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visceravalentines · 4 months

Text

small town, sunday night

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

a discarded scene from a longer fic. Bo's pretty sure by now you know who you belong to, but he oughta make sure, just in case. on ao3 here if you wanna.

2.4k words. porn with plot if you squint. extremely dubious consent. Stockholm syndrome. forced exhibitionism, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, emotional manipulation. tried out something new where the narration is written more in Bo's voice and i'm interested to see if that works for you or nah so lmk.

The whole family’s gathered in the den on a Sunday night. It ain’t tradition, not really, it’s just that if everyone’s gonna get together it’s gonna be on Sunday.

Nobody felt like cookin’ and he don’t trust you ‘round the knives yet, so Les picked up some fried chicken from the Kroger and Bo said grace and you behaved yourself like a nice young lady, and now everybody’s sittin’ in front of the television drinkin’ beer and watchin’ football like some kinda all-American family.

He’s got you sat on his lap in a sundress that belonged to some other bitch before you. It don’t fit you right, barely covers your ass, but that’s fine by him. His brothers keep eyeing you like you’re the skin mag by the cash register. He'll let ‘em look; in fact, he wants them to look. Plus it freaks you out, makes you press yourself against his chest in search of protection and boy, if that don’t make him wanna laugh out loud. He’s all too happy to oblige, wrappin’ you in his arms and whisperin’ sweet sugary bullshit in your ear. You’re servin’ yourself up to him on a silver platter and you don’t even realize it.

He snags the six-pack off the side table and hands it to you, watches you wrestle a beer from the plastic ring and pop the tab for him without being asked.

“Good girl,” he says, and kisses your cheek when he takes the can from you. You're bein’ such an angel today that it’s got him nostalgic for that bitch with the bad attitude. He wonders if she's gone for good or if he could dig around in that pretty head of yours and find her. “You want one?”

You hesitate. He watches you do the math. You know by now you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’, but apparently you think you got plenty to give because you nod quietly.

“G’on.” He dangles the six-pack in front of you and lets you pick one for yourself. He watches the way you set your lips on the rim of the can, watches your throat bob as you swallow. Your gaze shifts uncertainly to him and he winks at you. You almost—almost—give him a shaky little smile.

You adjust yourself in his lap, tug on your dress, try to get comfortable. He rests his chin on your shoulder and waits for you to settle. He likes the smell of his soap on your skin, even if it makes him miss the animal stench of you from before. Bringin’ you home was a good call. You clean up sweet and so far you’ve been learnin’ your lessons real well. Shit, he’s almost proud of you.

Once you’ve mellowed out, sippin’ on your beer and pretendin’ this is where you wanna be, he slides his hand up your thigh, fingertips twitching at the hem of your skirt. He watches you frown and glance down at his hand and then back up at the TV like you think you can ignore him. He pushes your skirt up an inch or so and bites back a smirk when you shift and squeeze your knees together, shooting an anxious glance in the direction of his brothers.

“Somethin’ wrong, baby?” he whispers. You answer with your eyes, give him this pleading look that makes him want to tear that dress off you right here, right now. “You’re alright. Watch the game.”

Reluctantly, you turn back to the TV with this blank expression on your face that tells him he has your full attention. He moves his hand between your legs and gives your waist a hard squeeze when you stiffen. When you glance at him again he treats you to an ice-cold smile.

This is a test, girl. Better hope you got a shot at passin'.

You’re bare beneath the dress ‘cause what would you need panties for, and he worms his hand between your thighs until his fingers find that soft, warm center of you. You jerk like a mare tryin’ to shake off a fly, but you don’t make a sound. He probes until his middle finger slips like silk into your slit almost up to the second knuckle and Jesus, girl, you’re so wet it makes his mouth water. This is why he never listens to you, because you don’t even know that you’re lying when you do it.

He eases his finger out of you and back in deeper, watches your lips part but no sound come out. He does it again and your lashes flutter like a doll’s. You’re sittin’ still as a statue for now but he’s gonna break you. Promise.

“You been so good, baby girl,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His thumb prods at your clit and you strangle the life out of a gasp as it tries to sneak into the room. “Wanna make sure you know how much I appreciate you behavin’ yourself.” He rubs that sweet spot in lazy circles and savors the way your back arches slow, so slow, tryin’ so hard to keep it a secret that he’s finger-fucking you ten feet from his family.

You think they don’t know, huh? You think they don’t see you’re nothin’ but a slut? Maybe you oughta think a little less.

You get that look on your face like you’re determined to take back control of yourself but you belong to him, girl, that body is his. When he pushes another finger into your pussy your toes curl on the arm of the chair and this little moan makes it out alive and both his brothers were raised huntin’ so they know what a creature in distress sounds like and all the sudden, you’re the Sunday evening special.

“Well looky here,” Les says, and wolf whistles.

Your eyes go wide and you cover your face with your hands and Bo can’t help it, he breaks into a grin. He thought he’d wrung all the shame right outta you by now, but apparently he thought wrong.

You peer over your fingers at him with tear-filled eyes and this time, you might just be cryin’ for real. You look so betrayed it makes him sick, makes him wish he could take it back just so he can do it to you again.

“’S alright, baby, they’re just lookin’,” he coos.

“We are most certainly lookin’,” Les agrees, and ordinarily Bo would smack him, but the way your lip quivers makes his dick twitch.

“Pretend they ain’t even here,” he says low in your ear. “Unless you like that sorta thing. You like bein’ watched, honey? You some kinda slut?”

He already knows the answer even if you don’t. He can tell by the way that sweet little cunt keeps spasin’ around his fingers like somethin’ dying. And you don’t deny it, just keep beggin’ him to stop with those big doe eyes. He don't gotta work hard to pull your focus back to that ache between your hips. All it takes is a little spit on his thumb, a little less friction on that poor swollen clit, and you’re melting in his hands.

“I’m just showin’ ‘em, baby,” he whispers. “Just makin’ sure they know you’re mine.”

He collects your wrists with his free hand and pulls them down to expose your face. You make a sound, some kinda protest, but you don’t fight him off like you used to. That girl’s been buried six feet deep inside you and you’re all that’s markin’ her grave.

“Hey Vince. Do me a favor?” Bo tosses his head towards the camera sitting on the coffee table where he left it, a brand-new roll of film ready and waitin’ inside. His twin snatches it up without question and puts his goddamn gift to good use.

You’re fightin’ it hard, makin’ him work for it, but he knows your body better than you do by now. When you cum, you try to hide it, bitin’ your lip and screwin’ up your face. But you can’t keep that pussy from grippin’ him tight, throbbin’ like your life depends on it. You squeeze his hand. A whine sneaks out of your throat and he catches it in his mouth, swallows it whole, savors it to the last.

You slump against his chest, let your head roll into the hollow of his shoulder because it's got nowhere else to go. You're soakin’ his shirt, soakin’ his hand. You're made of water, girl. Maybe that's why you make him so goddamn thirsty.

“Well she’s a delight,” Les says, slaps his thighs, stands up. “I'm gonna head home ‘n jerk off unless you gents need anything.”

He has the gall to reach for one of the Polaroids Vince is layin’ out on the coffee table like playing cards and Bo hisses through his teeth.

“Leave it. I ain't handin’ out souvenirs.”

Les rolls his eyes and slinks off like a stray mutt. Vincent looks for a second like he might make a case for himself, but thinks better of it and rightly so. He hands Bo the stack of photos and creeps back downstairs where he belongs and now it's just you and him and the TV static.

You're stiff as a board in his arms but you're clingin’ to his shirt with all you got so which is it, woman? He kisses your temple and starts shufflin’ through the pictures. Mama's favorite son ain't immune to the charms of the pornographic and most of them center on the view up your skirt, the curve of your ass, your juice shinin’ on his knuckles.

But there's one, just one, of your face lookin’ up at him. With these big, round eyes fixed on him and your hands cupped together in front of your chest. You look like you're prayin’, girl. Like you're worshiping him.

He licks his lips, looks down at you. You’re starin’ straight ahead into space, head on his chest, tits swellin’ against the bodice of that dress as you breathe deep in and out. He can tell you're searchin’ for the way back to that place you used to go, safe and warm without him.

You can't find it. It ain't there anymore. All you got is what you got.

“Can we go to bed?”

He’s surprised you’re speakin’ to him. Your voice is low and rough from the tears. You don't look at him until he tucks his finger beneath your chin and tilts your face up. There's somethin’ bright and broken in your eyes like glass.

“Please.”

He hates givin’ you what you want, doesn't want you gettin’ the wrong idea about who's in control here. He can't be spoilin’ you any more than he already has. But he prizes that look of relief and gratitude you give him when he's generous. That little furrow between your brows that melts away when he's good to you.

“Sure, baby.”

There it is. You slump against him beneath the force of your relief and fuck you for the way his hands move to hold you without him thinkin’ about it.

He don't carry you to bed. You're not a goddamn princess no matter what you might think of yourself. But you drop that dress that ain't yours to the floor and crawl naked into his sheets and when he climbs into bed beside you, you inch your way over ‘til you're pressed up against his ribs.

He can barely hear you breathin’. You're hardly even there. The old you would be rippin’ into his stomach, thrashin’ fit to snap your own spine. This new bitch, though, she’s manageable. Sweet, even.

Probably you don't mean for him to hear it but something like a sob sneaks out of you and it gives him butterflies. He rolls onto his side and slings his arm around you.

“Don't cry, now. You're alright.”

You shrink into him, make yourself small and bite-sized. You need him so bad and he knows it, figures you’re startin’ to figure it out too. What would you do without me, huh?

“Was I too mean, baby?” You choke on those tears and he bites his lip. “I'm sorry…you forgive me?”

You whimper, can't commit. It ain't your fault you're stuck tryin’ to make sense of it all, ‘specially with him feelin’ you up like he is. He can't keep a straight face, grinnin’ into the back of your neck. “I just got carried away, showin’ off my girl.” He pushes his hips against your ass. “You are my girl, right?”

A breath shudders through your body. You arch your back, don't even know you're doin’ it. He wraps his hand around your throat like a collar, nice and snug, squeezes just a little to get you back on course. “I asked you a question. You got an answer for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I'm your girl.”

Your voice breaks and whew, he's got blood rushin’ every which way. “Tell me you forgive me.”

You don’t respond. He tightens his grip just beneath your jaw, brings his lips to your ear.

“Fuckin’ answer me, huh? You forgive me? I gotta hear it, baby doll, or I’ll be up all night.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. He can feel you shaking like a leaf in the wind with fear or fury or something else he can put to use. He’s grindin’ against that ass, just about ready to flip you facedown and fuck the sense back into you, when you finally give him what he wants.

He always gets what he wants, baby. Haven’t you figured that out by now?

“I forgive you,” you rasp, and he loosens his grip and feels your tits press against his arm as you suck in air.

“Ain’t you sweet,” he says, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head, and when he rolls back an inch or two you scoot right along with him until your back is flush to his chest again, and that’s fuckin’ hilarious, huh? Just can’t get enough.

He lays in the dark and feels your breath on his knuckles, feels it hitch, feels it slow, feels it mellow out and go feather-soft, and before he knows it, he’s out like a light.

You wear him the fuck out, girl.

#lmaoooooo back in the fucking building again boys #i'd like to thank my glass of wine for giving me the courage to pursue my dreams #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #x reader #slasher x reader #bo sinclair fanfiction #house of wax fanfiction #don't worry i WILL be checking my follower count in the morning to see which of you are lame as hell

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