting shot | Sinclair brothers x Gender natural reader

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Summary: Whilst the brothers are trying to hunt down a tourist, Y/n sees from a distant how the tourist managed to get a hold of a firearm and tried to shoot their father at a weak spot, realising a simple shout would not be enough, they rush in yelling: "I won't let you...!"

Author's note: This is my first time writing a headcanon, and it may not be perfect, but I hope you liked it regardless. Also, I've decided to write the brothers in a way where they are fond of the reader. They have a deep connection to them. So that is why they are acting out this way.

Vincent Sinclair

In that exact moment, the icy, controlled façade Vincent had built would crumble. He would be struck with undiluted anger at the sight of his offspring, who he could only see as his baby right then and there. He would probably respond with startling speed, viewing the tourist as a barrier to his daughter's safety rather than a threat. With ruthless efficiency, he would disarm them without hesitation, his moves nearly robotic in their accuracy. The anger would then shift inward, leading to self-blame. He would carefully examine his child/teen for the wound while secretly scolding himself for allowing them to suffer harm. Even though there was chaos going on beneath the surface, his touch would be surprisingly soft. He would carry her to safety, maintaining his clinical focus until she was absolutely safe. His deeper feelings would only come to the surface when he was by himself. His sorrow was not overt or audible; rather, it was a silent, fervent vow to never again place his child/teen at risk. To keep their spirit alive till they woke up again, he might even take up their interest or art.

Bo Sinclair

If Bo truly cared for his offspring, then I believe he would respond with a passionate, unfiltered outburst of fury. It'd be like flipping a switch to watch his son or daughter collapse. The barely restrained violence would seethe to the surface as his animalistic side took hold. He would simply respond without thinking, rushing at the tourist with frightful force and speed. His instinct to defend his offspring would drive him to aim for the throat rather than the pistol. Bo's energy would be frenzied after the tourist was dealt with. With his big arms shaking, he would pick up his child/teen and repeatedly call their name in a terrified voice. He would look for the wound, his touch rough but desperate, and he would be at a loss for what to do but hug them close while muttering apologies and threats of vengeance. He would accuse himself of lacking the strength and ability to better defend them. He would hardly ever leave their side as the shock subsided, even after they were awake and doing well, out of fear that they would vanish if he turned his back.

Lester Sinclair

I believe the most unpredictable response would come from Lester. He would most likely initially freeze, his short body shaking as he took in what had happened. Then, he would reach for his child/teen and let out a high-pitched, terrified shriek. His face would be marked with a mixture of uncertainty and anxiety. In contrast to his brothers, Lester would not act aggressively; instead, his dread would change form, most likely into a strong desire to restore his loved one's well-being. In a desperate attempt to assist, he would hover around them, frequently getting in the way. He may begin to murmur, without much meaning, about not taking them away and that they were too innocent. Despite their perplexity and his own dread, he would be the one to try to calm them by humming them his little songs. Although Lester wouldn't be able to feel the same level of anger as Vincent or Bo, his fear would show up as a feeble desire to assist, frantically asking his family if he was to blame or if there was anything he could do to make things better. Since he believed that this was the only way to ensure his child/teen's safety for all time, he would most likely attempt to keep them away from Ambrose forever.

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Because it’s cold where I am—

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

You tucked yourself closer to Bo for warmth as the wind howled. Because of the age of the wood, the cold seeped into your shared room. No amount of blankets could keep you warm, but, thankfully, Bo was a walking heater. He only had a thin blanket on his while you had a mountain of blankets. Somehow, this mad man was warm enough to sleep with his feet exposed to the cold air.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm, and his breathing warm in your hair. He nuzzled his cheek into your hair and hummed tiredly but didn’t wake. The warmth that circled you was enough to satisfy and shield you from the coldness of the room.

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Vinny <3

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A heart belonging to anathor - oneshot | Bo Sinclair x female reader

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Summary: You weren't special. You were just an anathor woman who caught Beaurgard's eye, and he was going to use you for his desires. However, he didn't expect you to be so intriguing. He wanted to keep you alive just a bit longer. Unbeknownst to his own emotions, he was falling for you. It's a pity that your heart has already been given to a different man.

Her engine's startling halt was the first indication that something awful was going to happen. Her automobile stopped after coughing and sputtering for a few miles before the next town, leaving her stranded on a lonely, dusty stretch of roadway that appeared to go on forever. As she looked out over the expanse of scrub and the foreboding hush that fell following her vehicle's moan, a feeling of dread started to poke at the edges of her optimism. Then, like a mirage, a disused pickup truck pulled up on the horizon, driven by Bo Sinclair, a man whose face was as rough and battered as the surrounding terrain. She would soon discover that his name was linked with the sole working mechanic in a hundred miles. She was so desperate that she consented to be hauled back to his dilapidated garage, which appeared to have been untidy for years.

A chill went down her spine the moment she entered, surrounded by tools covered in grease and the lingering odour of motor oil. Bo's blue eyes flickered with something unnerving, and he stared at her for longer than could be deemed professional. Bo didn't seem to want to let her go, so what she had hoped would be a simple fix became a nightmare. He was not casually interested in her. His goals were as obvious as the dirty Polaroid photos hanging on his basement wall during the first several days, which were a ballet of covert threats and non-consensual touches. There was always a heavy, possessive aspect to every motion, even when he was making sure she was eating and not getting too many bruises on her wrists.

Because of his continual observation and the fact that she was effectively a prisoner in his realm, her initial anxiety had gradually transformed into a smouldering resentment. Her sharp tongue and fiery spirit were a continual threat to his supremacy, and she was not one to give up easy. He would find himself strangely pulled to her every time she spit back a reply or glared at him with a defiance that ignited in her eyes. He had discovered that he enjoyed these small conflicts, with each one adding a spark to the otherwise drab monotony of his solitary existence. She was a live wire, often surprising him with her unpredictability and determination, which were both frustrating and, to his own surprise, very alluring. There was a peculiar hesitation that prevented him from breaking her and forcing her to succumb. It was something like... fondness, not terror, by any means.

Unbeknownst to Bo, her heart belonged to someone else, a man who was quite different from her captor. She had known this man for a very long time; he was a charming redneck engineer whose easy grin and sincere compassion had always been her safe haven. In her increasingly dire circumstances, the notion of him was a continuous source of solace. His name was Jackson. She most yearned for his soothing presence and his strong hands, which were so different from Bo's abrasive ones. Her heart had been engraved with Jackson's steadfast affection and devotion, which made Bo's predatory advances all the more reprehensible. She clung to their trips filled with laughter, the peaceful nights spent watching the stars, and the sturdy comfort when he would hold her tight as her sanctuary. Those memories were her lifeline, a promise of a future where she would be free from the suffocating grip of Bo Sinclair.

The days bled into nights, marked by the constant hum of the generator and the oppressive weight of Bo’s presence. She would stare at the grey stained walls as he left her on that high chair, thoughts of escape swimming around in her head. She tried to plan, searching for weak points in Bo's routine, but each attempt was foiled by his unnerving awareness. One evening, a ferocious thunderstorm swept across the desolate landscape, the sky cracking with lightning and booming with thunder. The power flickered and died, plunging the mechanic shop into complete darkness. Panic seized her. She had always hated the dark, not for fear of the monsters that may lurk in the shadows but for the oppressive feeling of being swallowed by the unknown. The sudden loss of light sent her spiralling, exacerbating her already frayed nerves and her sleep-deprived state. It had been days since she’d had a full night of uninterrupted sleep, the result of Bo’s consistent presence at the edges of her awareness. She’d been trying to keep her sanity, but it was becoming harder and harder. She felt weak and vulnerable, and the darkness was only feeding her spiralling thoughts. The thunder rattled the corrugated iron roof, mirroring the turmoil inside her. A whimper escaped her lips involuntarily as she tried her best to curl up on the high chair, trying to block out the darkness, she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, each beat echoing the thunder's roar. It was in that moment of absolute vulnerability that she heard footsteps, heavy and distinct, approaching her door.

The door creaked open, his silhouette framed against the faint light of the storm outside. He moved with a deliberate, almost cautious gait, his usual swagger diminished by the darkness. She could feel her body trembling as he came closer, her eyes desperately trying to pierce the shadows to discern his intentions. He knew of her fear, the way she'd flinch every time the lights would dim, and for the first time, her vulnerability made him pause. He had not meant to scare her, but he saw her form huddled, or at least tries to be in her tied down state, trembling, and the usual urge to take control had been replaced with something else, a flicker of…concern. He moved closer and lowered himself to lean towards her, looking directly at her face.

“You alright?” He asked, his voice gruff but with a tenderness she had never heard before.

“I… I don’t like the dark…” Her voice came out shaky and barely above a whisper. The fear, the darkness, the accumulated days of captivity had finally broken a dam she didn’t know existed. She attempts to reach out a hand, her vision swimming, barely making out his form in the inky black. She was so tired she could barely remember his name, her mind jumping between memories and dreams, her reality blurring with the exhaustion and the sheer terror of her situation.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took off those wrapped duct tape so that he could take her hand in his, his rough, calloused skin brushing against her soft palm. It was a strange sensation, the contact both grounding and unsettling. Her touch was like a jolt, sending unexpected impulses through his veins. He felt a warmth spread through his chest, a sensation so foreign that it made him want to pull back, but he found himself rooted to the spot, her hand small and fragile in his.

“Hey…” He whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle, “It’ll be alright.”

Without thinking, she lunged towards him, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso, burying her head against his chest. He stiffened at the contact, his body going rigid as her soft hair tickled his neck. It was an intense moment, the culmination of all the fear and exhaustion finally taking their toll. Her eyes were blurry with tears, she felt so tired and confused, she couldn't tell if she was dreaming or not. The only thing she could feel was the solid form of the person she thought she knew that was holding her. "Jackson," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "I’m so glad you’re here."

The name hung in the air like a heavy weight, the silence that followed was thick with unspoken recognition. He froze, his mind reeling with the implications of her words. He had been called every derogatory term in the book, but never had he ever heard the name Jackson in his life. It was not his name, and the realisation washed over him like ice-cold water. Her arms were still wrapped around him, her body pressed against his, the intimacy of that gesture throwing him off guard. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of confusion, anger, and something akin to hurt swirling within. He knew she was tired. He knew she wasn't in her right mind, and yet, the fact that she mistook him for someone else left a sharp, unexpectedly painful sting. Jackson, that was the name of the man, probably a man she pined for, the man she loved. A man who was everything he was not.

Bo carefully untangled her arms and moved slightly back, needing a moment to process what she had said. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, a mixture of humiliation and rage simmering beneath the surface. He wanted to shake her, to snap her out of her delusion, but the look of sheer vulnerability on her face stopped him. He felt his heart clenching as he watched the tears stream down her face, the light of the storm flashing her face, making her seem more fragile than ever. He knew he couldn't be him. He would never be him. He wasn't kind, wasn't gentle, and wasn't good. He was a sinner, and she needed an angel. Yet, his heart refused to let her go, his possessive nature raging at the thought that she would look at another with such deep affection.

He had convinced himself, in the twisted logic of his infatuation, that he was all she needed. This sudden revelation, coupled with her desperate embrace, sent a wave of conflicting emotions through him. Her love was like a far-off campfire in the dark, and he was a man who was lost in the woods. Her fervent plea was too strong for him to ignore. His movements were slow and methodical at first, but as her tears began to fall to the floor, he drew her closer until her body was mashed against his. His hands found their way to her back and held her tightly, as though she were the most valuable thing in the world.

The thin veneer of his violence had been removed by her need for comfort, exposing a man who yearned for connection. He was unable to comprehend the meaning of true love. He was only aware of the pain in his chest for the lady he had imprisoned and was now cradling in his arms while hiding behind the love of another.

"It’s fine, it’s fine, buttercup. Ain’t no reason to be cryin’, this’ll all be over soon. I... I swear on it." He remained there till she slept, a lady who still believed he was someone else, a warm, frail presence in his arms.

Author's note: What started out as an imagine scenario, became a oneshot when I saw a potential for a story. The reason why I gave the reader a male interest was because I needed a character who could directly compare to Bo, so basically explain which one was better of the two. Since at the end of the day, Bo is still a terrible individual, and the reality of having him as a partner would be a tragedy. It dosen’t matter what he went through in his upbringing. It does not excuse it, but maybe he isn't a hopeless case. People can change, its all about if they want to or not.

[backscratches]

CANDLES

HOUSE OF WAX (2005) - BO SINCLAIR x READER, 400 words. 18+ MDNI. Dubcon, adult content, stockholm syndrome, dark.

You know how wonderful a freshly snuffed candle smells? Waxy, warm, and dark. Climactic - the peak of the candle's life, until it lives another. The House of Wax has that air. Mustier, but alike. And you see, after you escape the Sinclairs, you try to go back to normal life, but every time someone blows out a candle, it all comes rushing back. Lester's twang, rise 'n' shine. Vincent's soft gaze. Bo's breath against your lips.

Every time you blow out a candle. Bo's hand on your hip, with his tip prodding, pushing into where you ache and drip. His hand on your mouth as he slides in. Shhh. The stretch of his heft, and of the mating press. Before the candle smoke is gone, you feel it all, every time. The fullness, the burn, the tingle, the throb. The bolt of pleasure with every stroke of his hips. The warm burst in your depths and the trickle down your skin in his wake. Every time a flame goes out, you ache for those hands on your skin. You stare at the smoking black wick in a trance. Oh, to be back in their grip, in their arms, your life in their hands - rough one day and soft the next. Is that god forsaken place where you belong? As the scent fades, you talk yourself out of it, every time. Until you can't. Until you're back in Ambrose, facing the open doors of that church. A sapling of regret roots in your gut as Bo smooths his tie and offers you his hand, and you take it anyway. Then, as you're ushered through those big oak doors, the weight of what you've done wafts into your nostrils. The smoke, the wax, the yearning. It's overpowering, but tinged with death and rot and doom that prickles the back of your neck. Desire, tinged with fear, disgust, slowly twisting in your gut as you walk down the aisle. Resignation as you reach the altar where a hundred candles mask the faint stench of a mouthless congregation. He makes you face him, then takes your jaw in his hand, brings his mouth close to yours. He whispers, you do, and the candles flicker out into a fragrant cloud of smoke. In the darkness, Bo's lips press into yours, and a haze of comfort settles over your heart.

[backscratches]

Our Angelic Sinclair - oneshot | Sinclair brothers x little sister reader

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Summary: She was an unplanned baby that wasn't needed in their chaotic family, anathor member that would surely be forgotten or end up becoming anathor ruined individual. Who knows? All Trudy and Victor were keeping her for was to have some kind of balance between her brothers that Lester already failed to do properly. Nonetheless, she's still their child, and they'll do their best to raise her. Even though it means making sure that the demon child dosen’t come anywhere near her.

There was a noticeable sense of exhaustion and anxiety in the air when Trudy eventually had her newborn daughter out of her body in the middle of a peaceful suburban neighbourhood. The warm brightness of the sunlight streaming through their modest home's windows seemed to welcome the new family member. The infant, blissfully oblivious to the outside world, slept soundly while Trudy held her daughter in her arms. Her heart swelled with indifference, Trudy looked down at the small fingers and delicate features that seemed to hold the key to peace and a new beginning.

She did not feel a single ounce of motherhood with her daughter yet, but that wasn't news to her, she didn't feel that same motherly love for the twins or Lester either at first, not that she does now, but she still cared. The most love she could give out ended up with Victor and Vincent, and even then her love for them could turn out to be bitter at times. She loved her boy, and tolerated his face because she had to, however, a part of her wished that Vincent could have turned out to be different. She loved Victor for his intrests and how he would take care of her, nonetheless, sometimes his anger issues could piss her off. Especially since he did things that she couldn’t tolerate at times, but other than those moments, she loved being in his arms when she needed him.

Her mind suddenly drifted to the other twin, the one where her feelings where complicated. Beaurgard...or Bo which he prefers to be called. Where to even begin with her troublesome boy? A little monster that destroys anything he dosen’t like or come across. She doesn't understand why he's so aggressive, but she can understand what her boy wants from her. Yet even then she can't give it to him, because there's only so much Trudy can give before she feels like she dosen’t even want to try no longer. Trudy ain't no liar when it comes to love, she feels disgusted bothering to even do that. So when she tells Bo that she can't love him, it's not because she wants to be cruel, but it's because she believes that nobody could love him. So she makes sure that he knows that, to spare the heartache of him wanting to have something he can never receive.

When it comes to Lester, though, she believes her boy can get that, not that she cares about whatever he does. But because he hasn't done anything noteworthy in her book, yet he seems to be a good lucky person. Trudy dosen’t despise Lester, yet she dosen’t have enough affection to give to him. She will give him pocket money and a few head pats if he did well in school, but other than that, she dosen’t interact much with him. He's just an anathor one of her children. The one that was supposed to be the middle ground child, but instead just became the youngest, until now that is.

As Trudy watched her daughter snuggled around her chest area, she couldn't help but to think if her little girl was going to turn out like her. So far, none of her boys shows any symptoms of being like her, and because her baby was so abnormaly calm and quiet, she wondered if there was something wrong with her daughter too. Because if she was, she wasn't going to hesitate to speak to Victor about it so they can put her in a orphanage. They only have so much sanity and patience left, so if a baby girl dosen’t bring harmony in this household. Then she dosen’t deserve to stay in this family, it is harsh, but they didn't want her in the beginning anyways. The only reason as to why they kept her was because Trudy was already so late in her pregnancy, not to mention that their christian beliefs was strongly against abortion, so that's why she came into this world. To be the middle ground that Lester couldn’t be.

Trudy slowly put down the baby to Lester's old crib, as she carefully picked up the blanket to put on the girls stomach. Just staring at her for a long time as her thoughts drifted her further away from reality. Meanwhile, in the living room, Victor gathered their three boys, Vincent, Lester, and Bo, around him. He was a bit annoyed to establish some new ground rules, mainly because he was tired, but if he didn't remind them to ensure that their sister would be safe, then Trudy would nag him about it.

"Listen up, boys," Victor began, his tone firm yet pacific. "Your sister is very small and fragile. We need to take extra care of her. No loud noises, no jumping around when she's sleeping, and definitely no roughhousing." He paused, watching their faces as they absorbed his words. Lester nodded earnestly, while Vincent's brow furrowed under his mask in contemplation, trying to understand the weight of their father's concerns. However, as Victor continued, a cloud of tension hung over the discussion when he mentioned Bo. He leaned closer to his oldest son, his voice low but firm. “As for you Bo, you’re not allowed near the baby. Not ever. Do you understand? You’re not fit to be around her.” The air grew thick with unspoken emotions as Victor’s words could have been interpeted as protectiveness, but nobody could truly tell for sure.

Bo, taken aback by Victor’s words, felt a swell of indignation rise within him. “What do you mean I’m not allowed? That’s not fair!” He shot back, his tone laced with frustration. “I was allowed to be near Lester when he was a baby, and nobody said anything then! Why is it different now? Just because she’s a girl?” His eyes narrowed, reflecting a blend of hurt and defiance. Bo was no stranger to being scrutinized, but the sting of Victor’s words cut deeper than he expected. Victor’s eyes narrowed, his patience fraying as he countered, “This isn’t about gender, Bo! Besides, Lester was different. This is about responsibility and your chaotic behaviour. You think I care what you feel? Not once have you acted right. You’re a danger to her, to all of us!” His voice rose, echoing against the waxy figures frozen in time around them. The shadows flickered, almost as if they were absorbing the weight of the confrontation, the stillness amplifying the underlying chaos of their family dynamics.

Bo's eyes were widend for a second before he stayed silent and he looked down to the floor with his fists being clenched hardly. Bo's eyes were a bit glossy, as if he tried holding back tears that was threatening to spill out. Victor sighed in annoyance as he started walking away to take breather, leaving to the kitchen for a glass of water. Vincent, who stood a couple of steps behind Bo, slowly went up to his brother as he wanted to comfort him. However, the moment his hand went to his right shoulder, Bo shrugged him off, as he started to walk outside, not bothering sparing a glance at his brothers as he slammed the door behind him.

As the evening came by the corner, the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, Trudy felt a sense of foreboding. The soft coos of her baby girl filled the air, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt perfect. But then her thoughts drifted again to Bo. The concerns had not stemmed from a lack of love for him, but rather a deep-seated fear that he could disrupt the fragile balance of their lives.

It was a precarious situation, one that required careful handling. Trudy knew that the more they pushed Bo away, the more complicated their relationship would become. Yet, every fiber of her being screamed for caution. She envisioned her daughter growing up in a safe, nurturing environment, far removed from the chaos that Bo often embodied. Anathor scenario of a future where her daughter would grow up knowing her family, all of them—Bo included. Wouldn’t it be a shame to let fear dictate their lives and isolate someone who was, after all, blood? The dichotomy of longing and fear weighed heavily on her heart. Could they really keep their baby safe while maintaining some semblance of familial ties? After all, that's what Trudy always wanted, a perfect normal family. But even then, Trudy never believed she deserved it.

Victor entered the room, breaking her reverie. He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, observing the peaceful scene before him. “She looks so pure,” he murmured, his gaze softening. Trudy nodded, she looked more innocent than any other baby she had seen. Perhaps it was because she was a girl, who knows?her daughter reminded her of an angel. But there was a heaviness in her heart that she couldn’t shake. “Do you ever think about Bo?” she asked cautiously, gauging his reaction.

Victor sighed, running a hand through his hair. “When is there a time that I dont? But we have to think about her first. We can’t take any risks.” His tone was resolute, but Trudy could sense the underlying conflict in his words. They were both scared—scared of what Bo could do, scared of their boys, scared of what could happen if they let their guard down.

“Maybe we should try to find a way to include him,” Trudy suggested, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not all the time, but perhaps we can give him a chance. He might surprise us.” Victor’s brow furrowed in thought. It was a bold suggestion, one that could potentially unravel the careful precautions they had put in place. But as he looked at his sleeping daughter, he couldn’t help but consider the possibility. Especially since deep down, he knew he couldn't keep his son away forever.

Days turned into nights, and life in the house continued to unfold. The reminder of the arrival of a newborn sister was not a cause for celebration but rather a burden to be borne. “Your a danger to her, to all of us!” His words echoed, tone sharp and unwavering. Bo, though hurt by the dismissal, tried to obey, spending his days wrestling with feelings of jealousy and confusion. But as the time flew by, he found himself drawn to the nursery, unable to shake the curiosity that bubbled within him. He waited until the house was wrapped in the heavy quiet of night, the rhythmic snores of his parents filtering from their room, a dull lullaby that seemed to dare him to move Each creak of the floorboards under his bare feet felt like a gunshot, a transgression that would surely bring his father's wrath. But the pull towards the nursery was stronger than fear, stronger even than the memory of Victor's harsh treatment. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the door open, the hinges making a tiny, protesting squeal that seemed deafening in the darkness.

Peering through the slightly ajar door, he was struck by a heartwarming sight: his little sister, no more than a few days old, had her little stomach going up and down in her light sleeping, moving around a times to possibly find a good sleeping position. In that moment, Bo felt a rush of intrest and wonder, overwhelming and pure, as he stepped into the room to see the little girl who had made quite the impression on his family. There, nestled amongst soft blankets, was his baby sister. He’d only glimpsed her briefly after his mother had birthed her in the parental bedroom, but this was different. She was no longer a blurry figure, she was real, she was there. He had expected her to be asleep, a quiet bundle, but the sound of his hesitant steps had disturbed her. Her eyes, still cloudy with sleep, blinked open, and she gazed up at him. They were unfocused, yes, but they were looking at him. Her tiny mouth formed a small ‘o’, and her hands, even smaller, were waving in the air as if reaching for him, small hands doing grabby motions, a silent invitation. Bo was frozen, his breath catching in his throat, his fear dissolving like frost in the morning sun. She was so, so small, and she was looking at him, not with anger or annoyance, but with a quiet curiosity that mirrored his own.

When he saw this small, defenceless creature, the ice that had grown around his heart and his fear of his father's censure appeared to momentarily vanish. It was a recognition embedded into the very fabric of their existence, a connection that went completely beyond words. He recognised her as his sister, his family, rather than as an item, something his father had cautioned him against. There were no rules, no worries, no Victor in this moment—just him and this small creature that was grabbing for him with all of her helpless strength. The desire to hold her, to protect her, to be near her, was like a wave that swept away any trace of fear or hesitancy. He had to do it, he had to be closer, he had to be her big brother.

His presence had not gone unnoticed, though Bo was unaware of it. Victor, who took great satisfaction in his attentive care, was already on high alert. Experience had taught him that babies frequently woke up at strange hours, their harsh cries piercing the still night, indicating discomfort, hunger, or simply the need for a reassuring presence. Just as he had obediently checked on Bo as a baby, he had intended to sneak into the nursery and see how his daughter was doing. Something stopped him while his hand was on the door doorknob. A glimmer of motion, a shadow in the nearly pitch-black chamber that wasn't part of the moonlight's shadows. His knuckles turned white as his palm gripped the doorknob and his breath caught. Anger rising like a flame, he looked through the door's slitted opening. Bo was standing above the bassinet, not observing from a distance as he had directed, but rather up close—too close for Victor's comfort and too close.

Victor was a man of firm and immediate action. His first instinct, honed by years of believing that discipline was the only way to correct a child, was to grab Bo, to punish him, to make him understand the gravity of his disobedience. His hand instinctively curled into a fist, ready to strike. But as he was about to launch the door open and storm inside, a memory surfaced, as clear as the moonlit room he was looking into. Trudy's gentle voice, her tired but hopeful eyes as she sat them all down a few days ago, “perhaps we can give him a chance. He might surprise us, Victor. Or maybe he'll ruin her. Either way, he's one stubborn brat.” Her remarks had been written off by Victor as motherly sentimentality, a gentle compassion he had never quite understood and that he had always been too quick to ignore. Instead of seeing it as a strength, he had perceived it as a problem. Trudy's voice, however, was a gentle contrast to his rising rage as he stood outside the room, his fist firmly clenched. He'd agreed to let her have this moment.

He stilled his hand, held back his rage, and watched. He witnessed Bo’s soft, hesitant movements, the gentle way he craned his neck to peer down at his baby sister, and then the way Bo moved to cradle his sister in his arms. He saw the raw, unfiltered tenderness in his son's face, a look of adoration and awe that was so pure it was almost painful to watch. Victor had not expected, nor has he ever seen such a raw emotion from his son. Even with all his years, he had never seen something so genuine and calm. It was a side of Bo, one that he had tried to find at one period, a side of Bo that he had not acknowledged, and was now being laid bare for him to see. It was a revelation, a crack in the walls that he had built around himself, around his family, around his son. Turns out the unplanned life wasn't a mistake after all. She had unintentionally soothed his troublesome demon child. All he had to do now was to make sure she wouldn't become one either.

Author's note: I'm planning on having this as a series if it does end up becoming well received, it all comes down to you guys, because I have had this idea around for a really long time now. Especially since I have been inspired by @loveandmurders' works when it comes to the House of Wax sister au, and I wanted to have my own take of this concept.

[backscratches]

Love Birds don’t like Rain

Lovestruck!Bo Sinclair x reader

Tw: murder, blood, thunderstorms, mention of yelling and fighting, mention of Bo getting beaten up

“I need you.”

You stop at the sound of Bo’s desperate voice. “What?”

Bo tossed his hat to the side, not caring where it landed. “I need ya, darlin’,” he took careful steps towards you and stopped before you. Slowly, he fell to his knees. “I think about you, night and day. You consumed my thoughts, waking nightmares, and th’ stupid dreams—normal dreams—of livin’ a life worth having.” His blue eyes were heavy as he met yours. Something was burning he didn’t understand. “I need you.”

“Bo, I—“

“Jus’ think ‘bout it, yeah?” His calloused hands took your hand, clasping it as if it was an injured bird. “Just say you’ll think about it.”

There was no malice in his words or hidden messages. There was no darkness behind his blue eyes or blood in his teeth. Bo, the prideful lion of Ambrose, was kneeling before you, begging for you to think about the notion of loving him. He looked like a man, a human, a boy in love.

You closed your eyes as his hands squeezed your hand. “Alright, Bo,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. It was as if you you telling him a secret that will only be shared between two lovers. “I’ll think about it.” Your free hand combed his wild curls, and his eyes fluttered closed and leaned into your touch. He grunts and shudders as if he was feeling an ice cube, but did he love it. “I’ll think about it and give you an answer after rain season.”

And so you did.

You thought about it when it was raining and he was coming up the drive in his muddy truck with bodies in the back, fresh for the museum, but he stopped and caught your eyes from the window. His shy wave was almost too cute not to love. The rain stuck to his skin like bees to honey, making him glow in the Louisiana breeze and mist.

You thought about it when he kissed you gently before leaving for “work”, promising to come home in time for dinner. Bo did come home on time that night, and he had a fist full of wild flowers. He kissed your cheek then lips before going to wash up before sitting to eat.

You thought about it when Bo fell asleep on your lap, resting his head on your thigh. The night was alive with the bayou songs and lullabies, and it set something for you. A life could be well lived with a man mad in blood, murder, whiskey, and cigarettes. But you were the center of his world; he’s reminded you again and again.

You thought about it when you woke up screaming from a nightmare. It was loud enough to cause Bo to jolt and race to your room with a knife in hand when he threw open the door. He looked at your with worried, angry eyes, but softened when you opened your arms and cried for him. He dropped his knife and scooped you in his arms, his strong and sharp arms. He stayed with you for the rest of the night, protecting you from any nightmares that came.

You thought about it while hiding in the closest with your and over you mouth and tears running down your cheeks. You could heard Bo fighting the visitors, the three of them, and Bo was losing. You could hear fists meeting skin and the sound of Bo chocking beside his strength gave out. He told you not to make a sound, not to move, but it felt different. You felt different. Crawling out of the closet as soon as they ran out, you cradled Bo’s battered head in your arms. His shaking hand reached your cheek and thumbed over your lips. “I’m okay,” he breathed, his voice cracking and hoarse. “I’m okay.”

You thought about it when venom left his lips, yelling at you in the car garage. He was yelling at you over something that you couldn’t remember, but he was angry. His blue eyes burned in hatred as he called everything under the sun, and he only stopped when thunder shook the garage, causing you to flinch and stiffened.

“Darlin’,” there was regret in his voice. “Sweetheart, ‘m sorry—“

But you didn’t stay for his apology as you ran out, tears mixing with the rain. You didn’t see how he threw a wrench across the room, cursing at himself for doing that. He’ll do better, he has to do better! He couldn’t become the monster his father told him he’ll be. He couldn’t let that son of a bitch be right. He would never allow it!

You almost stopped thinking about it that night. When he came home, he hung his hat and took his boots off at the door. He knelt in front of you as you hugged your knees on the couch. His hands rubbed your knees as apologies after apologies rolled out. For the rest of the night, you allowed him to hold you in his arms, head against his chest, as he protected you from himself, from his words, and his poison.

You thought about it while washing the dishes with him. You washed while he dried. The radio was playing softly as the rain poured and hammered against the window. He talked about his day and going to the town over to get Vickey more art supplies and new clothes; his favorite work pants was getting torn beyond repair. You told him about your day and the little chores you did around the house, and you agreed about him getting a new pair of pants. The scene of domestic life, living slow and steady. It almost felt perfect and normal.

You thought about it when you kissed his scarred lips and he no longer flinched or growled in warning. Instead, he closed his eyes and murmurs something then met your eyes. He looked at you like a ruby in the sea. “You love me, yet?” He asked, teasing you with a charming smile. Your answer was a gentle smile, and he’ll work hard to see you smile again.

When rain lifted and slowed, he met you on the porch, hugging you from behind. Rain season was at its end, and it was just as pleasant as ever.

“Thought about it?” He asked, the morning voice deep and thick with honeydew and coffee. He rested his head on top of your shoulder.

After the memories and experiences, the rain and how it washed away whatever was left of him…it felt right.

“Yeah, I’ll stay, Bo,” you said, your hands rubbing his arms and wrists. “I’ll stay.”

[backscratches]

Quaritch/Recom FanFic Recs

Kaltxi! While I'm working on a fairytale AU project and procrastinating on Bridgehead Affairs, here are some of my recommendations for you to read! (I've basically just gone through my AO3 bookmarks and plopped them here, hehe.)

Left for Dead by @fictionramblings

daddy issues by makoodles

'anla by gardenofizabo

Don't Leave Me by @letsunity

A Trail of Crumbs by @bluedaddysgirl

A New Mission: Ash to Fire by @xenomorphee3

Let Me Fall by @beastlyblorbos

A Friendly Hand by @bluedaddysgirl

In The Middle by PoliteMenacePhD

Song of the Banshees by @letsunity

Five is an awful number by @bluedaddysgirl

Alas, It Ain't Kansas by Mistwalker97, SlyFoxTheBeast

Frakrr Say by @lanzzo

Bonus: Dark Fantasy AU!

Clipped Wings by @fictionramblings

Bonus: Spider Fic!

Storms of the Past by @yesthisismycurrenthyperfixation