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sinclair-annie · 1 month ago

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Slashers' as fathers with a child/reader. (Comfort drabbles for anyone like me who has daddy issues).

Notes: 100% NON-ROMANTIC. Platonic love only. Non-binary reader. The reader is less than ten years old (you decide the age). Freddy is alive and NOT a pedophile.

I'm a little embarrassed that I made this but I can't deny that it does comfort me and make me feel better. If it makes you happy as well, then I'm glad. Thank you for reading. I hope you have a nice day.

...

Freddy

He was sleeping in his bed when he felt something nudge his arm, the soft callings of your voice quickly rousing him from his slumber. "Daddy? Daddy, please wake up."

Paternal instincts demanding that he instantly wake to check and see if you were okay, Freddy sat up and opened his eyes. Immediately the sight of you standing beside the bed in your pajamas with a sad, frightened look on your face greeted him, and he reached out to gently brush a hand through your messy hair.

"What's the matter, sweetie? Is everything okay?" He asked, gazing around for potential danger.

You whimpered, your little hands anxiously fiddling together as you say sadly, "I... I had a nightmare and I... I got scared."

Relaxing a bit, Freddy sat up all the way in bed and lifted his arms out towards you, "Oh sweetie, come here."

Stepping forward and lifting your arms, you whimper whenever your dad pulled you sideways onto his lap and held you close. He kissed the top of your head and gently patted your back. "Thought I told you not to be having those?" He mumbled.

"I know, but... It was so scary and I-I didn't like it," You whined, burying yourself into the divine safety of his chest, his scent familiar and comforting.

"Shh, shh," Freddy rubbed soothing circles against your back while hugging you securely against him, always prepared to fight all of your demons away- even if your demons were as simple as nightmares. "It's okay, sweetie. You're alright. Daddy's got ya. Everything's gonna be okay."

"Ok..." You whisper, still snuggled against him. He was so comforting and safe. "Daddy? I'm thirsty. Will you get me some juice, please?"

"You want juice?" Freddy tickled your nose causing you to giggle, "Hm?"

"And a story?" You smile at him hopefully.

"And a story? Well, aren't you spoiled," Freddy smiled back and leaned down to nuzzle your forehead, "Sure, sweetie, let's get you some juice."

Grinning at his compliance, you lean forward and give him a big hug. He hugs you back, and it feels so nice and comforting that you feel as if you could go to sleep right then and there.

Freddy holds your hand as he takes you to the kitchen to get you some juice. Then he grabs a book from a shelf and sits down in his arm chair with you sitting in his lap with your blanket and juice in clutch. He reads to you the short story as many times as you want until you've finished your beverage and declared that you were tired again.

"Can I sleep with you, daddy? Please," You ask, fidgeting in the hopes that you wouldn't have to sleep in the dark alone by yourself again tonight.

Freddy doesn't have the heart to tell you "no", so he nods and ruffles your hair, "As long as you promise not to have anymore nightmares. Promise?"

"I promise, daddy," You say happily, crawling into bed with him and immediately going to snuggle into his chest, "I love you."

Freddy kisses your head and tucks you both in with a blanket, one arm wrapping around you to hold you against him. Warm, safe, and comfortable. "Love you too, sweetie. Now get some sleep and, this time, have 'good' dreams."

Bo Sinclair + Uncle Vincent and Lester

"Hey Les, you seen (y/n) around?" Bo asked as he approached Lester's truck.

Lester gave him a look that he came to dread. "Yeah, they're on back with Vincent. Why?"

Relieved by your assured safety, Bo placed his hands on his hips and stared hard at the ground. Guilt chewed on him like a hungry wolf, and shame became a permanent dark cloud hanging all around him. "I-I messed up, Les," He admitted, shaking his head.

Lester raised his eyebrows in suspicion, "What'a ya mean?"

"Yesterday, I... I messed up," Bo huffed, dragging a rough hand through his hair, "An' now they ain't talkin' to me, and I... I just... Uh."

"Oh, so that's why the little critter wanted to spend the night," Lester chuckled and petted his dog's head fondly, "An' here I was hopin' I was the new favorite uncle. Guess I ain't, huh?"

Bo ignored him as he thought about what happened yesterday. He had been angry for reasons unrelated to you, and when you had tried to get his attention he snapped and yelled at you. Even though "what" was all he yelled, he could still tell how much he scared you and hurt your feelings. Now you wouldn't go around him. Gosh, he didn't mean to do it, he just... He was just an idiot.

Lester frowned at him as if noticing his distress, "Well hell, if it's botherin' ya to the pits then why don't ya go talk to them? You are their daddy after all, ain't ya?"

Yes. Yes he was your dad. And no child should ever have to be afraid of their dad.

Making his ultimate decision, Bo adjusted his hat and began stomping away, "Gotta go."

He found you in the house eating snacks with Vincent. When you noticed he was there, you looked at him and then quickly bowed your head like... like you were afraid of him. And it broke Bo's heart. Good grief, what had he done?

Pulsing with regret, guilt and shame, Bo slowly approached you and knelt down beside your chair, "Hey there, little critter bug. What'cha eating?"

You were hesitant, keeping your face averted as you timidly mumble, "Grapes."

"Ooh, yummy, can I have some?" He lifted his hands out, uncertain of where and when he should start explaining himself.

Sadness and uncertainty decorated your face as you lifted out the bowl to him. Vincent seemed to understand what his brother was doing, and he stood up to leave and give you some privacy.

As he ate some grapes, Bo was surprised to hear you quietly ask, "Daddy... Are... Are you still mad at me?"

"Oh..." He straightened his posture, set the bowl aside and reached out to gently grasp your shoulder, "Oh, (y/n), I was never mad at ya, I just... I was just havin' a bad day and I..."

Bo sighed, his hand squeezing your shoulder gently in reassurance, "Look, critter bug, I didn't mean to yell at ya, and I definitely ain't mad at ya. I just... Daddy made a mistake, and I'm so, so sorry, (y/n). I promise... I'll never yell at you again. I promise."

Your eyes glistened as you looked at him as if in debate. Bo's throat was dry as he waited for your reaction, the negativity and guilt nearly driving him insane.

Instead of saying anything, you spread your arms and lift them upwards. Bo sighed quietly in relief and went to scoop you into his arms, his aching chest slowly beginning to calm down. He still felt guilty for how he made you feel, and he wasn't lying when he promised that he would never ever make you feel that way again.

Michael + Aunt Laurie

You were both trick-or-treating and having a good evening on Halloween. Michael alternated between carrying you on his back, on his hip, or simply holding your hand while walking. It warmed his heart to see how happy and excited you were, your candy-bag becoming overloaded with sweet treats.

He decided to stop at Lauries for a quick break and some refreshment. You ran back out while he was still inside. It only felt like a minute before he followed your footsteps and soon came to a scene that made his blood boil and his eyes widen.

You were laying on your back against the sidewalk, small, frightened cries spilling from your lips. In the direction you were staring, Michael caught a glimpse of a group of teenagers quickly running away. They must have done something to you. But what?

"D-daddy," You cried as he quickly walked over to you, and you skittered to get to your feet.

Michael barely got to check you over for damage before you were wrapping your arms around his waist and crying into his belly. "They pushed me and stole my candy," You whined loudly against him, "I-I just wanted to be friends, b-b-but they stole my candy. Ehh, daddy, daddy, what do I do? They stole my candy."

Anger invaded every nerve within Michael's body as he held you close protectively. How dare anyone treat you this way. How could they? You were the nicest, sweetest little angel. What was their problem? Michael's eyes burned with the memory of those teenage scum and the direction they fled.

Hearing your loud sniffles, Michael gently coaxed you back and knelt down. Slipping off his mask, he reached out, cupped your cheek and used his jumpsuit sleeve to wipe away your tears and snot. Then he used sign-language to ask if you were okay.

You nodded and cried in great sadness, "But they stole my candy. Wh-why did they do that, daddy? I-I just wanted to be friends."

Michael quickly explained to you how those teenagers were obviously bullies. This same experience happened to him too when he was your age. Everything was going to be alright. They would get you more candy. Calm down. Everything was going to be alright.

Slowly you began to calm down, your sobs and whines diminishing. Michael pulled you into his arms and hauled you against his hip so that he could take you into the house. You stayed attached to him the whole time, and he refused to let you go. Frustration still burned inside him, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to protect and comfort you/his child.

Laurie was there to save the day, thankfully, offering you all of the candy she hadn't yet given out and putting on a fun movie for you to watch.

You were snuggled up against your dad on the couch, your mood significantly eased as he rubbed your head and back and offered you pieces of candy. For the most part you forgot about the incident, but Michael certainly hadn't.

Let's just say that, by tomorrow, you would have your stolen candy back.

Hannibal

He had taken a leave of absence from work so that he could better take care of you while you were sick. It wasn't anything serious; just a small cold. The nurse from your school had sent you home earlier due to a sore throat and a fever. Hannibal had rushed to get you as quickly as he could.

Once he got you home, he had you take a bath and get dressed into your pajamas. You complained of throat and stomach pain, and you had irritated sinuses. He gave you some medication and told you to lie down while he made you some special soup that would soothe your tummy.

As he was cooking, he heard your tiny footsteps echoing from the hallway, and he turned to see your sleepy figure approaching, "Daddy?"

"Yes, my child, what is it?" He asked, setting his cutting knife aside.

"My tummy hurts so bad," You pouted, your voice beginning to sound scratchy, "And I don't feel good. I wanna be with you."

Hannibal grabbed a kleenex from the counter and knelt down to gently clean your messy nose, "I know. And that is precisely why you should be sleeping."

"But I can't sleep," You whimper, looking at him with sad, tired owl eyes, "I wanna be with you. Please, daddy? Let me stay with you."

Hannibal tilted his head at you, his brows lifting in debate. While he would rather you be getting some decent rest, he knew that you were young and still filled with energy even whilst you were sick. He didn't have much left to do cooking wise either, so he figured that having you stay around wouldn't harm anything.

"Alright then," Hannibal leaned forward and picked you up, swiftly positioning you on his hip and supporting you with one arm so that he could use the other to cook with.

You held onto his neck while resting your head against his shoulder, your eyes mostly shut as you listened to the sound of his heart beat. Safety and warmth enveloped you making you feel much, much better than what you had before. Your dad was always so cozy and comforting.

Hannibal was able to finish cooking dinner with you on his hip the entire time. Once it was time to eat, he set you down on a chair and made you a drink and a bowl of soup. You ate quietly which worried him a little, but he knew it was just because you weren't feeling good.

"Feeling better?" He asked when you were finished.

You smiled and nodded at him, "Mhm, it was real yummy. Thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome, my child," He reached out and gently squeezed your cheek before taking your bowl and cleaning it, "I don't suppose telling you to get back in bed will do any good, will it?"

Your pitiful whimper was enough of an answer. Hannibal chuckled, dried his hands and went to pick you up again, holding you close as he carried you to the living room. "A movie it is then."

"Can Will come over?" You asked, grinning.

Hannibal gave you a look, "I'm beginning to believe that you're not sick at all."

...

All good fathers' should fight their child's nightmares away, not be the reason why they have them.

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sinclair-annie · 7 months ago

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“My ex-boyfriend is here, please scent me before he tries to do something.”

Sinclair Brothers x fem!y/n

Enjoy @katerinaval

Tw: PTSD shown, anxiety filled reader, mention of marking, throwing up, confronting abuser, fighting, biting, not proofread

Welcomed readers: @sketchy-rosewitch, @fluffy-little-demon, @lovely-cryptid, @pori0t-houck, @ninakuli

Don’t Own Me

She was able to run this far, and it was a great time, too. Finding her new life in Ambrose with the Sinclairs to share her felt like a dream, and y/n knew that dream would come to an end. She couldn’t run forever, but she tried and tried until her legs caved in and she went under the cracks in the hour glass. Shame, she liked her new family, new pack that she called her own.

All three claimed her as soon as she came to town. After Bo bit her shoulder, claiming her first, his brothers soon followed, each taking turns with her until she felt safe enough to allow it though she never had a word to who gets to claim her, these three took time to make sure she felt safe with it. Vincent took her left shoulder, biting just hard enough to make his mark, but he made sure her scars were taken care of. Lester, however, didn’t mark her like Bo or Vincent. Instead, he made her a necklace, a wooden butterfly charm with his initials carved on the wings. Besides, having one Alpha was good, but her mind raced when she was claimed by two Alphas and a goofy Beta. What a lucky girl you are, y/n.

The perks? Y/n never felt alone or was never truly alone. There was always someone there to hold her hand, to comfort her, check on her… to feel and be loved.

The mornings were always the same: Lester, the Beta, wakes her with gentle kisses and nudges. When she wakes, y/n is with him in the kitchen cooking breakfast for the other two, Bo and Vincent.

Strong coffee in Snoopy mugs. Morning news on. Jonesy feed and let out (sometimes she returns with a rock in her jaws as a gift for y/n). Morning kisses from Bo and Vincent. Eggs and hot dogs. The day’s plan. Vincent leaves, followed by Lester (who has a thermest of coffee and a sack lunch), and Bo stays behind to help you with dishes. As always, he dried while she washes. Small talk or no talk, it didn’t matter; she was safe. He takes his cap off the hook. He hugs and kisses her goodbye until lunch.

Throughout the day, y/n keeps busy in the house cleaning or getting dinner ready. On full moon days, she makes sure there’s enough food, and her headphones have to be fully charged or she’s not running through the brush (y/n has to put her foot down somewhere, right?). But it’s not a full moon night; it’s Thursday, Laundry Day. And it’ll be a warm enough day to hang clothes on the line earlier in the morning, giving her time in the afternoon to hang out with all three if she’s lucky.

She hummed happily as she put up Vincent’s shirt and sweater on the line as the morning sun turned the grass from gold to green. The radio played softly from the steps, Jonesy laying at the steps with her new rock.

“What a clever girl,” y/n hummed as she patted her head. “Always bright and happy. Such a good girl—“

A good girl, indeed.

Her head perked up and she looked at the trees and the marsh. Scared eyes scanned over the willows and morning glories. His voice carried over the trees and gators floating in the marsh. Y/n hesitantly took steps back as the honeydew and marsh water smell drifted over her skin and hair, feeling his fingers in his hair again.

Y/n doesn’t hesitate to run into the house, Jonesy on her heels. He’s not here, she kept telling herself. He’s not… he can’t be!

She took her red and black plaid off the hook and started out the house towards the shop. It’s 10:30am, which means Vincent and Bo are taking their smoke break while Lester finishes up his last bit of coffee. If he has anymore for the day, his heart might explode. Still, she ran towards the shop, her feet digging into the lose gravel. She just wants to run, to be near them. They promised to keep you safe from everyone and everything, and they didn't want to go back on it even if she thought she heard him.

But time is limited in a town like this and to the Sinclairs. It was only a matter of time before she was founded by him, and she wasn't looking forward to it. Bo knows his scent. Vincent knows what he looks like. Lester knows what he sounds like. All three knew the plan if he ever stepped foot in this town, and that should make her feel safe, right? So, why isn't it? Why is she seeing his shadow over the windows and locked doors? Why is she hearing his laughter in the trees and flowers? Why does she hear his truck gunning behind her as she runs towards the garage? The engine roaring to life on the heat of her neck and her thoughts turning--why? Why?

Panic swelled in her chest as she rounded to corner with Jonesy on her heels, no truck behind her. The closer she was to her Alphas and Beta, the better she'll feel. The better she'll think. It's not on the schedule, but she wanted to feel that safety net around her shoulders and hair again. It'll be for the best if she's with them, and it didn't matter how. Riding in Lester's truck, downstairs with Vincent, or sitting on the counter in the main office of the shop while Bo works; all sounded amazing to her. Y/n just wanted the buzzing feeling in her skull.

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

Bo's head jerked up suddenly from the truck, his body stiffing at the new smell. It hit him like a wall of bricks, and he recoiled at it. It smelled worse than Lester's kill pit, and it was worse than the smell of burning human flesh melting under wax. He covered his nose with his sleeve, wiping his nose over the cloth. It was terrible, and it tore his stomach apart. The smell of sulfur, churned milk, and decaying alligator meat baking in the sun all mixed together in one; that's how he would describe it to anyone who listens. He threw his rag and hurried to the trash can in the corner, his stomach finally giving up, as the smell grew stronger.

"Shit," he managed to breath out before throwing up again. This was a new scent, and he hated it. He wanted to find that smell and kill it with fire or with his hands. One way or another, it was going to die. "I swear to God, if Lester killed something close here--"

But he knew it wasn't that. He knew better.

"Y/n?' He breathed as he looked at the door, thinking she was there.

Something's wrong.

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

Vincent threw his mask off in time to throw-up in the trash can in the basement. The smell was faint, yes, but it was too much all at once. He was just trying to finish the guy, who came in biker shorts last week, when the smell hit him. He couldn't find the words to describe it; all he wanted to do was find the smell and stomp it out.

"Fuck," he hisses lowly as he slowly sat up. He took his mask and was about to put it on when he thought of y/n... something wasn't right.

He took his pack of cigarettes and started towards the shop. It is 10:30am, and she'll be there. She has to be there.

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

As much as Lester would like to throw up, he couldn't. He was driving with a new victim, and he didn't want the man to think he knows who he is. He didn't want to give himself away too early. Not yet. Will Bo forgive him? No. Will y/n forgive him?

"Hey, buddy," Lester jolted as the man talked. "Did you here me?"

What? He was talking? "Oh, nah. No," Lester answered as he looked back at the road. "Sorry 'bout 'at. Sometimes I jus' get lost in my head. 'At's all."

"Damn hick," the man murmured. "I asked how close we were. Just want to get back on the road, you know?"

Lester faked a smile. "We're almost close. Just ov'a the bridge an' we're there." Goodness, Bo's going to kill him. "You're comin' at a good time. Normally, Bo'll be busy in the afternoon wit' all them bus engines." He looked back at the road and gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. The man smelled horrible. After this is over, he wants to wash the inside and outside of his truck until the smell is gone. "He works on 'em for the school uptown."

The man looked back at Lester then at the road. "Always wanted kids, but," he shook his head, "my girl had different plans."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah," he hummed, leaning back in the seat. "The bitch ran off in the middle of the night. Never found her."

Don't call her 'bitch', mate.

As soon as the welcome sign came into view and he was driving over the bridge, he knew Hell would be raised as soon as he they step out of the truck. He knew that everything would crash and burn, and he was willing to watch it happen and take part. He just wants to protect y/n. He promised her as a man and as a Sinclair. He won't go back on his word now, not while he's in the truck entering Bo's territory.

Let the games begin.

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

When y/n rounded the corner, she let out a scream when she bumped into Bo's chest. He pulls her into his arms and hugs her, hushing her gently in her hair.

"Calm down, darlin," he hummed. "It'll be right." He heard Lester's truck humming down the road, and it was out of view. "Get inside. Vincent's there-"

"Bo?"

He kisses her knuckles, his lips dry and cracked. It was his way of marking her. "We'll come up with a plan, honeycomb. Promise." He turns and usher's her inside. "Go to the back. I'll grab Les and meet you there."

"But-"

He didn't have time for this. "Go, now, y/n." He kisses her hand. "Vincent'll keep you safe if something happens. We'll be there." With that, he pushes her in and fixes his hat. he can't let that son-of-a-bitch know she's here. He can't risk it.

Lester parked in front of the station by the gas pumps and stepped out. He looked pale, and his cheeks were flushed and turning green. He was trying so hard for his brothers, for y/n, to keep it together.

Bo wanted to slit his throat right then and there, but he turned on the charm. "Howdy," he greeted with a smile. "What can do fer ya?"

"Need a 16 spark plug." The man answered for Lester. "I think it's a double blue liner."

"Need the can," Lester breathed as he sped past Bo, making towards the restroom. Unfortunately, when he was out of view of the two and made eye contact with Vincent and y/n, he shot his head away and threw-up in the the same trash can Bo used. “Hate it,” he breathed as he sat up, whipping his mouth. “Hate it all.”

Y/n held out her hands and he joined her side, Lester kissing her cheek. She held on to him with one arm as another squeezed Vincent’s hand. She just wanted this to end, to be brave and have her life—

But y/n already had that. All of that! She was loved and scared for! She was protected and safe here. Right here with three of the strongest people she’s ever been around. And they love her.

Y/n is tired of running.

“Scent me.”

The order startled Lester as he pulled away from her arms. His hands slipped over her cheeks. “What? Sweet pea, no—“

“I’m tired, Les,” she sighed. “I’m tired of running. I’m tired if Mick.”

“Y/n—“

“My ex-boyfriend is here, please scent me before he tries to do something.” Then a tired grin crossed her lips. “I want it to stop.” Then she glanced over her shoulder at Vincent. “You, too, Vincent. Mark me. Both of you.”

Lester’s thumbed her cheeks and kissed her. “Okay, sweet pea,” he hummed in a whisper. “Promise it won’t hurt.” From behind, y/n felt Vincent’s mask lift slightly up. “We promise.”

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

Bo was slammed against the side of Lester’s truck, a wicked grin crossing his lips, and he wiped the blood away from his noise. He hasn’t had a good fight in a long-ass time. He pushed himself off the truck and swung again, hitting Mick square under the jaw, then tackled him to the ground.

Mick held up his arms to shield his face as Bo put blow after blow over his skin. He’s been waiting for this prick to come against him and his brothers (but mainly him), and he just wanted to savor this moment of pain. For every hit and smack, for all the pain and bruises, for ever cigarette burns across y/n’s back— Bo was going to have his share of blood before noon. He’ll make sure he pays.

But when her shadow casts over them, Bo froze. He took a step back and let go of Mick. He joined your side as he saw the fresh bite mark on your neck from Vincent, and a bruised kiss on your shoulder from Lester. With his scent over your hands, Bo smiled. All three smells mixed over y/n like a sweet candle burning in a cozy cottage. No placed a hand on her hip as he leaned down and kissed her lips.

“Leave,” she said in a strong voice. “You don’t own me anymore.”

Mick slowly stood, his eyes in shock. “You… you’re a whore—“

“At least I know I’m loved,” she snapped. “I’m loved by three amazing wolves. Two alphas who will kill for me. A beta who would gut you alive. All three love me.” Her voice was strong as she held Bo’s hand tightly. Behind, she felt Vincent’s hand on her shoulder and Lester pulling out his Bowie to show Mick he was ready for the hunt. “You don’t own me, Mick. You’ll never have me. Ever again.”

Mick looked at you with disbelief, shaking his head. “Y/n, you can’t be for real—“

“I mean it, Mick.” Her voice stayed strong.

“But… but I still love you.”

She shakes her head. “And I don’t love you.” She looked up at Bo, strong and confident. “Get what he needs so he can leave. I don’t want to see him again.”

“We could kill him,” Lester suggested. “Say the word and—“

“No,” she shakes her head, her eyes snapping back at Mick. “Death is too great for him. Let him live.”

He doesn’t owe her anymore. No one owns her.

No one.

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sinclair-annie · 7 months ago

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Seeing as Vincent is somewhat mute this is an interesting prompt to fill so I hope you like it! 💙

GIF by sluttylittleslashers

"Okay you gotta stop it. I'm serious this time," you said sharply, before dissolving into another fit of giggles at the ticklish brush of long dark hair against your face.

Vincent brushed his maskless face against your throat once more as you felt his distorted lips and nose brush against your throat and you let out a satisfied purr at the hint of his tongue across the sensitive scent gland at your throat. You twist a few strands of his long surprisingly soft hair gently around your fingers as he continues to scent you, something he has been doing for the past two hours now, and you rub your inner thighs over his hips from where he's still nestled happily between them. You are wearing one of his favorite sweaters, one that he has thoroughly scented, and a pair of simple cotton panties. Vincent scooped you up in arms before you even were able to reach for your pants.

"Alpha," you murmured softly, tilting your head to press a small kiss against his ear and then his high cheekbone, and then down to his jaw which you lick at playfully.

His broad shoulders shook lightly in a barely there growl, something you felt more than heard rumble in his chest, and sharp teeth nipped at your throat making you jump before he pulled back. Something sweet and warm and possessive shined in his blue eye, a mischievous spark you've seen plenty of times in his twin gleaming in his oceanic depth as he looked at you through the thick curtain of his hair, and he pressed a kiss to your lips lightening quick before darting away and replacing his mask that was safely set aside. You smiled at him as he helped you sit up and it seemed he was ready to start the day now. Your smile turned into a mischievous grin as you suddenly launched yourself onto Vincent's back, listening to him huff in amusement as you buried your face in his neck as his large hands came to cradle you carefully so you wouldn't fall off and you couldn't help the giggle that escaped you at the curious taps he gave your cheek. Clearly asking in his own way what you were up to as you breathed in the scent of paraffin wax, clean soap, washing detergent, and his spicy Alpha scent.

“I can’t help it that you smell so good!” you sigh wistfully, nuzzling even closer to him, and you felt his warm hand that was on your cheek shift so he was petting through your hair lovingly.

Then, everything was spinning, and your nails bit into his shoulders before the world went steady again and you were right back where you were moments ago. This time, however, Vincent was pulling the blankets from his bed back over you both and you laughed in pure delight while cuddling closer to him.

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sinclair-annie · 7 months ago

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Wolves knocking at the Door

poly!Sinclairs x y/n

Tw: reader is not a wolf (only the brothers), Bo being himself (soft at the end), mentions of past killings, blood, reader gets smacked

This is a free style a/b/o prompt because no one is going to stop me and I have free will over myself. It came to me while I was eating chips and scrolling through @sketchy-rosewitch's blog the other day.

Days before a full moon are the worse in the Sinclair house, and you've taken good note of it. Bo gets angrier like throwing things across Ambrose, Vincent's kills become more violent and bloodied, and Lester just has a hard time keeping his thoughts lined and together, making it harder for him to focus or do his job.

When they were at home with you, they did their damnest to keep their emotions in check. They just wanted to make sure you didn't see the worse in them, that's all; and you knew that they were working so hard on making sure you never see that side of them.

But it's different tonight as the full moon was coming tonight, and you knew that they'll be... different. You knew they'll be out, hunting, fighting, terrorizing, killing--you knew it all but you weren't afraid. Besides, you knew that they'll never hurt you, and they make sure you have Papa's silver bullets and the blessed pistols with you just in case they even tried.

The morning started with Bo's cursing and a coffee mung breaking; that's what woke you. As you came down stairs, you were met with a broken mug on the floor and Lester in a headlock, Vincent pulling Bo away from his brother, and feverish blue eyes filled with fire and brimstone. The power he has in that pose is enough to make you want to run away, but you know better than that.

"Bo!" You snapped as you hurried into the kitchen, but you kept your distance when Vincent shot you a look. "Bo, let him go!"

With a tug, Bo was ripped off Lester's neck, Lester falling to the ground on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air as he held his neck. As Vincent backed away with bis brother locked in his grasp, you came to Lester's side and tried to help his steady his breathing.

You haven't seen Bo like this since the night you first saw him kill, when he first dug large canine teeth into your friend's neck, ripping it out to leave her to bleed out on the church floor.

You rubbed his back as he coughs, leaning into your touch. "...betta get outta here, darlin'," he breathed as he heard Vincent losing his grip and Bo stomping over to him. "Git--"

Before you had time to react to his warning, a large hand came down, and the world went quite. The birds stopped singing and the marsh stopped its song. The clouds covered the morning sun and the wind hit the house with full force. A bomb might as well gone off in the house as you faced the other way, holding your face, as the sting filled over your skin. Tears burned like acid as you cried silently. Before anyone could say or do anything, you stand and race out of the house, running down the street towards the church.

Where you still in your pajamas? Yes.

Did you care? No.

When you make it into the church, you find yourself running past their dead mother and hiding in the confessional, locking it. Going to the back of the booth, you tried to make yourself small before hiding your face in your legs, crying. He promised he would never do that, he promised to be a good man and his brothers agreed...

But how much does a promise cost, y/n? What's the payment at the end? They're beast, monsters. They are born to kill and worship the hunt on a full moon. Monsters don't keep promises.

But the Sinclairs do. They're better than this, and they'll prove it.

In a few moments, you hear the door to the church bursting open and heavy footsteps. "Y/n?" Bo called breathlessly, eyes scanning wildly over the pews and walls. "Darlin'! Come out--"

"No!" You yelled back, hugging yourself tightly. Your voice echoed from the locked confessional, and you heard Bo's boots coming to the door. He knocks, but you just yell, "Leave me alone, Bo!"

"Y/n, please com' out!" Bo shouted back, his right hand still burning from the sting. "Come out. I'll do anythin' ya want! Anythin'!" He kneels in front off the door and took in your scent, and he wanted to throw-up. He did this to you. He did this. He loves the smell of fear from his victums, but not from you. His hands rested on the door and he leaned against it. "Honey, please? Open up?"

At first, you don't move from your spot. You looked at the locked door then back at the handle. If you do open up, what'll happen? You're nervous he might yell, might feel different--

Then you hear something you thought you'd never hear: Bo whines at the door, his head thumping against the wood. It's heart aching and it tears you apart to hear him whine like a hurt puppy. You hear it again before the whine turns into him crying at the door, head still pressed against the wood. "Please, darlin," he whispers. "How do I make it better?"

You hear boots shuffling across the church floor, and Lester voice rings over, "Y/n? Ya okay? Where are ya, sweet pea?" His voice falls when he sees his brother at the confessional door, and he frowns. "Y/n?" You're not sure if you should answer him until you hear him joining his brother's side. you see their shadows through the crack on the door. "Yer okay, sweetness," he said against the door. "He didn't mean it." Lester rested his head against the door as well, closing his eyes. He didn't like how you smelled when you left the house in a panic, and he didn't like it now. "Honeydew?"

Then Vincent joins. You know his boots anywhere as he enters. You can hear him sniff the air then whimpering lowly as he joins his brothers. You could see his shadow behind his brothers as he placed a heavy hand on the door, resting his head against the cold wood.

"Sweetheart, please?" Bo's voice cracks. "Open the door? I gotta make sure yer okay."

"I'm not okay, Bo," you answer, your head raising from you hugged knees. "You hit me."

"He didn't mean it!" Lester replied. "Honest!" He's just as scared as his brothers. If you don't open up, he'll make sure Bo pays for everything. He hates hearing you so hurt and sad. That hit was supposed to hit him, not you.

"I wanna hear it from him," you said, wiping your eyes. "I want to hear it from Bo."

Bo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Ya know I didn't mean it."

Not good enough.

"Then I'm not coming out," you huffed. You're standing your ground on this one.

Vincent looks down at his twin then nodded at the door. He'll do anything to make you stop crying, to take away your pain and have it as his own. Vincent hated seeing you crying, and he hated that he wasn't strong enough to keep the other Alpha at bay. He just wanted to hold you in his arms, bury your head into his chest, and never let you go until you died. He promised himself that he would kill anyone that hurts you, and here he was, glaring at his brother.

Bo begs this time, and he sounds a bit pathetic, "Y/n. I'll do anythin'--"

"Then tell me you didn't mean it, Bo," you said again, looking at the door with hopeful eyes. "Tell me you won't do it again." You sniffled and said, "If you ever want to hold me or kiss me or fuck me, then you'll say it. If not," you looked around the room then back at the door, "I'll stay in here until you say it."

Bo grits his teeth then looks at the closed door as if he was kneeling in front of God himself. He looks down as he felt Lester's hand on his shoulder, nodding at the door.

"'M sorry, Y/n," it doesn't sound forced as he looked at the door. "'M sorry, darlin'. I swear to ya I'll that I'll never lay a hand on ya again. I promise, y/n... I swear it to you." He leans against the door and listens. "Darlin', please? Open up? Le' us see ya."

Silence filled the church before they heard you unlock the door. Bo sits up in attention, his bright blue eyes glowing and scared. Lester's plays with his hands nervously, his brown eyes were mixing to a hazel. Vincent... to say he was nervous was an understatement; he was terrified of your next words and actions. You were the best thing to happen to this little pack.

When Bo looked up to see your face, he was horrified. His hand print marked your perfect skin, and he hated himself more when he saw your puffy and red eyes trying so hard to smile down at him.

He looked as if he was a child reaching up to he picked up by his parent when his hands reached for yours, and you took them. You stepped closer and hold his head against your stomach.

''M sorry, darlin," he murmurs against your pajama shirt. "'M so sorry."

You comb through his hair, closing your eyes, and felt Vincent's arms wrap around your shoulders, taking in your scent, and Lester's hands rubbing your arms gently. Feeling your boys around you always made you feel safe and special.

You four stay like that for a while until you break the silence. "Can I cuddle you before you three have to go out tonight? Please?"

And they're all for it. They walk with you back to the house, Lester taking off his shoes to give you so you don't have to walk over the stones. Vincent holding your hand while Bo follows behind, listening to you talk about your plans for tonight while they go on their hunt.

By the time all of you are back at the house, they head to your room, the room that you share with Bo, and get ready, letting you go under the covers first to get comfortable.

First, Lester crawls in, snuggling up to your left side. Second, Vincent holds you and Lester. Third and last, Bo joins on your right side, getting a side all to himself.

For a while, you stay silent, letting the birds sing and the marsh start its song again.

Bo litters your bruised face with soft, gentle kisses while you run your fingers through Lester's hair, him humming to the touches. Vincent is looking at you as if he's seeing you for the first time. Before long, he takes off his mask and kisses your jaw.

Before you know it, you're asleep between them once more. You're safe and loved from them, and that's all you need.

When you wake up, the only one there is Bo, and your resting your head against his chest. Warm arms wrap around you protectively as he looks up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

When you look up, you can see his first stages of transformation: large brown and soft wolf ears sticking out of his hair, his nails longer and sharper, his blue eyes turning to a deeper blue mixed with purple, small patches of fur littering over his body. He'll have to leave soon before the afternoon sun sets to join his brothers.

Mainly to make sure Lester is okay while during his transformation. It always hurts him the most, so he'll need some support from his two Alphas.

When he feels your eyes on him, he looks down with sadness mixing his eyes. "'M so sorry, darling," he whispers, scared to startle you. "Forgive me?"

"I'll forgive you if you promise to start reading those anger management books I gave you." Then you thought. "Or listen to some ASMR audios."

"I'll take the books, y/n." His voice was rougher and deeper as the day grew.

You snuggle into his shirt, feeling the warmth and his heartbeat against your skin. "Works for me." You look up at him. "I love you."

He brings your face up to his as he places a kiss on your lips. "I love you more, y/n."

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sinclair-annie · 10 months ago

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Hi love could you write a soulmate au for bo and Vincent and maybe Thomas Hewitt( idk if u write for him sorry if u don’t oops) preferably the one where they start to see color when they either first touch each other or see each other ? Mwuah hope you’re feeling better soon

I’m a sucker for soulmate au’s and was super excited when I saw this because I’ve never actually written one, so thank you for requesting! But I just couldn’t get anything out for Bo and Vincent, they always have to be so stubborn. I will keep a soulmate au for them on my list for when inspiration strikes. So this one is all Tommy!

Thomas Hewitt x reader

Warnings: a little language

Thomas Hewitt often over-heard people talking about colors. About finally seeing the bursting blue of the sky or the dusty tan of the fields once they finally met their soulmate. Momma had explained it to him in her own way, how the world was grey and white and black but it could be so much more.

That once you found your soulmate, you could share the colors, enjoy them together.

Thomas didn’t hold out hope for finding his own soulmate for very long. How would they find him when all he did was hide. Behind his mask, in the slaughter house, and away from the people in town as much as possible.

He didn’t need those other colors anyway, he hacked up meat and did work around the house. What good would colors do him with that? What good could come from meeting someone who he knew would never want him as a soulmate.

It would just be one more person to call him a freak.

Maybe he didn’t even have one. Sometimes that made him feel better and on occasion, when he had the free time to think about it, it made him feel hollow.

Walking home from the slaughter house was usually when the hollowness began to gnaw gently but incessantly at him. It was almost a welcome change when he saw a car parked on the side of the rode, the late day sun outlining a silhouette hunched near the front tire.

It was 50/50 on how they would react. Either fear and shock or disgust. The chance of them actually accepting any help from him was zero. So Thomas crossed to the other side of the road and did his best to be invisible as he got closer to the car.

It was a beat up thing, whatever color it was had been worn out in the spots that weren’t rusted and flaking off. There was a good sized dent in the back bumper and the plate said it was from out of state.

Not realizing how he had drifted to the middle of the road while staring, Thomas startled at the sound of the driver cursing.

“God damn stupid fucking thing! Just. Let. Go.”

You were beyond furious at the single lug nut left on your flat tire. It was probably the heat making everything feel like moving through quicksand, but still, you’d done this a million times, why did now have to be so difficult!

The palms of your hands burned from the countless attempts at gripping the tire iron and the sweat building at your hairline was beginning to itch. If only you had a pipe to slip over the end of one of the tire irons arms to add some leverage you could get this flat off and-

A scuff of heavy boots on the gravel road behind you made you jump and your grip on the iron was gone, sending you falling over with all the momentum of your frustration.

Thomas debated just running when you face planted right into the road, expecting you to come up yelling about the big freak local scaring you half to death. But when you did nothing but lay there, his brain froze. Were you messing with him?

“It’s okay, you can just let me shrivel up here, no need to worry” your voice was muffled and tired. Maybe you’d spent too much time out in the sun?

Stuck halfway between leaving you there or sprinting home for help, Thomas watched as you ungracefully flopped over onto your back and looked up at him. He couldn’t help the small step he took back.

It started with the hue of your hair, color dripping it’s way from root to tip. And then your skin, covered in the sweat that made it almost shimmer as you breathed, chest rising and falling. Your eyes, though he didn’t exactly have a name for the color, bored right through him and filled up that hollow space he thought he’d have forever.

“Well, hi there big guy” was all your brain could manage. It was accurate enough because even if you weren’t sprawled out on the ground like roadkill, you had a feeling this guy would still tower over you.

Not that that really mattered, what with the striking clarity of his wide eyes searching every inch of you. They were half hidden behind dark, wavy hair and framed by the mask covering the lower half of his face.

‘So that’s what blue looks like’ you thought to yourself, returning his stare.

Neither of you moved an inch, just frozen there as you studied each other, stuck in a whirlwind of color.

Then the buzzing of the heat and bugs came back into focus and you blinked rapidly, shifting awkwardly until you sat up, and smiled up at the man who was obviously unsure of what to do.

“So, you live around here?”

The man took a second before giving a brief nod, eyes now looking anywhere but you.

“Would you mind helping me out? And I can give you a ride home if you want, maybe meet the folks?” you held up your hand, hoping you hadn’t gone too far.

Thomas Hewitt wondered why anyone would care about the color of the sky or what shade the miles of fields were. Those weren’t the colors he cared about sharing with you. The only colors that seemed important to him were the ones spread across your smiling lips and the way your hand looked wrapped in his as he helped you up off the ground.

Momma was right, life in color was so much more. Better.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

Note

Your requests are open? If you’re okay with it, could you write a lil something about Bo falling asleep with a boobie in his mouth? Maybe to help him calm down after an anger outburst or after dealing with some tough victims?

On it! 18+, boob sucking, canon typical darkness.

thanks to @honeyed-obscenities and @saturnsxsandworm for proofreading for me :)

There’s a knife to your throat and fear in his eyes and you almost wish they’d get it over with for the sheer purpose of never having to see him like this again. You shake, not out of terror but hatred, the thought of anyone else putting that look on his face enough to make you grit your teeth in anger.

He’s not a good man. You’ve seen him at his worst, blood-soaked and full of rage. He’s threatened your life more times than you cared to admit, had even gone as far as to strap you in Vincent’s chair himself, ready to finish the job his brother wouldn’t, and yet, the look in his eyes at the threat of your death told you what he never would. You had won.

He’d set out to train you, make you his little pet, but it seemed the two of you had switched roles somewhere along the way for Bo was snarling, his voice more animal than human as he shouted threats, demanding your freedom.

It was endearing. A good little guard dog, he was. If only he hadn’t let you get captured in the first place. You rolled your eyes, your breath hitching in your throat when the knife dug a little too deeply into your skin. blood immediately pooled to the surface and Bo’s eyes narrowed in on it, his tongue poking out to run along his lips.

“I’ll do it! I’ll kill them!”

and perhaps they would have but you never got the chance to find out because Vincent, ever the silent protector, had finally arrived. The victim’s eyes landed on him and with a gasp, they stumbled backwards, making their biggest mistake of the night. They’d released their leverage. You stumbled into Bo’s awaiting arms, burying your face into his chest. His grip was tight, tighter than it had ever been, and it was with great shock that you realized he was shaking too. Violently.

“Bo?” Your voice was soft, the sort of tone you’d use with an injured animal, and his eyes snapped to yours, concern overtaking the anger.

“Ya’ alright? Didn’t hurt ya’ too bad, did they?” His eyes roamed over your face and down your throat, a low growl rumbling in his chest when he once again caught sight of the bleeding cut on your neck. “Fuck. Don’t worry, sweetpea, m’gonna get you all fixed up,” he looked over your shoulder where Vincent had the victim restrained, crying and pleading in his grip. “Get em’ outta here. Make sure there ain’t enough of em’ left to even need the pit. Thinkin’ they could hurt one o’ ours and get away with it.”

One of theirs. Your heart picked up and you let out a soft sound of shock, though really you should have known. His threats had been replaced by actual conversations, nightly arguments giving way to movie nights that all too often ended in him curled up asleep against your side.

You had made him care. The thought made you smile, though you buried your face deeper into his chest to hide it. Bo stood, his back stiff, a low growl rumbling continuously in his chest, his eyes locked on the retreating form of his twin brother and the thing that had hurt you. He trusted his brother to take care of things wholeheartedly but still, he wasn’t willing to take his eyes off of them until they were out of eyesight. He’d nearly lost you once, he wasn’t about to do it again.

“Bo,” you mumbled, “hey, I’m alright. I’m okay. can we go home now? this is starting to sting..”

The reminder of your bleeding wound was enough to force bo into action and he nodded, leaning down to hook his arms under your shoulders and legs. you giggled as you were picked up, and bo smiled down at you. it didn’t take long for the two of you to make it back to the Sinclair house, as small as Ambrose was, and bo sat you gently on the sofa, planting a kiss to your forehead before rushing off to the bathroom, returning moments later with a tube of Neosporin and a wash cloth.

He avoided eye contact as he squeezed some of the cream onto his fingers, gently running it along the thin slice. you wince, and he frowns, “m’sorry. bein’ as gentle as I can,” He takes a shaky breath, just barely running his finger across the wound, and he’s still shaking. You reach up to grab his arm, your fingers unthinkingly circling around his scarred wrists, and you freeze, wide eyed and waiting, but he just simply sucks in a sharp breath, “I almost lost ya..”

he sobs, and the sound is gut wrenching. your mouth falls open, then closes, then opens again. this is a situation you never thought you’d be in, seeing Bo Sinclair cry. Over you. “Oh, honey,” you reach up to wipe away a stray tear, your brows furrowed in concern. “baby, don’t cry. You didn’t lose me, I’m right here.”

He shakes his head frantically, “no. no, they got you, hurt you, it’s all my fault. I was supposed to protect you.” he looks so broken, so defeated, it makes your heart ache.

“You did protect me! Look at me, I’m still here, I’m alive, you kept me safe,” you lick your lips, you’d wanted to see him cry for so long but not like this. “You’re so good at keeping me safe. keeping us all safe. don’t know what we’d do without you.”

The whine your words pull from him shouldn’t have warmth pooling up in your lower stomach but it does, the sight of him looking at you in the same way you imagine people would look at god only adding fuel to your fire, as if he’d fall to his knees and worship you if only you’d keep talking.

You look at his lips, plump and parted, and you can no longer hold yourself back, capturing them with yours in a gentle kiss. your tongue runs along his bottom lip and he whimpers again, his hands fisting in your shirt, just over your breasts, and then it’s your turn to whimper, his thumb running along your hardening nipples. he breaks the kiss, turning his head when you follow him in an attempt to reclaim his lips, “no, darlin’, I need you. need to know you’re still here. please?” he tugs at the bottom of your shirt, and you tilt your head, nodding despite your confusion. it’s all he needs, pulling it up over your head, and the smile on his face at the sight of your breasts makes your heart ache.

His lips closed around one hardening bud and you gasped, your eyes fluttering closed as you tried to focus on the feeling of his tongue on your skin mixed with the electric his gentle suckling was sending through your veins, as if his touch was bringing you alive and setting you aflame. you tangled your hands into his hair, your fingers scratching gently at his scalp, and he moaned around you, his own arms wrapping around you, lowering you down until your head rested on the armchair and his on your chest.

It was the closest you’d ever felt to anyone in your entire life. “Shh, good boy, you’re alright. I’m alright.” You mumbled, and he whined again, nuzzling his face into your chest, his tears drying on your skin. “No more tears. I’m here, we’re together, you did a good job.”

He sucks harder, his other hand finding your other breast. You expect him to tease you, to roll your nipple between his fingers and and nibble at the other, but he doesn’t. he simply holds it in his hand, continuing to suck at the other, and you look down to see his eyes closed, a peaceful expression on his face.

“Adorable,” you laugh and he hums, his eyes fluttering open, dazed from sleep. “Shh, it’s okay. just go on to sleep now, baby, I’ll still be here in the morning.”

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

Text

Summary: had a huuuuuge knot in my hair last night and had a bit of an anxiety attack over it. Was thinking of this to calm down enough to tackle the knot (spoiler: I didn't. Mum came and rescued me. I ended up making it worse in my anxiety until the situation was as described in this fic.)

Reader has a hair type which can be combed and brushed, fingers ran through etc. And their hair is long enough to be braided, gender neutral reader. Can be read platonically or romantically with Bo, I left it vague. I pictured it as somewhere in the middle.💖

"What's th'matter wit' you?" He stands in the open bathroom doorway, a light sneer on his face. For the life of him, watching you break in front of your mirror puts an ache in his chest and he wants to soothe it away, soothe you. It's different to the warm ache he usually gets when he's around you. This one hurts.

You sniffle, turn your face away from Bo to swipe the tears off your face. "No - nothin' - "

You turn back to face the mirror in time to catch the sneer on his face. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, lift up your comb, wince, put the comb down.

Bo huffs air through his nose. The same routine every damn night. You always end up getting help from someone when it comes to this part of your routine. Try as you might, your hair is too much for you to take care of alone and you get upset over something so minor that Bo doesn't think it's worth the emotional toll. But it makes you happy, so he supposes it is.

Here we fuckin' go.

"Where is it?"

"Where's - "

He cuts you off again. "The knot. Where is it?"

You hold up a chunk of hair large enough to easily be a quarter of your whole head of hair, and Bo whistles lowly. You've brushed everything down to the ends of your hair, so the last few inches are a mass of knots. Large enough to get you thinking that you had to cut all your hair off and that made you anxious and then you got upset and then -

You look at that mass of hair, thinking of the scissors in the other room. No, please - white hot panic, desperation.

Your breath catches, your vision blurs with tears, you whimper -

"No, shush, it's okay, darlin', it's okay." Bo takes the comb from you, turns you so you're facing the mirror and he pulls that chunk of hair around to your back. "Vince always fuckin' gets tangles like this in his hair. He panics, too, jus' hides it better." Mentioning his twin always makes you smile and this time is no exception. Bo's a bit rough with your comb and you're wincing and swearing under your breath, but Bo keeps going 'til he's done, and then he brushes all of your hair back just for the hell of it. More time with you, right?

"There. All sleek an' pretty - "

"Wait, Bo," you shake your head, hold up your brush and the leave-in conditioner. "My routine's not done. You gotta brush and then do the conditioner, and then you gotta braid it!" You play your words back, wince, and then, "please?"

Bo rolls his eyes hard, but the fact that he does as you say even as he grumbles, says more to you than anything else. He knows you're fully prepared to stand there, tolerating burning eyes from exhaustion, until your hair is done to your own specifications. He also knows he won't sleep unless you're safe and in bed, which means he's gotta do this for you. Hell, he wants to, under all his complaining. He knows what this means to you, your nighttime routine, and he wants to share it with you.

The one who chose to stay.

(Not that he'd given you much of a choice, mind. Stay or die didn't leave much room for negotiation.)

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

Text

Protection (Vincent Sinclair x Reader)

Again with me writing very self-indulgent things. I hope you enjoy this at least! I've been meaning to write for Vinny for a hot minute anyways...

Vincent Sinclair x gn!Reader

Summary: Settling into life in Ambrose was easier than you had anticipated. You'd grown close with Vincent Sinclair, bonding over art together. Things were going very smoothly until a rowdy group of victims wandered into the brothers grasps and found you before Vincent could. (Warning: violence, deaths of minor characters)

Brushing your hair behind your ear, you sighed to yourself in the mirror. Since moving to Ambrose, you hadn't been able to get a proper haircut. As fond as you were of the Sinclair brothers, you had seen once before how Lester cut Bo's hair and you were suddenly aware of why exactly Vincent kept his hair long. Lester was probably more of a hazard with scissors when they weren't being used to kill someone. It was almost impressive.

So, your hair was longer than you were used to. Brushing past your ears and brushing your shoulders now.

Seems the masked man spying on you from the doorway to the bathroom seemed to like it at least. Vincent loitered within your line of sight in the mirror, watching you through the dark eyeholes of his mask. With the cloudy day out and no lights on in the house, he seemed scarier than he was.

But you knew Vincent. He'd been scary at first, terrorizing the friends who'd left you to die to let them escape in the car. They hadn't known Bo had slashed their tires and allowed the twins to pick them off one by one. Leaving you: their lone survivor. But rather than kill you, Vincent had wanted to keep you alive. While Bo had been harder to convince, one plate of your garlic bread and he was persuaded.

So, here you'd stayed. Under Vincent's protection, mainly, though Bo and Lester had grown fond of you during your time in Ambrose. You helped them take care of the town, keep it looking alive despite how very not-alive it was.

Vincent helped make it pretty, in his own way, you thought.

"Hey Vince," you said softly at the mirror, watching him watch you in the mirror, "what's up?"

Vincent gestured over his shoulder. "People passing through. Stay in the basement until we are done." He signed slowly so you could read. You were still learning sign but you'd slowly gotten the hang of most words.

"Bo wants me to start helping, y'know," you called to him as he turned to leave, stopping him in his tracks. "Wants to show me how to shoot so I can help." You felt a bit anxious saying it aloud. While you knew it was only a matter of time before the eldest Sinclair put you to work helping them get new... subjects for the wax figures, it still felt odd to consider yourself part of the whole thing. Planting fake plants, keeping house, and playing peacemaker between the brothers was easy, let you live in your little fantasy. But the idea of actually participating was... daunting to say the least.

The taller man turned slowly to you, his good eye surveying your face. Maybe he saw the terror in your eyes before signing, "Not letting him. You're important."

You snorted. "Important? Vince, I grow fake flowers, I doubt that's really important.

He shook his head, insistent, and stepped more into the bathroom, closer to you. "Important to me." Now that certainly made you pause. "Go downstairs. Please."

Swallowing, you nodded as he left the room. You heard the front door to the Sinclair house open and close in quick succession. Vincent was likely headed to loiter around the House of Wax, try and separate the group quickly. Straight to business, you chuckled to yourself as you made your way down the stairs to Vincent's basement. Much warmer than the dark, cold bathroom, it was a wonder Vincent could stand wearing so many layers.

You settled on Vincent's bed and picked up one of the sketchbooks he'd given you. When you'd first been made a citizen of Ambrose, Vincent tried to connect with you via art, encouraging you to draw and create in a similar fashion to him. You'd taken to it easily enough. Nothing you made was ever as great as his stuff, you thought, but you were proud of it. Though the masked brother seemed to adore anything you created.

Settling comfortably, you picked up a sharp pencil and went back to work on a sketch you'd been working on before needing to get lunch and use the bathroom, where you'd noticed your hair.

Typically the brothers took care of visitors to Ambrose quickly and Vincent would be in and out of the workshop. You should have noticed something was very wrong when he wasn't back after half an hour...

Setting the book down to crack your fingers, you took note of the empty workshop. Odd, you thought. Standing slowly, you wondered if Bo had gotten shot with a crossbow again. You snorted at the memory as you crept up the stairs. Or maybe there was no visitors and Vincent had mistaken Lester's car? Got wrapped up in something like he usually did. You smiled fondly as you recalled how focused the masked man could be when he was really invested in a project. How he didn't see or hear anything beyond the wax he molded once he was into it.

Pushing open the trapdoor and poking your head out, you were met with a dark, still house. The sun had long since set and you wondered how long you'd really been down there for...

Then, just as you shut the door with a soft thud, you heard the front door swing open.

"Hey!" A stranger stared at you with wide, panicked eyes. Judging by the panic in his eyes and the blood staining his jeans and white shirt, he was one of the victims. Must be on the run from Bo, if the fact he was still alive was anything to go by.

Bo always did love a good hunt.

"A-are you one of them? O-or did you get c-caught too?" He stuttered, running his hand through smooth, short brown hair. You swallowed, struggling to find the words to explain yourself.

"I'm- I- Uh-" Thankfully you didn't have to say much as a girl with bright, neon green hair and an undercut pushed her way into the house after the boy. A large gash stretched across her cheek to the bridge of her nose and she had a limp. The puncture wound looked like Vincent's knives.

"Aw hell Jakey, leave em alone. Chances are they're as freaked out as we are. Maybe they just escaped those freaks too." She slurred, limping her way to the couch to sit. "Name's Paige, thats Jake. We, uh, got caught by the mechanic guy. Thought we could take him till he fucking shot Aaron in the-"

"With a gun or a crossbow?" You interrupted, earning a strange stare.

"Crossbow... why?" Jake asked. You swallowed before shuffling over.

"Umm... he shot my friends with a shotgun. Was just wondering, since I didn't hear it." You mumbled, fidgeting with your hands. Times like this made you wish the Sinclairs believed in radios.

Paige gave you a pained smile. "Aaron got shot, we can't find Kelsey and Leslie... this whole place seems like a deathtrap." Oh she didn't know how right she was.

"Does the phone work?" Aaron asked, checking through the curtains for Bo and Vincent. You shook your head quickly.

"It's, um, why I haven't been able to call for help," you lied, softening your voice to sound more helpless, "I've been stuck in their basement for a long time..." You sniffed, shifting from foot to foot. If you could just stall long enough, they might notice where these two had run off to.

Your mind flashed to the light switches in the basement that you could use to call them... but you didn't want to risk these two damaging any of Vincent's things. You'd just have to hold out.

God, if you didn't get killed you were going to make them carry phones...

"What's your name?" Jake asked, which you answered hesitantly. He gave a slow nod before looking out the window and panicking. "Mask dude is coming, hide!" He whisper-yelled before grabbing you and Paige by the arm and hauling ass out the back door and to the backyard. You heard Vincent open the door just as you were yanked out with a swift yelp, Paige and Jake practically yanking you down the street.

"C'mon, cmon, theres gotta be somewhere in this town we can hide!" Jake called into the night sky. Your heart stuttered for a moment, empathizing with them. They were just two people fighting for their lives. They didn't know what you did, didn't have the brothers protection. Weren't even aware they were prey.

At least, not until an arrow lodged into Jake's shoulder, pulling a scream from his throat and a cry from Paige. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Vincent standing at the back of the house wielding a crossbow.

You didn't have to see his eyes to know he was pissed.

Marching towards the three of you, you panicked. Did he think you were trying to escape? Was this where he killed you?!

Instead, Paige saw the look in your eye and saw Vincent's focus entirely on you and seemed to connect the dots. Pulling out a small knife from her pocket, she held it to your throat. "Stop right where you are!" She called to Vincent, who did freeze. "C-come one more step and I'll paint the roads red!" Your heart froze at the words and you stared at Vincent with terror in your eyes.

Jake looked pained and confused before Paige spoke to him. "This one's their bait. We can use em to bargain... might even get out," her voice was hushed as she spoke, eyes still on Vincent. "If you let us leave," she called to him after a moment, "we won't hurt your little honeytrap here!"

You knew better than to struggle at this point, the knifepoint too close to your throat for comfort.

Vincent nodded to the two of them slowly, signing just as slow. "Bo coming. Stay calm." Seems your two captives didn't understand sign enough to know what he was saying, which you were momentarily grateful for. Though a pathetic part of you found it sweet Vincent was trying to reassure you, likely knowing how freaked out you were.

Paige walked backwards through Ambrose, heading towards the edge of town, keeping her eyes on Vincent. Jake was struggling behind her and kept wincing in pain when his shoulder moved, the arrow still lodged in. Vincent followed close, not letting you out of his sight. If Paige thought he was too close, she'd hold the knife to your neck tighter and make you tell Vincent to stop.

It was horrible.

And you'd watched your friends die before.

The closer you got to the edge of town, the more your eyes were scanning for Bo. If he was coming, you wanted to know which way to run at least. But as you came to the end, you still hadn't seen him. Vincent seemed calm though. Or perhaps he was simply faking it for you.

Paige motioned for Jake to get in their car as she walked you backwards towards it, tightening the grip on her knife. As soon as Jake opened the driver side door and Paige was close by, she kicked you hard in the back away from her before hopping into the car and slamming the door behind her.

You didn't even spare her a glance as you ran straight into Vincent's arms, who held you tightly, one arm around your waist and the other hand tight in your hair. He was mumbling incoherently but you could tell from the tone he was relieved you were okay.

The real surprise came when the car blew up, a quick but powerful burst of fire and glass as Vincent turned to take the brunt of the impact and keep you safe.

Seems Bo had rigged the car to blow as soon as the engine started. Just in the nick of time. Bo pulled the two of them out of the wreckage, Vincent still needed his art supplies after all.

Hauling the two bodies to his truck, Bo let you and Vincent climb in for the drive up to the house, the masked brother not letting go of your hand for even a moment. As soon as the car stopped, you were headed directly to the house, Vincent on your heels. Bo could unpack the bodies, he knew what to do. In the meantime, Vincent herded you downstairs to his workshop, breathing heavily all the way.

In the light of his shop, you took in his appearance. Hair a bit messier, his eye wide and frantic with the adrenaline, and his hands and overalls stained with fresh blood. He paced the room anxiously, gesturing wildly to himself. "I'm sorry," you finally choked out, causing him to look up at you. "I know you told me to stay but... you hadn't come back, I was worried. I wanted to go looking for you."

The long haired man stared at you for a moment before signing. "I protect you." It was plain but effective. It made your heart hurt. "Don't worry about me."

"But who will protect you? Bo? What if you're both hurt and Lester's not here! What if they'd had guns instead of a knife and really hurt you! What if-" You were cut off by Vincent pulling you to his chest in a hug, letting him tangle his hand in your hair again as he pressed his forehead to your temple with a soft inhale.

You wrapped your arms around him and just stood there with him for a bit, listening to the soft crackling fire heating the wax Vincent would use for his latest figures.

Speaking of figures, "You two done?" Bo's voice cut through, "Or can I just leave these somewhere so I'm not standin' around?" He raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who shot him a look. "Hey, don't gimme that shit, ain't my fault it takes 'em nearly dyin' for you to realize you-" Bo was quickly shut up by Vincent roughly pushing him towards the stairs. "Alright, alright- quit pushin'!" You heard Bo's voice echo as he vanished down the tunnel towards the stairs.

As your protector shuffled back into the room, head hung in embarrassment, you giggled to yourself. "Alright Vince, how about a deal then," you cooed to him as he lifted his head, tilting it curiously. "I'll let you protect me, buuuut" you drawled, stepping closer and closer towards the taller Sinclair until you were right up to him. "You have to let me protect you sometimes."

He looked ready to protest till you leaned up and kissed his masked cheek, blushing when you watched him reach up to touch his face with the tips of his fingers. "Deal?" You asked him softly and got a gentle nod in response.

Vincent would make quick work to kiss the smug look off your face right then and there.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

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No thoughts, only seeing the Sinclair trio + Mikey without any clothes (maybe right out of a shower or just changing) and making a teasing comment about how small their dick is when it's not happy just to see if they'll try and fuck you into an apology.

-💙

Lmfao you’re in for it after that. They all have something to prove 😜

Michael would just look at you with a quirked brow before grabbing you, and pushing you to your knees. Go ahead and make him hard, and he’ll fuck your throat just to show you how big he is. You aren’t about to forget.

Vincent would probably roll his eye, then advance. You’re not gonna get away with that comment, he’s gonna show you just how big he is. He’ll bend you over the nearest surface and hold you firm by the back of your neck to keep you in place. He’ll be teasing until you apologize.

Bo would immediately get dressed, then drag you to the garage basement. You’re gonna go in the chair today and he’s going to edge and tease and be mean until you apologize.

Lester would probably be a little stunned you said that at first, but he’d change your mind. He’d get dressed, then offer to take you on a drive. Then he’ll drive the two of you to one of his favorite spots, and deadpan, he’ll tell you to run. He’ll come and catch you and take you near savagely until you’re apologizing for what you said because he’s actively wrecking you.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

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Brian Van Holt as Vincent Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 01/??

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

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ok i feel the need to be obnoxious somewhere

i think you've been seeing the creep vincent stuff too? anyway, i just love the idea of you kinda... confronting Vincent

and Vincent being kinda... like, embarrassed about being caught? and then you tell him that actually you've known he's been watching you and how it turned you on even more, that you've either watched or at least thought about him jerking off to fantasies about you, and that you've been thinking about his hands, how they'd feel on (and in) you, and that you can't help but stare and have inappropriate thoughts every time you watch him work or sketch/draw

yes i have a thing for hands

- 🔪

Feel very free, im always glad to hear thoughts to fill my brain

and creep Vincent thoughts are good thoughts ;;

here is just a little bit of my very early morning take on this idea, on Vincent, hope you enjoy <3

You'd feed his ego so much if you said that to him, he won't ever hold back. Outside of the bedroom, he'd exagerate his movements and give you a look which shows he knows very well what he's doing.

He was being careful at first, with the peeping, a little ashamed, but ultimately, he was the golden child, and what he wanted he would get. Same applies to you. If you say that you enjoy it, that you've been thinking about him; he may at first retreat to mull it over. Your words affirm everything he's dreamed about, but it feels too good to be true. He won't stop though. If you spot him peeking through the crack of the door (or you suspect him, he's probably there anyway) and call out to him, he'll gladly show you what those hands can do.

He's impatient though, even despite his stamina, so he'd be panting and desperate, and his cock is so hard it hurts. He needs to be inside of you. He won't even notice that his free hand is squeezing himself, nor the drops of precum on your sheets.

Even after that first entwining of your bodies, he won't be able to think of anything else. If you thought his peeping would stop, you're wrong. He needs more of you, even if the two of you are together for most of the day. Vincent himself doesnt understand exactly why he still does it, when he can have you in the flesh, so he calls it a 'bad habit'. Something tells me you don't exactly mind, so it'd continue well into the relationship.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

Photo

Brian Van Holt as Vincent Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 02/??

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

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I'm pretty sure my ask got eaten the last time I tried to send this I had completely forgot about it too before I saw my face reveal post my Internet was a little werid when I tried to send it though if you do have the original or your requests are closed just ignore this 😅

If it's not too much trouble I was wondering if you could write a little something for mine and Vinny's bookshop date please 💜

Here it is my love! I hope you enjoy it, I think it's super sweet!

The Dusty Shelf

Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

2.5k words No CWs, just fluff! Reader is described as shorter than Vincent and with brightly colored hair to match the lovely @fluffy-little-demon

There was this place.

It was a secondhand bookstore a few miles out of Ambrose, in a town small enough to be left to its own devices but big enough to have shed some of that small-town suspicion of strangers. You’d been desperate for just such a place when you found it, somewhere cozy, where time stopped for a coffee and a flip through a book of poems about cats. Ambrose was many things. Cozy was not on the list. But the Dusty Shelf was the epitome of close, quiet comfort.

You made an effort to make it out there at least once every couple of weeks. Saturday mornings had this intrinsic promise to them, the feeling of a day open for anything. You’d get a coffee from the shop down the street and lose yourself amid the shelves, almost always leaving with a book (or two, or three) you never knew you needed.

They had this delightful exchange program where you could bring in used books and trade them for ones that were new-to-you. Victor Sinclair had an extensive dusty collection of medical texts and historical novels and not one of the boys had any opposition to you putting it to good use.

At first, you shyly asked Vincent if he wanted to see what you’d brought back. It was an art book, an anthology of sculpture through the ages, and it reminded you of him. He was so enthralled that you let him keep it. You’d sort of intended it for him anyway. After that, if you didn’t come straight downstairs to show him your spoils, he’d seek you out, ask you what you found.

This time, as he thumbed through a well-worn anthology of Greek myths, you ventured an invitation.

“You could come with me next time, if you want.”

He looked up at you, brow furrowed. “I would love to,” he signed, “but…I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not comfortable,” you said quickly. “But…there’s almost never anyone there, and Mildred - the owner - she’s basically blind. So you…you’d blend in just fine, I think.”

You watched him consider, weigh the lifelong fear of being perceived against the deep-seated desire for the normalcy of a trip to the bookstore.

“Can I…get back to you?” he signed.

“Of course you can. I would love to have you with me, but I’m also more than happy to bring back the best parts of it for you.”

You let it be through the week, until Friday night when he approached you in the kitchen. He touched you lightly on the lower back and when you turned, you found yourself looking at his bare face - half of it, anyway. The other half was covered by a waxen half-mask, the seam blended expertly across his skin.

Your eyes widened. “Vince, did you just make that?” He nodded. “That’s amazing, it looks so good!”

“The symmetry was hard,” he signed. “It looks okay?”

“Yes! You did a fantastic job, of course you did.”

He smiles his tentative ghost of a smile. “I thought it might be…easier to go out like this.”

You lit up. “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He nodded. “I’m so glad! It’ll be really fun, I promise. And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can leave right away, it’s okay. We can take it a step at a time.” You pulled him into a hug that it felt like he was hoping for, because his arms found their way around you without hesitation.

Just before bed, you found yourself alone in the living room with Bo. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stood from the couch, started towards the stairs.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. You turned and met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable. “This is a big deal for him.”

“I know,” you said humbly.

“‘S good, I’m not denyin’ that. Great even. But I just wanna make sure you realize. ‘S been years since he’s been outta town.”

You nodded. “We’ll take it at his pace. Whatever he wants.”

“I oughta come with you, but I’m not gonna do that. He’d be pissed at me.” Bo stared at you for a while before adding, “You best take care of him, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

You nodded again, the weight of his trust making you stand a little straighter. “I will. I promise.”

Saturday morning broke with cloudy skies and an insolent wind: the perfect day to spend in a bookstore. When you met Vincent in the front hallway you realized you’d both chosen plaid button-downs open over t-shirts. Yours was red and his was black.

You laughed and he cracked a crooked smile. It was priceless to you to be able to see that smile with the new mask. “I’ll go change,” he signed.

“No, no. We match! It’s cute.”

His eye shone. “If you say so.”

On the drive, you reached across the armrest and took his hand from its place on his leg. He looked at you with a flash of unguarded vulnerability, just for a second. “You’re gonna stay close to me, okay?” you said. “If you want to leave, you just squeeze my hand.”

He gave you a thumbs-up with his free hand, squeezed your fingers with the other.

“Mildred is really nice, I think you’ll like her. There’s hardly ever anyone there, even on weekends. And even if there is, they’re probably going to be distracted by my hair and won’t even notice you.” Your hair, incapable of remaining the same color for more than a month, was currently green.

Vincent pulled his hand away to sign, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d dye mine sometime,” and then quickly laced his fingers back through yours.

“You mean it?” You beamed. “I would love to.”

As per usual, the street that was home to the Dusty Shelf was almost completely empty. The little café around the corner was the busiest establishment on the entire block. You parked the car on the curb nearby. Vincent eyed the constantly swinging door with apprehension.

“You can wait in the car if you want,” you said. “I can grab us both drinks and then we can drive up the road.”

He thought for a second. “No. Let’s both go in.”

“You sure?”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

You rounded the hood of the car and took his hand. He was already reaching for you. You gave him a minute to gather his courage, waited for him to give you a nod, and then with your fingers woven through his, you led him up the two concrete steps into the café.

Inside was a cacophony of sensory input. Was it always such a spectacle? You’d never thought about it before. The smell of coffee was pervasive. Old country classics played on wall-mounted speakers beneath the clink of mugs and the even hum of a dozen conversations. An impossible number of people filled the small space, queuing at the register or sitting at a handful of high-top tables. You glanced up at Vincent, who bore a marked resemblance to a very large deer in the headlights.

“Okay?” you murmured loudly. He flashed you another thumbs-up without looking at you, too preoccupied with the insurmountable task of taking in everything at once. He examined the crowd, the menu, the entire space with his head lowered, peering up through his thick lashes. You gave him a minute to get his bearings, then indicated the line. He nodded and shuffled forward.

“Do you know what you want? Or do you want me to pick for you?”

He pointed at you.

“Got it.” You didn’t even bother reading the menu board; you knew what you wanted and you knew what he liked.

The line moved quickly and you were at the register in no time. You ordered the drinks and the cashier barely looked at either of you as she punched the buttons. Vincent watched the exchange like a biologist studying some exotic species. You sidestepped away from the register to wait for your order, smiling up at Vincent. He looked almost puzzled, but when you squeezed his hand just to check, he answered with a slight shake of his head.

The girl called your name, handed you both drinks.

“By the way, I love your hair.”

You flashed a polite grin. “Thank you!”

She bid you a good rest of your day with a quick, courteous glance at Vincent. Her gaze skated over his face, didn’t linger, and she was on to the next customer. With your hands full, you offered Vincent your elbow and led him out of the shop.

Outside, he breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“How was that?” you asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”

He stared at the ground thoughtfully before replying. “Yeah. I don’t think she even noticed.”

“Probably not.”

He furrowed his brow. “Nobody…even looked at me.”

A tentative smile crept onto your face. “Yeah. Everyone is always kind of…preoccupied with their own thing.”

“That’s not how I remembered it,” he said, and the hurt in his eye when he met your gaze was a knife in the gut.

“Well, let’s go make better memories then.” You handed him his drink. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” That phantom smile was back. “I’m okay.”

“That was the hard part.” You took hold of his hand again. “Let’s go get cozy.”

The bell over the door wasn’t a bell, it was a string attached to a set of windchimes. They tinkled overhead as you entered. A garland of multicolored scarves draped low just inside the doorway; Vincent had to duck to get through.

You watched his face as he took it all in: the colorful glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the bright green carpet, the mismatched assortment of armchairs and loveseats arranged in little groups like families. And the shelves.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves held up the walls and a maze of chest-high shelves filled the majority of the space, every one crammed to bursting with books. Heroically, the shorter shelves also bore the weight of a hundred years of antiques arranged haphazardly across their crowns. The entire place smelt of patchouli and paper, and somewhere a blues record was playing.

Vincent’s eye was wide, flitting from one thing to the next like a hummingbird in a garden of honeysuckle. His grip tightened on your hand and you frowned.

“Do you…want to leave?”

He shook his head quickly. “No! No, it’s just…amazing.”

You broke into a grin. “Yeah…I think so.”

From behind a shelf, a tiny old woman shuffled into view, dressed head-to-toe in a truly devastating mix of colors and patterns. She wore itty bitty gold-rimmed spectacles dangling with a beaded chain and was still squinting with all her might.

“Can I help you?” she said in the voice of a chainsmoking squirrel.

“Hi Mildred,” you said brightly. “It’s me.”

“Ohh, hello dear.” She peered up at Vincent. “Didja bring a friend or didja find a bear?”

You bit back a laugh and shot a glance at him. He was transfixed with her. “A friend. He doesn’t talk much, he signs.”

“Well, we could all stand to talk a lil less.” She abruptly changed course, moving just past you to the worn desk near the door that served as a checkout counter. “Make yourself at home, honey.”

“Thanks, Mildred.” You gave Vincent’s hand a gentle tug. “Let me show you my favorite spot and then we can browse, okay?”

You led him back to the back corner, to an oversized burnt orange loveseat flanked by Tiffany lamps. There was a low walnut coffee table nearly pushed up against the couch, sporting a truly impressive assortment of coasters checkerboarded over its surface like a turtle’s shell. From underneath the table, a skinny black paw stretched out towards your feet, and then another, and then a handsome tuxedo cat emerged, blinking his golden eyes.

“That’s Shep,” you said. “He’s either very friendly, or very rude.”

Vincent knelt slowly and offered his hand. Shep gave him a sniff and then a cuff of his cheek. When Vincent stood back up, the cat meowed at him and leaned against his calf.

“You’re a charmer,” you said. He smiled shyly.

You wandered together through the stacks, pointing out books with odd titles, pulling ones with pretty covers to admire them better, tucking a few under your arm to take back to the orange couch. Vincent retrieved a few that were too high for you to reach, playfully signing, “Little.”

When you’d amassed quite the collection, you returned to the corner. You sat on one side of the loveseat and Vincent sank rather stiffly onto the other. He flipped a few pages, then leaned casually back. You flipped a few pages, then crossed your leg and scooted just slightly in his direction. He pretended to read for a while before stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. You abandoned all pretense, stuck your thumb in the pages to hold your place, snuggled in against him with your leg hooked over his, and resumed reading. He let out a soft, suppressed sigh of contentment and you smiled to yourself.

The morning passed in delightful, companionable quiet. When at last the growling of Vincent’s stomach broke the silence, you proposed a quick return to the café to grab lunch. Mildred let you eat in the bookstore if you promised to be careful and brought her back a sandwich. Vincent agreed and you went to let Mildred know you’d be back.

“I know you close at two on Saturdays,” you told her. “But…he doesn’t get out much, and he really likes it here. Could I convince you to let us stay just an hour or two past closing time?”

Mildred regarded you shrewdly. “It’s gonna cost ya.”

You considered the volume of junk in the Sinclair house, in particular the gadgets in Victor’s old office. “How does an antique sex toy sound?”

“Horrendous,” she said. “I’ll take it if you throw in the rest o’ that encyclopedia set y’brought last time.”

“Done.”

You shook on it. When you turned around, Vincent was examining antiques with Shep perched on his shoulder, drinking in the new vantage point with greedy yellow eyes. Vincent turned to you and he looked…well, he looked relaxed, possibly for the first time ever.

“Do you want to stay here?” you asked. “I can grab lunch and come right back.”

He shook his head. “I want to be with you.”

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating from you as you took his hand again. “Good. I want to be with you too.”

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sinclair-annie · 2 years ago

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Can I ask for some soft smut fic for Vincent taking the virginity of his S/o? I really crave me some Vincent crumbs🥺🥺🥺

┊ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭.

┊ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓/𝟏𝟖+! 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭!𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱 (𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

┊ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝟔,𝟒𝟕𝟗.

┊ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭! 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬! 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬, 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭! 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲’𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! ❤️

A clap of thunder rumbled across black, starless skies, accompanied with the flash of lightning. Rain slammed against the windows with a torrential force, waking you up from your deep slumber. With a strangled gasp, your heart leaped into your throat as another surge of thunder shook the night. The curtains that framed the dingy windows would flutter a time or two, a cloud-covered moonlight striking the glass, pooling through into your room.

Sluggishly, you moved into a sitting position, sheets bunched around your hips. The mattress you slept upon was cushioned enough, though strewn across the wooden floor without much to support it. Your rugged, barebones conditions were something you’d grown used to over the past months, ever since you’d been taken by a pair of brothers, in addition to the third sibling, who harbored themselves in an abandoned town.

When you were taken, you were lost, taking a wrong turn somewhere and ending up in Ambrose. A part of you had become grateful, given what circumstances you were running from in the first place, attempting to flee from your old life. At first, you’d traded one cage for another, but as time progressed and trust with it, your captors became your friends, more or less. Bo was still on the fence with you, somewhat indifferent, but you didn’t blame him — he was like that with most people.

Lester was unusually chipper, typically humorous and pleasant to get along with. He often rambled and talked about a variety of different things, tacked onto winding stories which had no point nor an end. He was never vitriolic like Bo, less violent than his older brothers. He was often out in the woods anyway, which meant that you didn’t see much of him, but his appearances were welcomed nonetheless.

Bo, the eldest, happened to be at-odds with you when he’d snatched you up after your car accident. He was keen on letting you succumb to your injuries, but with time, he slowly began to grow used to having you around. He’d tease you sometimes, his remarks often accompanied by a sly grin and a flash of pearlescent teeth. He was usually in his garage anyway, or glued to the television with a beer in his hand. You learned to be mindful of him if he was in a sour mood.

Vincent was the enigma, though he happened to be the one who saved your life. He never spoke, communicating through writing or sign language, sometimes a myriad of sounds that were never formed into words. Of the three brothers, Vincent was the one you’d become close to, oddly enough. He would tend to your wounds while you were on the mend, unlock your door in the dead of night when Bo was asleep during the first few weeks of your capture, and ensure that you were being properly fed.

After you’d become comfortable and Vincent was no longer wary, you would sit in the basement, watch him mold and form intricate sculptures from wax. It was almost a nightly routine, a pattern that you found great enjoyment in. Many times, Vincent insisted that you talk, speak to him about anything — what you liked, what you disliked, your habits and hangups, what life used to be like for you. You would often fall asleep in the chair, waking up to a blanket draped around your form.

You’d become curious about Vincent, especially what resided underneath his wax mask. It was an itch that often bubbled just beneath the surface for you, but you understood his underlying insecurities, his desire to always keep that false visage on. Bo explained it to you one night after you came up from the basement, quietly murmuring about the surgery and his scars, about how he hated to look at himself.

It was something to keep in mind with each interaction as your empathetic nature clung to Vincent. Each night, you ogled his mask, pondering what he might’ve looked like underneath, fantasizing about his appearance. If he was anything like Bo, you considered him handsome, but it wasn’t a bold comparison to make. Vincent’s personality was nothing like Bo’s, which was what drew you to him — no suave, manipulative charm or a volatile streak.

Gingerly nudging the covers aside, you moved off of your bed, bare feet drifting toward the vanity situated along the wall. Your disheveled, sleepy appearance was something you weren’t concerned about, but you did pull on a robe over yourself. It provided a bit of warmth, especially with the nightgown you wore — comfortable, though certainly not crafted for the chill that drifted throughout the house.

Creeping toward the door, you twisted the knob, the creaking echoing throughout the hallway. The thunderstorm raged outside, enough to make you jump again as a rancorous clash of thunder crackled throughout the night. As you quietly made your way down the staircase, you could spot Bo’s slumbering shape on the couch, hat over his face, a beer bottle situated on the floor next to him.

As you padded across the corridor, the basement door was left slightly ajar for you, a softer illumination pooling from the crack. You nimbly skirted inside, making sure to shut it behind you. The sound of opera music drifted throughout the basement, even carrying to where you stood. Wax covered the walls to form intricate shapes and designs, candles stacked and piled upon each step. It was warmer down below as you made your descent, being mindful of where you stepped.

Grogginess began to wear off as you fully awoke, slipping into the massive basement. Jonesy came to greet you, tail wagging and whining with excitement. You immediately stooped to give him plenty of scratches, behind his ears and against his chest. “Good boy,” You mused, kneeling down against the cold, concrete floors. “Where’s your owner?” You inquired, hands falling into your lap as Jonesy dashed off in the other direction.

You followed at a slower pace, quietly admiring the sheer amount of artwork that was contained within this space. There were finished wax figures kept off to a cleaner side, awaiting their placement in the museum. You passed by the wax boilers and the dreaded chair, crossing into another room, one that was a little less frightening or daunting than the rest. In this next wing, unfinished silhouettes of wax figures remained scattered about, akin to a silent audience.

Vincent was situated at a spacious desk, which was littered and piled in pieces of parchment and canvas. Half-completed sketches and grayscale landscapes were tacked to the wall above, fluttering with the basement’s draft. Some of his art supplies were scattered across the surface, everything from the simplest of colored pencils, watercolors to oil pastels, to sculpting tools and materials. He was drawing something, moving his pencil across the paper with a steady hand, dark tresses hanging to obscure his face.

He was keen enough to detect your presence, stopping his sketching in order to straighten himself, turning towards you. Swiping the sleeves of his sweater aside, he began to sign, ‘You couldn’t sleep?’ Granted, Vincent was nocturnal, more or less. He was often drawing or caught within the various stages of creating something if slumber evaded him, especially on a stormy night like this one.

Both Vincent and Bo had taught you sign language, from the moment you were taken, to making sure you stayed knowledgeable about it in the present. It was fascinating to learn, and thankfully, you were sharp enough to catch on very quickly. Rubbing at your blurry eyes, you softly cleared your throat, humming as you took a moment to compute what Vincent asked. In awkward signing, you replied, ‘No, not really. Thunderstorm woke me up.’ You forgot he could actually hear you speak sometimes.

A throaty noise escaped Vincent, akin to a scratchy laugh, as his one eye briefly fluttered across your form. You were usually a little more clothed than just a nightgown and robe, which elicited something of a flustered reaction from him, even if you were oblivious to it. He was thankful for the mask in that moment — the one side of his visage happened to be tinged with pink. He turned within his seat, covering some of his drawings with a sketchbook or two before signing, ‘Sorry for the mess.’

“No, no. That’s okay, I love seeing everything here. You’re extremely talented.” You chimed, offering Vincent a smile soon afterwards. This menagerie, this shrine to art and to creation was always such a fascinating environment, and with each visit to the basement, you always noticed something new. His knack for the arts was impressive, especially his meticulous attention to details. “What were you drawing before I interrupted?”

Elusive to your inquiry, Vincent wouldn’t dare admit to his growing pile of drawings, all of which happened to be of you. When you occasionally fell asleep, he took charcoal or pencil to parchment, sketched your slumbering form or the pleasant, serene expression upon your face. Other times, it was all from memory, each curvature of your body or visage, sometimes you were smiling or turned away from him.

‘People.’ Vincent signed, hoping the answer would suffice to satisfy your curiosity. It was vague, though judging from your reaction, you weren’t about to pry any further. If he had Bo’s level of charm or charisma, he might’ve been bold enough to show you the drawings, but that was far-fetched.

Pacing around the room, you moved toward a wax figure of a woman, still in the middle stages of completion. Even when doused in wax, she was alarmingly beautiful, sparking a deep-rooted feeling of both envy and insecurity. Your fingertips ghosted over her smoothed forearm, eyes fluttering across her form — she was flawless, you realized. Vincent was surrounded by these people, immortalized perfection, and for some unknown reason, it made you jealous.

“This one is beautiful,” You whispered, idly chewing upon your lower lip. These sculptures would never succumb to age — they were all frozen in time. Even with the grisly deaths they might have faced, Vincent certainly did his best to ensure their long lasting perfection. It was completely and utterly foolish to be envious of someone entombed in wax, but it was your own lack of confidence speaking for itself. “It reminds me of those statues you see in Greece.”

Vincent watched you from his seat, able to recognize the inklings of self-doubt and defeat as you traced your hand along the wax piece. He was familiar enough with your demeanor to understand and empathize with your insecurities — he had plenty of his own, too. He wished he could make you understand your own worth in his eyes, your piety and beauty. As you became preoccupied with the statue, Vincent rifled around within his stack of drawings, fishing out the ones he enjoyed the most.

Despite his initial hesitation about admitting to drawing you, his perspective shifted slightly when he recognized your downtrodden demeanor. Vincent never wanted you to feel lesser as it stood — those wax statues paled in comparison to what lived and breathed before him. Sliding from the chair, Vincent moved toward you with light footfalls, having the advantage of height as he gawked down at you.

Instead of explaining away his antics, Vincent simply nudged the handful of sketches into your hands, anxiously awaiting your reaction. If you found it in poor taste or you became uncomfortable, he would discard them all immediately. He would rather you be indifferent instead of wary or unnerved, at the very least. His one eye remained glued to your visage, which flushed with a scarlet pallor as you closely examined each drawing, lips twitching into a flustered smile.

“You drew all of these?” It was astounding, the amount of care and life Vincent had poured into these pieces of art. He didn’t glorify you, he didn’t alter you in ways that he saw fit or erase your imperfections. Instead, Vincent was entirely authentic to your appearance, yet it was saturated by his personal touches, the way in which he viewed you. Photographs paled in comparison to what you held, and you realized that Vincent saw you in a way that you never saw yourself — perfection.

Struggling to contain your wash of emotions, your attention was fixated upon a certain piece. You were facing away in this one, your side profile captured in such an immaculate manner. You were a masterpiece in these, your own Mona Lisa, and it flattered you beyond comprehension. You wondered how long Vincent had been sketching you before you noticed some of the dates scribbled in the corner, most of these had been made after you started spending more time with him in the basement.

‘You make an excellent muse. Beautiful, exuberant.’ Vincent signed, hoping that his transparency would sink in for you. ‘Perfection.’ His hands receded into his sweater, slowly recoiling to his sides as he watched your reaction blossom from disbelief to one of pure emotion, pure exuberance. The way in which you openly displayed your feelings was a very precious thing to him, something he didn’t take lightly. In your vulnerable state, Vincent fell into your presence as if he were sinking into velvet — encapsulating and soft.

Tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill over as you hastily attempted to compose yourself, unable to comprehend Vincent’s line of thinking. You felt unworthy, but you wondered if his own thoughts mirrored yours. Salty droplets trickled down your cheeks no matter how hard you fought them off, a gasp escaping you as Vincent’s fingertips ghosted across your visage, collecting the tears upon the pads of his digits.

You flushed at the contact, though it left you yearning for more. Vincent’s brief caress only awoke something inside of you, a brazen want, a surge of affection for him washing over you. It was like fire, searing through and burning you completely, a consuming spark that wouldn’t stop once ignited. You wanted to chase after his fingers, keen into his embrace, but you were terrified of scaring him off or making him uncomfortable.

Leaning forward, you opted to sink into his embrace, cheek nestled against his chest. Vincent became rigid, feeling your supple form press against his body, the drawings still clutched tightly within your left hand. Unused to such displays of affection, he was hesitant when returning the gesture, but it left him yearning — it left him burning for you. His arms tightly wound around you, hands hovering over your back and hips, afraid to fully touch you.

“Thank you, Vincent.” You whispered, teeth nibbling across your lower lip. Scarlet settled within your features, residing across your skin. You weren’t sure if it was because of the basement’s humid warmth, or because you were becoming smitten. Nonetheless, you wanted to stay like this, stay within Vincent’s gentle hold. “They’re wonderful, I love them.” A soft mumble left you, accompanied by a sigh of contentment.

Deep within the darker fantasies his mind produced, Vincent was desperate to worship you, to touch you — drown himself within your perfection. Of course, nervousness overrode such desires, a fear that you would recoil or react with displeasure if he tried. His slight inexperience came into play, but Vincent wasn’t troubled over it — he could learn quickly. He was far more concerned with disappointing or upsetting you, truthfully.

That plunging neckline of your nightgown exposed the canvas of silken flesh, a canvas that Vincent wanted to mark, place his calling card against your skin. It wouldn’t be possible if he wore the mask, and he wasn’t ready for you to see his face just yet. An inkling of an idea crept into his mind — make you keep your eyes shut, blindfold you, perhaps. As long as you didn’t see what a horrific visage he possessed, it would be enough to quell his pang of anxiousness.

Vincent shivered when he felt your digits gently peruse through his tresses, dark locks slipping against your fingers as you played with his hair. A soft noise escaped the back of his throat, hands finally slipping against your silk-clad figure. Your supple, enchanting form fit beautifully into his palms, as if he’d molded you himself. He ensured a gentle grasp, fingertips gracing your ribcage, dancing across the swell of your hips. Everything about you was completely and utterly captivating.

You were far more divine than any piece of art — in fact, you were a masterpiece incarnate, a goddess worthy of his complete devotion. Vincent coveted you, he wanted you all to himself. The ways in which to seal this bond were far from pious or innocuous, but he was far more subdued about his lust when compared to his twin brother. Those capable, calloused hands, the hands of an artist, continued to caress and knead into you, the pad of his thumb languidly swirling patterns into your clothed flesh.

“Vincent?”

A saccharine utterance slipped past your lips, gaze drifting from his chest to countenance, fingers still toying with his tresses. You shuffled backward within his arms, just enough to glimpse his masked visage fully. His singular eye was entirely fixated upon you, hanging upon the precipice as he nodded, encouraging you to continue to speak. The words seemed lodged within your throat, stuck and frozen as your lips parted.

Absentmindedly, you were leaning up and inwards, and Vincent began to tilt toward you ever so slightly. Time felt still, warmth and heat crackling between the two of you, a tension hanging heavy within the air as you pressed your lips against the mouth of his mask. Vincent’s hands poised themselves upon your body, a shudder traveling up his spine, sending tremors throughout his entire form as you embraced him in such a sensual manner, one so very foreign to him.

Vincent was desperate to kiss you back, reciprocate your tenderness, but the mask certainly hindered many things. A low, throaty whine escaped him when you pressed a myriad of kisses against his jaw, gently shuffling the fabric of his sweater aside to plant a kiss upon his neck. His hands scrambled to readjust themselves, one palm splayed across your hip as the other drifted upward, digits pressing just underneath your breast.

“Is this okay?” You whispered, realizing that neither of you had really confirmed anything, only fell into the heat of the moment. You were aching now — filled with a wash of desire, even adoration. You wanted Vincent to touch you, but it was difficult for you to fully voice such lewd thoughts without becoming embarrassed.

Bringing his hands up, Vincent began to sign, ‘Completely. Do you want this, too?’ He needed to know for his own peace of mind, but it did establish a sense of mutuality — he wasn’t alone in his feelings, and his obsession and coveting of you wouldn’t feel too outlandish anymore. He watched you nod your head several times over, which prompted his next string of signing, entirely unfiltered. ‘I want to touch you.’

Your breath hitched within your throat, a pang of excitement coursing along your body. It was anticipation that swelled within your gut, coupled with a growing arousal. A stirring warmth pooled between your legs as you nodded again, attempting to vocalize your approval of such a thing. “Yes,” You mewled, shuddering when Vincent’s hand began to skirt underneath your nightgown. “I want you, Vincent.”

He found that difficult to believe, and even during the throes of passion and amatory wishes, his shattered confidence crept through. It would take him time to fully trust your words, but he wanted to set aside the self-doubt in order to worship you in the way that you deserved.

With another noise of approval, Vincent hastily signed, ‘Close your eyes for me.’ His fingers lightly ghosted across your cheek, feeling the heat that exuded from you. Watching you closely, your eyes fluttered shut, feeling his face nestle near your shoulder.

If he meant what you thought he implied, you were determined to keep your eyes shut. Of course, there was always such a longing to see his face, no matter what he thought of himself, but you would never pressure him like that. In fact, you were surprised that he was willing to remove it at all — as far as you were concerned, the waxy veil was his true countenance. Nonetheless, you became giddy, flesh prickling with goosebumps as his roughened lips made contact within the crook of your neck — his real mouth.

The texture was different, somewhat chapped and uneven. There was a cautionary way that Vincent went about kissing your flesh, as if he were carefully drawing his brush upon a canvas. Even then, it was passionate and adoring, never forceful nor invasive.

You tasted saccharine underneath his lips, smooth and flourishing with a pleasant heat. With what little experience Vincent possessed, his mouth came to press along your neck, still slow and exploratory as you rocked against him. Soft moans escaped your parted lips, one arm twined around his torso whilst the other stroked at his hair.

Vincent lightly suckled near your jugular, his first mark to make, one that Bo would absolutely see. Branded as shy and reserved, such labels were carelessly tossed aside as he left a vibrant hickey upon your neck, mouth moving to do the same underneath your jaw. You gasped, face blossoming with a feverish heat as you squeezed against his body, fingers idly massaging into the material of his sweater. “Vincent,” You breathed, eyes still clamped shut, “Could you kiss me?”

Daunting was an understatement — Vincent’s hesitation was evident as he pondered whether or not to kiss you. It wasn’t a matter of his desire for you, but rather his own fearfulness and lack of self-worth. He was terrified that you’d find him disgusting, cringe or recoil from his mouth, and that would be the end of him. Steeling himself, Vincent knew it would be worthwhile to at least try — that’s all he could do.

His heart began to race a little faster as his mouth sluggishly drifted from your soft jawline to your plush lips, quivering breath fanning out across your visage. Goosebumps continued to collect along your flesh, lower lip trembling slightly as you waited for Vincent’s decision. You wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t want to kiss you — he was doing so much already, and it would be cruel of you to keep asking things of him.

Roughened, scarred lips slowly embraced your waiting mouth, and you nearly melted. Your hands slid to rest against his chest, one loosely draped across his shoulder, digits lightly massaging through his dusky tresses. The kiss was feather-light and intentionally experimental, almost exploratory in nature as Vincent tested the waters, searching for a reaction from you. He was pleasantly surprised when all he received was a soft, needy whimper as you reciprocated the kiss.

Your eyes were still clamped shut as you continued the kiss, feeling something rigid wedge itself against your inner thigh. An incendiary heat spread from head to toe as you realized what that might’ve been, though it only served to further your arousal and excitement. Vincent’s thumb brushed across your hardened nipple, grazing the sensitive nub through the silk of your nightgown, eliciting a gasp from you.

Instead of carrying on in front of his sculptures, Vincent whisked you off of the ground, carrying you to his spacious desk. With one arm, he moved his piles of artwork and supplies to either side, clearing enough room for you to sit. Nudging his way in between your legs, nightgown riding up to pool around your hips, his sudden spur of giddiness prompted him to kiss you again, hand poised against your bare thigh. Your eyes were still closed, something you wouldn’t waver on.

Curious, careful hands clamored across your scantily-clad form, unbuttoning the lengthy string of turquoise buttons that held your nightgown together at the front. Vincent was enamored, wildly eager to see your unclad body, keen to let his mouth do some of the exploring next.

Of course, he sluggishly inched the silken fabric from you, his skin growing hot, becoming enlivened with the more he saw of you. The only article of clothing that remained happened to be your panties, which were marked with a splotch of moisture between your legs.

Biting down upon his knuckles, a throaty, husky noise emerged from him, one of pure elation. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, the most gorgeous woman to ever exist. Enthralled and enraptured, Vincent had reeled back to admire you, all flushed and heated. You were his prettiest muse, living perfection that sat before him. The expression he wore was a faint smile, one that was plastered to his visage, one that you couldn’t see.

Weaving closer until he could go no further, his palm enveloped one of your breasts, kneading at the soft, supple flesh underneath. His other hand wrapped around you, digits tracing all along your spine, producing goosebumps in the process. You felt like velvet, smooth and enticing as Vincent’s fingers sensually wandered across your skin, aching to feel every inch of you.

Careening into his sensual embrace, you felt his mouth find yours again, sealing your lips in a passionate, feverish entanglement. It drove you mad with desire, drunk upon the feeling of being adored. Your hand blindly searched for his, covering the one that dutifully groped at your chest, encouraging him further. Your aquamarine gown had sat in a limp heap around your hips, which Vincent happened to disregard for the time being. A string of needy moans were evoked from you, accompanied by Vincent’s own little groans.

With a gentle retraction, Vincent’s lips sought your neck again, pressing tender kisses into the side that wasn’t littered with hickeys. Tracing his thumb around your nipple, he shuddered whenever you whimpered or mewled, only making him sink further into his lust. His mouth graced your shoulder, and then your collarbone, before it hovered over the breast that was left without a lick of attention.

Your head rolled back slightly, a gasp escaping you as callous, scarred lips pursed around your nipple, kissing and sucking, drawing out each speck of pleasure from you. Your fingers were swift to stumble around once more, finding his head of pretty hair, digits lightly perusing and caressing.

Vincent’s eagerness and enthusiasm swelled, desperate to worship you as he paid close attention to your breasts. A myriad of husky, guttural noises left him in droves, vocalizing his own bliss and pleasure.

“You’re so perfect,” You mumbled, which could’ve come across as some lust-drunk rambling, but you meant it wholeheartedly. Vincent physically tensed up beneath your hands, barely comprehending the string of words that left your lips.

He forced himself to push through the shock, continuing to dutifully suck and press adoring kisses all along your breast, shuddering when one of your hands slid against his shoulder blade, dancing across his spine. “Vincent.” You breathed, mewling and moaning his name, feeling his mouth tangle against your ribcage, leaving behind a trail of marks.

You were the perfect canvas, the unblemished plane of beauty, his muse. Every single facet about you drew him in, tangled him up in this web of adoration. Vincent wanted to ensure that you were very well-cared for, in every aspect of your blossoming relationship. He felt so very fortunate that you embraced him as you did, your touch seeping with love, both true and amorous. He was beyond elated that you kept your eyes tightly shut throughout this whole ordeal, too.

Plucking his hand off of your breast, you gently settled his palm against your abdomen, guiding his fingers toward the dainty, frilly waistband of your panties. Vincent’s mouth ceased, breath hitching around your torso as he felt that wash of heat that exuded from you. You wanted him to feel exactly what he did to you, ensuring that his confidence would be boosted in the process.

Unable to fight curiosity, Vincent’s nimble digits wormed their way past the seam of your panties, nestling against your core. You were soaked, a searing mess as he nudged your legs apart a little more, his index finger brushing over your clit. A wanton moan tore past your lips as you involuntarily jerked into his hand, his intimidating stature looming over you.

Vincent’s thick fingers began to explore your cunt, wet from your slick as he rubbed them in steady circles around your clit, watching you quiver and arch forward. He would drag them against your slit a time or two, feeling all of you before his thumb encircled your clit instead.

“Vincent,” You whined, desperately rocking your hips into his hand, needy for friction as his index and middle fingers toyed and teased you. Clinging to him, you felt his mouth push against your neck again, sensual and soft as he pressed kisses into your feverish flesh. His pace began to mount, gathering speed as his digits ground themselves around your entrance.

Tilting you back, he firmly wedged himself between your legs, spreading them around his hips as he rolled his thumb into your clit, sending tremors of pleasure up your spine. His dark tresses swept against your skin, mouth preoccupied with savoring every inch of you, and that was when he had an idea.

Pushing two digits inside of your tight cunt, Vincent listened to you mewl and moan, unable to shake the sensation of you clenching around his fingers. He was a little slower, his pace intentionally sluggish and lacking any roughness or haste.

You were clamoring to keep up, reveling in the sensations of his fingers pumping in and out of you, thumb still flicking and dragging over your clit. Vincent’s mouth tore away from your neck as he stooped down, pressing several kisses against your chest and stomach, making his way toward your hips.

The sudden ceasing of his digits made you moan, wondering why he stopped. Before you could get a word in, his fingers were replaced by his mouth, and that made you cry out in delight. Vincent was on his knees, face settled between your thighs instead, tongue lasciviously lapping and swiping at your cunt.

It was arguably better than his fingers, making you slump backwards, feeling his hands knead into the pliant flesh of your rump, pushing you into his mouth. You could feel his scars, the uneven pattern of his face pushing into the left side of your inner thigh. Vincent lacked sloppiness, but he retained eagerness, that much was for certain.

Splitting past your folds, his fingers coaxed you forward, hot breath smoldering across your nethers as he fucked you with his mouth. You could hear his throaty noises, the soft little grunts as you careened into his tongue, choking on a moan that bubbled within the back of your throat.

You were melting around him, surrendering to his fire, hand blindly fumbling to lightly tangle into his hair. The sinful noise that he made sent you reeling, the heat of his mouth making you break out into a hapless string of moans and whimpers. You felt his tongue worm against your clit before it was captured by his lips instead.

Vincent wanted to taste you like this for an eternity if he could, never wanting to leave this spot. As you bucked and jolted into his face, he pursed his lips around your clit, sucking and lapping at the bundle of nerves to try and drive you into an orgasm. Your scream of delight evoked a purr from deep within his chest, feeling you quiver against him.

Between mouth and fingers, you were seeing stars, cumming onto his tongue without any good forewarning other than a string of slurred, unintelligible words. You were panting, making a mess as Vincent dutifully cleaned you up, tongue lashing at your soaked cunt a time or two, swiping around your inner thighs before he returned to lightly sucking at your clit.

The wave of overstimulation made you squeal, chest rising and falling at an accelerated rate as you tugged on his hair a time or two. Vincent let out some grunt of protest, but you almost had to physically pry him away, damp with a layer of perspiration as you tried to sit up. Your legs were shaking so bad that if you tried to stand, you knew you’d topple over.

“No more, Vincent. Little much,” You mumbled, embarrassed as could be. Vincent obeyed, licking at his lower lip before wiping off his chin with the sleeve of his sweater, fingers caressing the curve of your jaw. “Don’t want your brother to hear me.” That much was true. You didn’t want to make things awkward.

Vincent hummed, kissing the side of your face, nestling against you as his erection pressed against your thigh. Placing his hands against your hips, he turned you around, gently bending you over the edge of his desk. You felt the caress of his lips drag all over your spine and shoulders, the sweep of his hair sending goosebumps across your flesh.

Unbuckling himself, Vincent freed his cock, unbearably hard and throbbing as he dragged it against your slit, letting out a deep-pitched whine. He wanted you so terribly, your back flush to his chest, faces nearly pressed together as he ground his hips into you, showering your sweet skin in kisses, all over your shoulder and neck.

Using the desk as a crutch, you felt him shove your nightgown up, letting it pool around your waist, lazily sliding his cock past your folds as it pressed against your cunt. With a shove of his hips, his cock slipped inside of you, much bigger than you imagined. With a wanton cry, you moaned, all breathy and high-pitched as Vincent pushed into you, face situated within the crook of your shoulder.

“Vincent,” Your amatory whine made him shudder, allowing you a moment to adjust to his size before he rolled his hips forward, gradually filling you with his cock. His ironclad grip upon your hips was so snug that it would certainly leave bruises behind, but the rest of him wasn’t as rough. He handled you perfectly, rocking you down onto his length as he attempted to find his pace.

The friction between the both of you was intoxicating, feeling his strong, sinewy form all huddled against you, forehead pressed into your shoulder as he stooped and slouched. Vincent began to find a suitable rhythm, nearly dragging his cock out entirely before pumping himself back into you, a steady pace that lacked force or roughness.

Your cunt was tight, clenching and snug around his length, but it served to make the sensations far more pleasurable. With a soft moan, you moved with him, gently gyrating your hips in a downward motion, meeting his thrusts halfway as his cock sank into you with a lewd clash of flesh. Vincent’s hand slithered upward, grasping at your torso, feeling your body underneath his palm.

Ropes of precum slathered his cock, his breathing husky and warm, lips burying themselves into your shoulder. Vincent couldn’t imagine any better feeling than you, quivering and burning underneath his hands, huffing and moaning in the process. He was still fully clothed, out of his own insecurities, but he felt far more comfortable about their removal now that he was with you.

Vulgar sounds emanated from the both of you, accompanied by his groin clapping into your rump, cock pistoning in and out of you. He maintained his pace, only beginning to increase in speed as he neared his orgasm, nudging your legs further apart as he pounded himself into you, as deep as he could go.

It was a visceral, passionate entanglement, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Vincent’s sensual way of fucking you made your stomach do flips, head spinning and wrought with desire. He rutted into you at a slower pace, each thrust rattling your insides, cunt throbbing around his thick cock. You moaned, feeling the unscathed half of his face nestle into your cheek, kissing at your neck and behind your ear.

“You’re so perfect,” You whimpered, feeling his teeth lightly sink into the crook of your neck, dark tresses disheveled and framing his visage. Vincent bore a look of absolute bliss, driving himself into your cunt with a furtive need, digits massaging into your hips. He brought you down onto his cock, flush and buried inside of you. “Cum in me, Vincent.” You gasped, listening to him groan and produce a myriad of throaty noises.

His chest pressed into you, bending you a little more at the hips as he hastily rutted into you a time or two, chasing after that blinding sensation of his orgasm, and so did you. Vincent was panting, covered in a thin layer of perspiration as he stuffed you with his cock, muffling his grunts into your shoulder as he filled you with his cum, holding onto you as if he’d drown.

Trembling and rattling like a leaf, you followed suit, back arching slightly as he careened into you, peppering you in light kisses. He stayed inside of you for several moments, the both of you breathing heavily, coming down from your high. Your eyes were still clamped shut, staying true to your word about keeping them closed for Vincent.

As he pulled out of you, a sticky gush of warmth coated your inner thighs, leaking from your cunt, but you elected to ignore it, hastily inching your panties back up, fixing your nightgown back into place. You could feel Vincent’s fingers trace along your skin, retrieving his mask as he spun you back around, draping you in his lengthy cardigan.

‘You’re perfect.’ Vincent signed, keeping an arm looped around your hips. His free hand soothingly roamed your form, caressing across your body before cupping your cheek, thumb skirting over your cheekbone, over your lower lip. Your exuberant smile made his heart flutter, keening into the embrace of his hand. ‘Will you stay?’

“Of course,” You whispered, placing your hand atop his, pressing a kiss into his palm. “For as long as you want me to.” You confirmed, noticing that flicker of adoration that danced within his eye, the sickly-sweet gaze of a man enthralled.

‘What if that means forever?’

You swore that your heart skipped a beat, words sticking within the back of your throat, a coagulation of so many unspoken feelings. However, you had a notion that you didn’t need to say anything at all — Vincent already knew how you felt, and vice versa. As you kept your hands together, cradling your cheek, you tilted forward, surrounded by him.

“Forever it is.”

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