#= ambrose sinclair? 👀

[godnectar]

Why not both but different spellings?

-Hazel

because I get easily confused 😞😭

[odocoiileus]

bo Sinclair x gn! reader blurb??👀

pairings: bo sinclair x gn! reader

warnings: illusions to murder + blood/gore, illusions to nsfw actions but none explicitly described, light angst, Bo and reader aren't in the healthiest of relationships, cursing

a/n: here you go anon!! sorry for such a delay in reqs, been very busy lately. this ended up a little longer than I expected. also, I made an AO3 account under the same username, feel free to follow me on there! I will be posting stuff soon

it's unbearably hot today – though that's commonplace for Louisiana. the air is sticky and damp, foreshadowing an incoming storm. you're not entirely sure when the storm will roll by, but you're thinking it won't be today. the sun shines brightly, hot as a flame. your clothes feel as though they're glued to you from how much you're sweating. from the spot where your perched, on the rickety old house's porch steps, you can see the dancing forms of heat waves. it warps your view of the rest of the town.

you let yourself fall back, splaying yourself across the porch. you close your eyes, lifting a hand to wipe some sweat from your forehead. it does little to help. you wish the storm would hurry and come, help lessen the heat. you can see it now – dancing in the cool rain. a blessing.

in the distance, you can hear the loud and familiar rumbling of Bo's shitty truck. there's a pop occasionally, the sound of the engine becoming louder, signaling that he was nearing the house. you let out a heavy sigh. maybe if I lay here like this, he'll think I'm dead, you think. at this point, you feel as though that would be the best thing to ever happen.

Bo had been in an exceptionally sour mood the last few days, you were growing sick of it. at first, you had simply thought it was because of a few wanderers that had entered the town of Ambrose. news flash – it wasn't. you'd done everything to try and cheer the sour man up; a piece of your body at one point. he was ungrateful.

even Vincent and Lester hadn't been in such sour moods. Vincent was always lurking in the basement, sculpting away and Lester — well, he was everywhere and nowhere at once. still, they'd at least treated you with kindness. now you know why neither of them got along with Bo very much, especially Vincent. he's a dick.

lost in your thoughts, you only open your eyes once you feel a boot nudging your rib. you let out a wince. did he not have a gentle bone in his body? you chew at the inside of your cheek.

"the hell you doin', layin' on the porch? y'look dead." Bo's voice rings out, thick southern accent drawing you in. you can vividly remember why you fell for him the first place. he was a southern sweetheart, once. your gaze travels from his dirty, dusty boots, traveling up his pants – landing on his face. his brows are furrowed in what seems confusion or frustration (you can't really tell).

"thinking." you answer flatly. your eyes drift from the Sinclair to the bright sky, hand raised to wipe more sweat away. Bo fails to provide any shade as he looms over you. "what exactly could you be thinkin' 'bout?" he asks, gruff. how does one explain that they're thinking about how much they despise the person they're dating? ..are you two even dating? it's a blurred line. you squint your eyes at the southern charm standing above you. you change the subject.

"any more tourists?" you ask, voice crackling with thirst and void of any actual curiosity. Bo narrows his eyes at you, placing his hands on his hips. he briefly lifts his head, looking off into the distance before he shakes his head. "no, and thank God for that. I don't need no more damn trouble. I'm already worn out havin' ta' deal with Vincent and Lester. you, too." he grumble, gaze falling back on you. you can't tell if he means it in a lighthearted way.

you roll onto your side, face twisting into at the feeling of sweat making your shirt stick to your back. you push yourself up. "Vincent don't cause any trouble, he stays to himself." you protest. Lester on the other hand, well, his hyperactivity can get a little tiresome. he's still kind though, means well..as someone that leads people to their death could be. Bo just rolls his eyes, waving his hand dismissively.

"come on, now. inside." he says, you almost feel like a dog being beckoned by its owner. perhaps you are one, with the way you stand up, dusting yourself off. with the way you follow him into the rickety house that you hate so much yet love.

god, you really despise him.

[im-his-druidess]

Heyyyy Pers 🧡🖤🧡🖤

For your paranormal slashers, what about ghost hunter reader investigating the old Sinclair House ruins after the events of House of Wax and Ghost Bo & Vincent are there and naughty things happen?

This is another good take on them being paranormal creatures!

I always viewed Bo as some sort of Vampire or even a Incubus...especially considering his murderfuck dungeon 👀 and I always viewed Vincent as a Vampire or even a Gargoyle (something I discussed with @mandowifey eons ago)

So it's cool to think of them as ghosts or phantoms!

I can see this AU happening even if Reader was just a normal person. Like if she got a small house near somewhere in the town of Ambrose. Maybe a small little cottage or something that was dirt cheap and the only thing available so she jumped at the chance. Ignoring the "rumors" of the abandoned town being haunted as just superstition left over from the real life crimes that happened.

Once she moved in she's almost instantly aware of someone, or something, watching her. Doesn't matter if she's outside, in her home, or the time of day. Something is always watching. Then her things will start disappearing, mainly her undergarments, and her items will be misplaced like her hairbrush or perfume.

That couple with other odd things happening like fingerprints on her bathroom mirror, candles being lit even though she swears she extinguished them, the sensation of something touching her hair or back or even her ass, and the feeling of something sitting on her bed while she sleeps makes her second-guess everything she's ever known. Also it doesn't help that a white and black dog adamantly refuses to leave her home.

Of course that's only the beginning...

[soapyghostie]

Hi there 👀

Can I have Thomas Hewitt, Lester Sinclair and Jason Voorhees with Male S/O who gets tense/irritated and angry easily? For example, someone is talking too much and male s/o gets so tense, his body is hard as a rock and he starts breathing heavily.

Hey! Hope you like it!

Thomas Hewitt

Honestly, for once, Hoyt is actually scared of someone. He doesn’t even try to bother messing with Thomas anymore ever since you showed up. Hoyt likes to push people’s buttons all the time, however when he did it to you, he got sucker punched in the jaw and was out like a light. Yeah! That’s what you get for calling Tommy a worthless piece of shit! 

Whenever Thomas sees you starting to get angry, he’ll take you somewhere secluded away from the family and make you take deep, calming breaths. He doesn’t want you to get so blinded by rage that you hurt any other of his family members. 

He’ll make you help him with his chores. You can’t get angry if your mind is busy with something else, right? Thomas has a short temper too and keeping busy helps him stay calm. You don’t have time to worry about stuff that bothers you when there are things to be done. 

Well, apparently chores didn’t work. Yeesh! Thomas thought his temper was bad, but yours is definitely worse. You seriously get angry over the smallest things. It irritates him how easily angered you get. Yes, he’ll be your personal punching bag all you want, but you also become dangerous to the rest of his family. 

He sits you down and you guys identify your triggers. He even suggests you go seek a professional to help you manage your anger. Thomas even gets Hoyt to agree to letting you see a counselor in the next town over. He just doesn’t want to get uppercutted to outer space again. 

Lester Sinclair

Bo doesn’t mess with you or make fun of Lester anymore. When he first got introduced to you as Lester’s boyfriend, he shamed Lester for being gay right in front of your face. You got so angry and Bo could tell too; he could see how tense your muscles were and how tightly you balled up your fists. He was about to tease you when…. WHACK! You gave Bo the blackest black eye no one has ever seen before. Let’s just say that black eye took weeks to heal. 

When Lester starts seeing you get angry, he tells you to hop in his truck and takes you for a joy ride! Yay! Fun! 😃 You guys like to drive to a lake not far from Ambrose. Nature is pretty calming so Lester hopes you’ll find a sense of mind while fishing the lake. 

Your anger gets the best of you around tourists, especially when they make a rude comment to or about Lester. Lester is pretty used to rude comments: it normally doesn’t bother him. However, this one time you and him were taking some tourists to Ambrose when one of them made an awful comment that actually upset Lester. You didn’t hesitate. You threw yourself into the backseat and strangled him: you ended up killing him.

Bo and Vincent had to confront Lester about your temper because it was ruining their scheme. You killing tourists before they even stepped foot in Ambrose would put them on the map for the police to start investigating and they didn’t want that. Bo told Lester if he didn’t get you under control that Vincent would turn you into a wax figure. 

That sent Lester in a panic. He sat with you and talked about your temper. You agreed to go see a counselor to learn to control your anger. Lester takes you every week to the next town over for your counseling sessions and you guys even get ice cream afterwards. 🙂

Jason Voorhees

When Jason first came across your short temper, you guys weren’t even dating yet. In fact, you guys didn’t even know each other at all. You and your friends were all sitting around a campfire on the Crystal Lake property, Jason stalking you guys from in the woods afar. One of your friends decided to tell the tragic story of the Voorhees. During the story, one of your other friends made a nasty comment on Jason’s face and you exploded in their face. 

Flash forward, Jason is pretty aware of your temper and knows every single thing that triggers it. He does everything he can to avoid your temper. All he wants is to not be yelled at. It makes him sad so please don’t yell at him. He’s a sweet boy. 🥺 

Your anger drives you to kill. Everytime you overhear someone talk bad about Jason, you tense up. You're just so blinded by rage that someone would say such awful things about your Jason. He didn’t even do anything wrong to them… yet. Hey! Is that an ax in the tree stump? Dead. After that, you continuously stomp on their head. Jason has to pull you away from the corpse and make you do your breathing exercises.

When he sees you getting angry, he’ll take your hand and out to the lake. He’ll have you sit on the grass looking out towards the lake and you guys will just stay in nature for hours, taking in the fresh air and nature’s sounds.

He makes sure you keep busy. Jason found out that crafts keep you calm: it’s almost like a therapy session! He thinks anyways. 🤔 He does love to do them with you though. His favorite is flower crowns. You guys will make matching flower crowns and you both look cute with them on too. 🙂

[probably-a-plant-thing]

this is me asking for a bo sinclair headcanon (or two........or three.......) from the mind of a plant 👀💚

Hrmmm hrm... A lot are childhood-based

Bo Sinclair got Bo a bike at some point so he could take himself to school, but got mad because Bo dismantled it to figure out how it worked. He had to walk himself to school until he fixed it as punishment.

By the time he did fix it, he just gave it to Lester because he'd already moved up to driving an old-ass truck.

Bo was sent to public school while Vincent was homeschooled, though both are equally called freaks by their peers. The ostracization was the biggest reason as to why they were pretty ok with waxing people.

Bo would catch rats or lizards so Vincent could practice his whole deal.

Bo's name is Robert and I will hear no one out.

The Miss Ambrose girl was actually a girl that Bo tried to ask out but rejected him, but he still thought she was pretty so to the waxxer she went.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

The long road to ruin?👀

eeee i’m excited to be asked about this

the long road to ruin is a bo sinclair x serial killer female reader wip where the reader winds up in ambrose when the cops in the last town get a little too hot on her heels. bo thinks he’s got another victim but really, he’s just met his match.

[visceravalentines]

Oh I would just LOVE to pick your brain about Dilf Vincent! The more I think about it the more obsessed I get 😩

What are your headcanons for him? 👀 I would literally read anything about him and you already write so good so I'm chomping at the bit for any tiny morsel

-🙊

Aww thank you!! Here are a few thoughts I've had in the context of my particular dilf Sinclairs AU (long story short, all brothers lived and left Ambrose). By no means is this my definitive ideal of dilf Vinny, just for this particular story. 🤗

His hair is shorter now, about shoulder length and streaked with gray. He's the same age as Bo obviously (around 50) but he looks younger, fewer lines in his face, less sun damage.

He makes art full-time as his primary source of income and has amassed a pretty significant following. He's known for being particularly reclusive and eccentric and does most of his public dealings through an agent.

Lives alone in a comfortable studio space. Rarely ventures out during the day. Does indeed venture out at night. 👀

Has become so sick of the weight of his shame that he is frequently maskless unless he's in public. He keeps to his home most of the time anyway, but it's a big deal to him to exist outside of the mask. He still has several and on bad days, he wears them even at jome. They give him...not comfort or relief...the support of familiarity, I suppose. He hates every second he has them on.

Where Bo has buried his hangups deep down in order to mask his Issues® and Tendencies™, Vincent has kind of done...the opposite. And that's all I'm gonna say about that.

In the context of AGAAS, Vince and Bo are not on speaking terms. Both do communicate with Lester on a fairly regular basis. And frankly...I can't say I blame Vincent on this one.

[myers-meadow]

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason?

24. Are there any easter eggs in [insert fic], and if so, what are they?

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

I’m really interested to know! 👀

From this ask game

Thank you for the questions, friend!

42. Hmm, I love getting all sorts of comments, but ones I don't often get are those in which the reader theorises about the motivations of the characters, about what could happen next, stuff like that. That's really fun to read and gets me SO hyped for my own story. It's useful too, because since I'm so intimately close to my own writing, that I don't know how things come across when you don't know all my preplanning and the ideas that led to the final product. So- these types of comments are very special to me. Not because they flatter me, but because I learn the most from them!

24. Tough question! If there is a fic of mine that has easter eggs, it's probably in the multichapter ones, since longer fics allow me to go into more detail and put fun little things in. In Ambrose Summer Vacation, my poly Sinclairs fic, there are so many little details hinting at larger things. One of those is finding the twin's history 'tucked in the back of drawers', which refers back to the movie and how Carly snooped around during it. That was how those victims found out about the twins being conjoined at birth, and for my oc Katyusha it's the same.

23. There's a lot I still want to write! One trope I love and daydream about a lot is the 'give yourself up but let your loved ones go free'. It will be in some future stories though! I'd also love to write harsher and more cruel fics, but who knows how those will look when they come from my hand ^^.

Thank you so much, I hope these answers satisfied some of your curiosity! <3

[early20sfailingplenty]

i’m here to ask a question that’s been bugging me for awhile, what would the sinclair brothers do if you took a bullet for them? like would you officially be a sinclair after that 👀

TW; GUNS, BLOOD, READER TAKES AN ACTUAL BULLET FOR THE SINCLAIR MENTIONED IN THE PARAGRAPH, ANGER, MURDER (NOT READER), DEHUMANISATION OF VICTIMS (REFERRED TO AS 'CANVASES' ETC.), VIOLENCE, CANON TYPICAL DARKNESS. GORE!!!! GORE!!!! SAYING TWICE BECAUSE IMPORTANT!!!!

Shoutout to @hersweetrevenge, who practically wrote Lester's portion of this ask! Mwah mwah beloved, your mind is amazing and ilyyyy ~ 💖✨ aaaand additional shoutout to @pharmacykeys for helping me too hasdfghjk this blog wouldn't be what it is without the two of you😭😭😭

Vincent would be angry at you and at the person who shot you. That bullet was meant for him, Y/N, what the fuck are you doing???? Don't be fooled by the way he looms over you menacingly; anger is a secondary emotion which most often hides fear or pain, and when it comes to something happening to you, Vincent has both of those primal emotions in spades. He picks you up gently, cradling you in his arms, and the way his shoulders are dead tight despite the slight tremble in his hands tells you the reality of it. Muffled gasps of worry are coming out from behind his mask, his nose nuzzling at the top of your head as he stalks you over to safety, setting you down carefully. Hands flutter over your body like butterflies, landing but never staying as his critical eye sweeps over your body, analysing you, assessing you. He is a physician now. You're not going to die, you'll be fine, so he holds a hand up - "stay" - and leaves. He rips to shreds the person who shot you, fucking their face with bullets and making them so unrecognisable that Lester could easily put them on the very top of his pit and nothing bad would come of it. They're just a lump of meat, sinew and bone. Not even dental records would be enough identification. But Vincent doesn't care. He's back beside you just as quickly, blades and hands dripping with blood, and he washes himself carelessly, hands cupping your face as he tilts your head this way and that, checking you over. Assuring himself of your safety before he clinically wipes the blood away from the injury site, patches you up, sits down with you in his lap and then lectures the everloving fuck outta you for being so fucking stupid. Don't you know that you're a Sinclair even if you don't take a bullet for him? Don't ever do that again, Y/N, you almost gave the poor man an aneurysm.

Lester can barely see for the tears. He's angry, he's upset, he's scared, he's worried, he's in love... he's everything all at once and the poor man can barely function for the panic. You've just taken a non-fatal bullet for him (he can tell at a glance, a hunter is he) and all he can do is stare at you. That knocks him out of it quick and there's a voice in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Bo) telling him to, "get a fuck'n move on, would'ya? Get 'em outta there!" So he does. Lester darts over, your name on his lips like a litany, a battle cry, and wraps a tight arm around your waist as he pulls you up and towards him, into the safe cage of his embrace and away from the person who just shot you. "C'mon, darlin', we gotta, I gotta - " he can't talk, his chin is wobbling, his bottom lip is trembling, his hands are shaking, he can barely think. He can only think of you, bleeding, and of his brothers. Home. Safe. Get you looked after. You let him get you to the truck - in truth, you could walk yourself but you can't deny that you're leaning more and more on Lester as the adrenaline wears off and the pain starts to set in. It fucking burns, as does the rubber on the dirt road as Lester almost throws himself into the driver's seat and puts the pedal to the metal. He floors it to Ambrose, rolling the window down as he drives. The closer he gets to the house, the more he starts to yell for Bo, Vincent. Fucking anyone. "Please, it's, it's Y/N!" Is all he says, accompaniments to his brother's names, which become Bo n' Vincent rather than two separate people. After all, they were born together, so their names are almost double-barrel, too. Bo and Vincent. Vincent and Bo. Bo n' Vincent. Vin n' Bo. Lester shakes himself out of it when the thought turns to 'BoVin', his tears burning like acid through his skin as his brothers come out of the house like a bat out of hell. Bo is on the warpath, shotgun loaded, and he takes off in the direction Lester floored it from. He'll take care of the soon to be canvas, and Vincent already has you in his arms. He'll take care of you. And Lester? He'll sit in the bed of his truck with Jonesy in his lap and together they'll howl and cry until word reaches them that you're safe, alive and well.

Bo is... the poor man freezes. Bo.exe has broken, please turn the brain off and on again. He just freezes in place, icy blues unblinking, jaw slack, hands by his sides. He's just totally stuck on the fact that you got shot. For him. Fuck, darlin', he ain't worth that. It's only when he hears you scream as the pain sets in that Bo jumps into action, emptying his shotgun into the person who attacked you and then stomping on their head so hard and so many times that he almost slips on the grey matter that leaks out of their skull, sickening cracks almost perfectly matched in sync with the widening smirk on Bo's lips. As he looks up at you, though, that smirk slides into a grimace and Bo shatters. His face crumples and he drops the shotgun. You idly register the fact that you're glad he emptied it; it could've gone off again with how carelessly he dropped it. In an instant, he's before you, bloodied hands cradling your face. The scent of blood, yours and the shooter's, fills your nose but you try not to gag, making yourself focus on your Bo's face. "Fuck, darlin', y'all righ'? They get'cha anywhere else?" He shuffles towards you, almost dropping to his knees as one hand hovers over the injury site. You tell him no, it was just that one bullet, and all at once Bo is angry again. Nostrils flare and deep breaths are taken as he helps you to stand, an arm around your waist like a vice as he walks with you to his truck, scooping up the useless shotgun on his way past. He can always bash faces in with the butt. Anyone who hurts his loved ones isn't worth the shit in his toilet. "Gotta get you home, get Vincent to take a look at'cha." You dare not protest; Bo is protecting you for you as well as for himself. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to you and as it is, he's angry at himself and at you and at the shooter and at the world and at Vincent for not taking better care of you... he's a fucking mess. Once you're all patched up, there's a cuddle so tight you have to make a concerted effort to breathe, a lecture so mean that Vincent will step in to calm Bo down (even you can't get to Bo as deeply or as quickly as Vincent can), and a possessiveness so strong that even Lester can't be alone with you for at least a week or two 'til Bo's got himself calm. He's got too many fucking emotions and no time in the world to process one before the next one has him by the throat.

[godnectar]

Ambrose should definitely be for vamp zaddy😭

so we're calling vamp ambrose sinclair? 👀

[rapturously]

Can I request a Bo Sinclair x afab!reader fic of them f*cking in the Ambrose Movie theatre? With bo acting like the wax statues are watching👀

┊ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — one-shot.

┊ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — bo sinclair x afab!reader.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — SMUT/18+! dirty talk, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, vaginal sex/rough sex, fingering, tiddy sucking, begging, extreme horiness, needy!bo, nsfw ending.

┊ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 3,133.

┊ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — thank you so much for your request! I absolutely loved writing this, the idea was so so juicy and I couldn’t resist writing it all in one sitting lmao ,,, 💀 the horniness always prevails in the end !! gotta make use of that theater somehow. as always, I hope y’all enjoy! ❣️

┊ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — @peachygothgirl ; @mrs-heelshire ; @slasherfantasy ; @loraxlola ; @the-wordis-bird ; @suguruswife ; @iamcautiouslyoptimistic ; @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better ; @lttlegore ; @mehidktbh ; @darklylucid ; @krakersy ; @dootys ; @comicalrage ; @horrorstories123 ; @insanitymoshpit ; @bloodwithpeachmilk ; @the-anxious-youth ; @callmemeelah

It was Bo’s proposal — heading up to the Ambrose theater to spend some time away from the house, watch a movie or two. You didn’t really mind the idea, it was sweet that Bo thought of you enough to take you out somewhere. However, your wariness didn’t exactly fade even when inside of the theater, surrounded by wax people whose eyes haunted you with each stolen glance.

The killing didn’t necessarily bother you whatsoever, knowing what happened to those who succumbed to their waxy tombs, but it was always the eyes. You felt as if there wasn’t a shred of privacy, even if you and Bo were the only ones in the theater. There was some lifeless, non-sentient audience whose eyes burned a hole into the back of your skull.

You didn’t have the heart to tell Bo that it unsettled you, mostly because there were so many — it was all to keep up appearances within Ambrose, shroud strangers with the quaint, quiet town facade, but at night, you were spooked. Nonetheless, you tried your hardest to ignore the many bodies scattered in seats around you.

Images of some black & white film flickered overhead, unable to capture your attention fully. Your gaze drifted toward a wax person every now and then, goosebumps collecting at the base of your spine when glassy, lifeless eyes looked back at you. It was enough of a distraction from the film, but so was Bo’s hand, snug against your thigh.

Your digits swept across his roughened knuckles, gingerly dragging themselves from the top of his hand toward the collection of scars tangled around his wrist. Bo tensed slightly underneath your touch, so fleeting that you barely noticed it, letting your fingers caress the mottled spots of flesh.

Bo could tell that you weren’t relaxed — not fully, at least. You were poised beside him, leg to leg, leaning toward his shoulder. “Sorry ‘bout th’movie choice,” He murmured, cocking his head to one side. “Not th’most exciting thing.” He gave your thigh a brief squeeze, digits sinking into your skin.

Effectively ripping your attention away from both the film and the wax figures, your gaze fluttered toward Bo, whose eyes hadn’t left you whatsoever. Dark tresses were disheveled atop his head, flannel unbuttoned halfway, his hat tucked somewhere into the back pocket of his jeans. His feet were kicked up onto the seat in front of him.

“I don’t mind,” Your lips quirked into a smile, but nervousness seemed to creep into your expression, betraying the placid facade you’d kept up before. Skimming your teeth across your lower lip, you motioned toward the myriad of wax figures that surrounded the both of you. “Little macabre.”

With a snicker, Bo’s nose wrinkled into amusement. He knew that something was nagging away at you, and he didn’t expect it to be the wax people, of all things. “What, you scared of them or somethin’?” He chimed, hand relocating from your thigh to your face, briefly sweeping over your lower lip.

“No,” You protested, keeping your voice hushed, as if you were disturbing the still bodies around you in the theater. Scared wasn’t really the correct terminology to describe how you felt — unnerved, maybe. Even if they were all deceased, a part of you still felt as if they were watching. “I’m not scared, not really.”

“Right.” Bo mused, letting his hand settle back within your lap. He was getting smug — it was written all over his face. You turned your attention back toward the screen, tucking your chin toward your chest in an effort to ignore Bo. Opting to drop the teasing for now, he sank back into the velvety, rickety seat, eyes occasionally fluttering toward you.

Flickering lights dancing from the screen fluttered across your visage, accentuating your features, highlighting every little detail, pure perfection to Bo. His wandering hand became less than subtle, tracing along the length of your thigh, right up to the supple curve of your hip. You shifted within your seat, teeth skimming across your lower lip.

It was silent, save for the dialogue and soundtrack emerging from the massive screen, the film flashing before your very eyes. You were becoming less interested in the movie and more enticed by Bo’s hand, which promptly toyed with the hem of your blouse. This wasn’t like the house, where you sometimes ran the risk of getting caught — you were all alone here.

Somewhat.

The presence of wax individuals and their prying eyes made everything less private, as if they were going to steal you away. Your hand shuffled to settle atop Bo’s, stopping his fingers before they could go curling underneath the soft fabric of your thin, frilly top. You were a little embarrassed about being freaked out about the wax statues, admittedly.

Bo clicked his tongue, slouching toward you with a twinkle in his eye. “Scared they’re gonna watch or somethin’?” He uttered, lips ghosting above the shell of your ear. You know exactly what he’s referring to, and your skin heats up as if you’ve been caressed by an open flame. He revels in knowing that he’s struck a nerve, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“What?” You whisper, your tone incredulous and beyond flustered. You no longer intercept his hand, feeling his warm palm settle atop the bare skin of your waist, toying with the hem of your jean shorts. It’s horribly embarrassing for you as you try to fight against his smarmy questions.

“You heard what I said,” Bo mumbles, coaxing you closer as he shoves the arm between your seats up entirely. His pearlescent teeth graze along your sensitive flesh, nipping at your neck. You let out a little squeak of surprise, pressed right up against him as he groped at your hip. “Think they’re watchin’ us right now.” His voice dropped to some husky drawl.

Oh, the things he did to you.

Bo had a silver tongue, razor-sharp and oozing with charm, but beyond that, he was shamelessly letting his affection for you bleed through. You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his mouth drag away from your jaw, crashing right into yours for a bruising kiss. He tasted like a spiced smoke, smelled like motor oil and a dab of cologne, like heaven.

Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, leaving fire within their wake. It pooled between your legs, soaked and aching for him as he relocated his hands to where he wanted them to be. Deft, calloused digits were quickly unbuttoning the front of your shorts, kisses exchanged with each breath, making your head spin as you were given some wiggle room.

“Bo,” You moaned, fingers curling into his shirt, feeling around his chest as he snuck a hand into your panties. Two fingers embraced your cunt, slipping against your folds before dipping inward, driving toward your slit with a needy precision. Shifting your legs apart, you whimpered into his mouth, feeling him touch you right where you needed him most. “Please.”

Heated was a mere understatement — it was blazing, a crackling, sharp tension permeable between the two of you as you rocked your hips into his hand. The movie served as dismal background noise to the growing antics between the two of you, and Bo promptly hauled you into his lap, letting you hover over one of his thighs.

“Got an audience, now,” Bo purred, fixing to wrestle with your blouse, freeing one of your breasts in order to keep his mouth occupied. “Y’still scared about them watchin’ you? They’re all gonna watch you get fucked.” He murmured, noticing the way your body shivered when such vulgarities left his mouth.

Maybe that was the thrill of it all — the exhilarating, unsettling feeling of these wax figures watching the both of you. Bo was playing it up to tease you, settling one hand against your hip as the other vigorously rubbed across your cunt. You gasped, hands finding their purchase against his shoulders, grinding yourself into his fingers.

As soon as he wrenched your chest free, brassiere in some disheveled heap around your midsection, you nearly cried out when his lips tangled around one of your nipples. You really did feel watched, as if unseen shadows and prying, suspicious eyes were all glued to you, close and from afar.

Sinking two digits against your core, Bo promptly added the presence of his thumb, letting it roll across your clit, stimulating that sensitive clutch of nerves. You gasped, hips stuttering and desperately rolling into his hand, needy for any shred of friction. Everything felt hot, coming to a fever pitch, a boiling point — it was intensified by Bo’s jabs about being watched.

Bo’s mouth worked wonders, dutifully sucking on your nipple, kissing and tonguing at your breast, leaving behind trails of hickeys and faint marks. Seizing a handful of your ass, his fingers sank into your rump, digging into pliant flesh as he coaxed two fingers inside of you, lazily pumping them in and out of your cunt.

“Christ, Bo,” Wanton mewls and moans left you in droves, your lips parted to make way for the breathy sighs of passion. Your fingers clamored toward his hair, roving throughout dark tresses, tugging around his scalp as he sucked on your breast. Goosebumps raked themselves all over your body, skin prickling with excitement. “Feels so good.”

The seat squeaked and groaned in protest beneath the both of you, echoing throughout the theater. As you lifted your head, your gaze found that of a wax figure sitting two rows behind you — you almost felt scrutinized, judged underneath its dull, listless ogling. Swallowing hard, you immediately averted your gaze, pressing your face into Bo’s shoulder.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” He panted, continuing to lick and suck at your swollen nipple, thumb encircling your clit as he began to add more pressure. Perched atop one thigh, you let one of your hands travel toward his groin, feeling up the erection contained within dark fabrics. “Shit.” Bo groaned around your breast as soon as you palmed at his cock.

With a shrill whimper, your hips jerked and jolted themselves into every little sensation his fingers provided, feeling them curl slightly with each thrust. Only Bo could elicit such a needy response from you, make your stomach slosh and turn into a complete mess. He made you unravel each and every time.

Unbearably hard within his jeans, Bo’s erection pressed into your leg, throbbing and aching with a searing sensation, but he elected to ignore it for now. He let you ride his hand, sluggishly rutting his fingers into your cunt before pulling them out halfway, feeling your walls clench around him.

“All of ‘em are gonna watch you cum,” Bo uttered, prying his mouth off of your breast, easing his fingers from your slit. Placing both fingers into his mouth, he greedily sucked his digits free of your arousal, never breaking eye contact as he cleaned his hand up. “Stand up.” That domineering lull had crept back into his husky drawl, and you did exactly as you were told.

You couldn’t fathom just how filthy this felt — so many pairs of dead, lifeless eyes glued to you. It sent shockwaves right into the pit of your stomach, and your cunt clenched around absolutely nothing, missing the presence of Bo’s fingers. You crawled from his lap, gasping when he wrenched himself free of the velvety cushions, pressing you forward.

Falling against the smooth back of the seat in front of you, Bo was snug against your rump, erection pressing into you as he tugged your shorts down. Roughened, calloused hands prepared to assume their hold upon your hips, but not before he could tear your panties aside, letting them join your shorts. Both garments tangled themselves at your knees.

Hunched in over you, Bo pressed kisses against your bare shoulder, wrestling with his belt as he unbuckled it, hastily unzipping the front of his jeans. Freeing his throbbing cock, he wedged himself between your legs, keeping you spread apart, swollen head nestling right up against your hot slit. He groaned at the mere sensation, itching to be inside of you.

“Fuck me, Bo,” You groaned, clamoring to hold onto something, likely the seats on either side of you. You didn’t hide any shred of noise this time — there was no reason to, was there? You were alone. “Please.” With a strenuous whine, you pushed your hips back, nearly choking when you felt him rut forward.

“Shit,” Tight — it was always like the first time all over again with you, your cunt clenching around his cock, bleeding heat as he snapped his hips forward. “Wanna hear you, baby.” Bo’s voice had dropped to some sultry lull, akin to that of a growl as he immediately set a steady pace.

Keen on obeying Bo, you weren’t shy, doing little to suppress your mewls and moans, mouth falling agape as he rutted into you, grappling onto your hips. Your head lagged forward, eyes half-lidded as his cock began to pound its way into your cunt, filling you with both euphoria and a pleasant heat that consumed every nerve in your body.

Bo let his eyes feast upon you, overindulging in watching your back arch, body shivering within his grasp as he fucked you into the seat. You were so fucking beautiful — you were so perfect like this, succumbing to him, letting him fuck you in the movie theater without an ounce of shame.

Noises drifted above that of the film, your intermingled, breathy pants and groans, your moans and whimpers, sighs of passion. Your hand almost knocked into one of the wax figures sitting in the row ahead, prompting you to reaffirm your grip along the back of the velvet. “Harder, Bo.” You sputtered, knowing exactly what you were asking for this time.

His chest tightened with a flurry of excitement, tongue pressing into his cheek. Bo wasn’t going to give you what you wanted so easily. “Gotta beg for that.” He muttered, lips curling into a devilish smirk as he accentuated his words with a sharper thrust. Bo’s cock battered away at your cunt, keeping a steady pace, lacking the roughness you craved.

Of course.

You moaned, knowing that he wouldn’t give into you that easily without partaking in his own slice of enjoyment. Digging your nails into the plush velvet beneath your palms, you wanted to cry out when he pounded into you, practically ceasing until he heard your swan song of desire.

“Please, Bo,” The high-pitched neediness swarmed your voice, and you sounded absolutely desperate, choking upon your own lust. “Please, please fuck me,” You begged, feeling his cock roll into you again, painfully sluggish, intentionally denying you what you wanted. “Christ, fuck me!” You cried out, feeling his hips regain their rhythm.

“Atta girl,” Bo practically purred, making you quiver with excitement as he immediately picked up into some brutal pace, being rough with you, just as you asked. As one hand gripped your hips, the other flung forward, digits tensing into your tresses as he fucked you into the chair. “They’re watchin’ you beg for my cock.” Everytime he muttered something filthy, you felt your cunt clench, stomach doing flips.

The fabric of his jeans rubbed ragged against your ass, flesh against flesh as he forced his cock into you, rutting inside of your cunt until he couldn’t go any further. Bo wasn’t shy whatsoever, cursing and groaning underneath his breath, perspiration building up along his skin.

You felt incredible, legs trembling as he fucked you senseless, about as rough as he could be without really hurting you. Precum slathered his groin, tendrils of it shooting into your cunt, his cock pulsating and throbbing with warmth. He pounded into you like a man possessed, letting his hand fall away from your hair, slithering in between your thighs instead.

As soon as his thumb circled your clit against, you cried out, being rocked along to the brutal, unyielding rhythm of his hips. You asked Bo to be rough, and he didn’t hesitate in delivering, obliterating your poor, abused cunt. You probably wouldn’t be able to walk straight after this, slumping forward into the chairs for support.

Pushed to the precipice, a pleasant buzz consumed you, crawling across your flesh, making your cunt throb as Bo rubbed at your clit. You were beginning to lose any shred of coherency, chest rising and falling, noises tearing past your parted lips as you began to push your hips back into him, adding friction to each thrust.

“I’m close,” You whimpered, desperate to cum so bad, nearly sobbing out of pure delight as Bo fucked you so hard that you were seeing stars. He was always invigorated like this, always passionate, but this was something else — it was borderline feral, not that you minded. He was groaning, hunched in over you, near the edge of cumming himself. “Bo.”

As soon as you came, coating his cock in your arousal, Bo followed suit, neglecting to pull out of you this time. He stopped caring so much about it, panting and grunting, murmuring words of affirmation and praise as his hand stilled. Ropes of hot cum flooded your insides, and you felt satiated and relieved, and you almost forgot where the both of you were for a second.

“Fuck.” Bo sighed, pulling out of you not long afterwards, trailing a hand through his hair. Truthfully, he probably could’ve gone for more — maybe back at the house, if he asked nicely. As soon as you were mostly dressed, he tugged you in for a passionate kiss.

You were sticky with cum and a thin layer of sweat, but you wanted to go home, too. “Do you wanna head home?” You murmured, feeling his hands move about your frame, caressing against your waist once again. “Maybe take a bath or something?” You suggested.

Unable to bite back a smirk, Bo quirked an eyebrow. “Sounds fine,” He hesitated, playfully nibbling along your jaw, gauging your reaction. “Itchin’ to get outta here, aren’t you?” Bo teased, smacking his lips against the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” You shrugged, smitten as could be. “I think I happen to prefer your eyes only, Bo.” It was a flirtatious remark to be sure, wrought with implications, but he was more than psyched by your little comment.

“That so?” Bo mumbled, busying himself with kissing all over your neck. “I’ll arrange it.” His voice was saturated with lust, words seeping right into your bones as a pang of excitement pulled at your gut yet again. His hand searched for yours, and the both of you had a giddiness in your gait as you left the theater, hand-in-hand.

[bluecoolr]

You Ain't Goin' Nowhere

Darrell arrives in Ambrose. [Part 4/5]

Links to part 1 2 3 5

Warnings: self-proclaimed executioner with god complex comes to terms with being pseudo-adopted into a murders-for-funsies-but-sometimes-for-love family but there’s drama because his older brother/uncle-figure doesn’t like him all that much, so slasher-typical violence and gore, allusions to murder, jealous! and insecure!Vincent

A/N: OK I THOUGHT THIS WAS GONNA BE THE LAST PART BUT IT GOT TOO LONG. New (and old 👀) characters are introduced. As always, bold is ASL. HOPE YOU ENJOY!

Featuring the Sinclairs, RZ Michael Myers, and the ocs of @the-pinstriped-hood (Percy), @probably-a-plant-thing (Skulk), @slaasherslut (Ava). Ellie and Alia are also mentioned <3

Tagging some moots who might wanna see this! @rottent33th @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @cries-in-latino @kalid-raven @angxlslasher @allthingsblood

“You don’t believe me?”

“Vinny,”

Anger made Vincent's fingers stutter as he signed.

"You won't take my word for it? Why? Why, Bo? Do you trust him more than me? I'm your brother."

Bo took Vincent's hands in his, shushing him. "You are my brother. Nothing or no one would change that, but - tsk - listen to yourself. I know havin' people over is a new concept to you, but don't you think you're getting a li'l too carried away?"

He was looking at him like a raving lunatic, with that oh-poor-you frown wrinkling his brow. Vincent's breath hitched. He balled his fists and shook his twin off.

Bo regarded him sternly, like a silly misbehaving child. "Vincent," he warned.

Vincent grabbed the back of his chair and threw it back. It clattered against the tool chest.

"See for yourself, then." His one blue eye bulged in its socket. "Watch for the signs."

Bo watched him storm out of the garage and melt into the shadows beyond the pumps.

Darrell, a murderer? Where on earth did he get that?

Bo shook his head, raised his beer bottle to his lips, stopped. He glanced in the direction Vincent had gone.

Lesley Reinhart was settling into his sixties. Without much difficulty, one must note. If anything, he was in better shape than he ever was.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a muscular body that could put any recent police academy graduate to shame. Before he got out of his car - a sleek Porsche picked out of the city impound - he brushed back his hair and adjusted his tie.

His jaw clenched when he heard a wet squelch after he put one foot out. Mud. On his newly polished dress shoes.

It wasn't like he didn't know there was a growing hurricane, thought Hernandez as he trudged through the mud-strewn forest floor. He never understood how people grew vainer the closer they got to kicking the bucket.

The two men followed the well-trodden path to the shack the local townsfolk said was home to the last person who saw the missing teens.

They came upon the place. A sad brick and wood structure with an askew porch, which was lit by an amber light bulb. A loud humming told Hernandez the place ran on generator power.

Reinhart raised his voice. "Daniel Ray Williams?"

The scraggly boy who was chopping firewood stopped and lowered his ax. He took a cautious step back as the two men approached.

"Tread lightly, Moses, for the ground you walk on is holy ground… or some shit." A man, hidden by the shadow and fog, made his presence known. He sat on a rusty white-painted metal chair on the porch, smoking a hastily rolled cigarette. "Let's back you up, gentlemen," he said, "Off my property."

"Mr. Williams," began Reinhart, "my name is Lesley Rein-"

"Earl."

An impatient smirk tugged at the corner of Reinhart's thin lips. "My name is Lesley Reinhart. I'm a detective with the NOPD. This is my partner Detective Hernandez." He flashed his badge.

"Figured," said Earl, unimpressed.

"We're just here to ask Daniel Williams a couple of questions," Hernandez explained, adopting a more reasonable tone.

"That's my kid brother." Dan had made his calm, collected way up the steps and was now standing next to Earl. "Got a stutter. He don't talk much on account of it. You wanna know anythin', you ask me."

"This is about Brody Morgan and Carter Green," said Reinhart.

"Yeah, I heard about 'em. Got a dozen or so bluecoats sweeping the woods yesterday with dogs and whatnot."

Reinhart persisted. "We were hoping to get a statement out of Daniel, about what happened at the gas station."

Earl folded his arms over his chest. "Well, if you already know he was at the gas station, I'm sure you know what them boys did."

"We were also hoping he'd tell us about the attendant who was working there the day Brody and Carter disappeared."

Earl tipped his head and raised one wild eyebrow. "Why, he a suspect?"

Reinhart grew more impatient. "I'm afraid I can't divulge that."

"Level with me here, hoss."

"We'll be asking the questions here, Mr. Williams."

"Dan a suspect? Am I? Mighty convenient for you to have a bunch o' dirt-poor hillbillies to pin it down on."

"Respectfully, sir," piped up Hernandez, "Everyone who was within the area during the crime's occurrence is, and nothing was stolen-"

Reinhart shut him up with an authoritative wave of the hand. "Mr. Williams, I can charge you with criminal misdemeanor for refusing to cooperate," he barked.

Earl smiled. "I can also legally shoot you for trespassin', and so long as I claim fear of bodily harm the law is on my side."

It was at this point the two realized that the object leaning against Earl's chair was a shotgun and not a cane.

"We ain't got nothin' for ya, gentlemen," he said definitively. "Be a little more willin' if you'd done the same for every person that's disappeared from this mountain these past few decades, not just for city slickers whose daddies got dough."

Reinhart, seething from the insolence, turned away and marched back the way they came.

Hernandez braved Earl's hostile stare and placed his card on the damp porch. "Should you change your mind," he said. "Give me a call."

Earl leaned forward and read the name printed on the expensive cardstock.

Angel Hernandez

When the men had gone, he brought out his cellphone and sent a warning message to Skulk.

They're comin' up to the trailer, boy. Make yourself scarce.

Skulk had a habit of stealing Darrell's hoodies. They smelled like him and were warm, which was great for the weather they currently had going.

He got the message just as the detectives broke through the bushes. They narrowly passed him, sitting in a thicket as he was. Jebediah the little piglet, was sleeping soundly in his lap, remnants of a treat still hanging from his snout.

Skulk watched the detectives inspect Darrell's empty trailer. The older one kicked some of the sweet potatoes the naughty boars had dug from the vegetable patch. Skulk opened his and Darrell's conversation, filled with lewd little nothings they had sent back and forth. He typed:

On a more serious note, darling - there's pigs snooping about the trailer and not the usual kind.

The younger detective brought out a flashlight and peered through the tinted windows.

Had he locked the door?

Carefully shifting to his feet, though still remaining crouched, Skulk unsheathed his knife. Vibrating from the thrill of a possible kill, he waited. The second those cops opened the door, he would break cover. He could take them. One after the other.

The bigger man made him hesitate, but he was going to try. He'd left clothes there - unwashed clothes and tools of the trade. They all tried to be careful, but who's to say for certain the detectives won't find anything?

"Try the door," said one of them.

Jebediah stirred. The underbrush gave as Cristabella, grunting, arrived to take her brother home. Skulk bit his lip and held her mouth shut.

Incensed, Cristabella shook Skulk off. Her attention shifted to the strangers, and began to growl.

"What was that?"

Bellowing, Cristabella charged right at them. She bowled through them, knocking them clean off their feet. She was at them again, ramming her cutter tusks at their torsos. Clothes were shredded, yells rang, but the men were quick to get on their feet and they eventually got away.

Skulk watched, the squealing piglet under his arm, as Cristabella snorted in satisfaction as if to say Come back with a warrant.

—

Ava, Bo, and Darrell liked to hang out at the garage. Winds were picking up, blowing from the coast. Establishments were closed. Folk were told to remain indoors.

Ava and Darrell sat together while Bo tinkered with the engine of a sedan. He'd been trying to make it work for the past week. He couldn't fathom what he was doing wrong. The out of key strumming Darrell was doing on Ava's beat up acoustic wasn't helping.

Fed up, Bo unstuck his head from under the hood and winced at the two.

"Darrell, Darrell," he groaned. "You're never gonna learn to play with those clumsy fingers. Give that dang thing back to Ava."

Ava giggled and took her guitar back. "Don't listen to him," she told Darrell. "You'll get it, but won't you sing with me a while?"

She positioned her willowy fingers on the fretboard. Darrell returned her pick and she began to play.

Once the intro passed, Darrell followed through. The way the two friends' voices melded together was ethereal. Bo stopped in his tracks.

You go down just like Holy Mary

Mary on a, Mary on a cross

Mary on a, Mary on a cross

"Your beauty never ever scared me" Surprised, Ava looked up. She'd never heard Bo sing before. His voice was clear and cool, but higher in pitch than his speaking voice.

All three of them sang the last lines together, voices blending into a lovely harmony.

"Didn't know you had that in you," Ava teased.

Bo smirked and turned away. "Stick to singing, Darr. Leave the music to Ava."

To thwart the attention from himself, Bo turned up the radio. They listened attentively to another weather update, which was followed by a local news report.

Meanwhile, at Devil's Peak, the search for missing college students, Brody Morgan and Carter Green, continues. Police authorities race against the oncoming hurricane to uncover as much information about the boys' current whereabouts.

Brody Morgan is the son of media mogul, Arthur Morgan. Detective Lesley Reinhart assures the public that the New Orleans Police Department is doing everything in its power to find the boys.

Bo's ears burned. Three paces away, Darrell continued to sing softly to Ava's guitar, but he could see it: a tremble of the lip, a glassy faraway look in the eye. Guilt. Worry.

Darrell appeared to have not heard, but Bo knew he was listening closely.

That night, Bo roused Vincent out of bed, like a spectre at his bedside. They came to a shaky agreement behind the house.

"If we do it now, it'll be the end of it."

"Wait. I'm not too sure. Let me talk to him."

Vincent scoffed - a harsh nasal puff. "You think he'll admit to it? Idiot."

Bo grabbed him by the shirt. "You don't move til I say you can."

—

All was quiet and gray the next day. Percy sat at the dining table, her fingers clacked busily on the keyboard as she wove a new chapter. She peered over her glasses at the amassing clouds from the window. "This must be what they mean by 'the calm before the storm'," she remarked. 

Darrell was sitting in the chair next to her, poring over one of the books she had written. "You made Halloran look like Bo," he noted with an amused smile. 

"I did." She watched him fondly. She reached over and pushed a stray strand of hair from his face. "You know what, maybe I should give Halloran a sidekick." 

Darrell looked up, brown eyes gleaming. 

"I think I have an idea on what he might look like."

Darrell put down the book and rested his chin on her shoulder. He squinted at the walls of text on her document. "That's a whole lotta words, Momma," he sighed. 

Percy smiled, feeling rather proud of herself. "No big feat, to me. What do you think so far?"

Darrell gave it a good, careful read. He sighed softy, blown away. "Shucks, I dunno how you do it." 

There was an urgent hammering at the window. Michael stood outside. He held a grubby baseball in his hand. 

"Be right back, Momma," said Darrell. 

"Hey, Mikey," he said at the door. "Don't think it's good weather to play catch in. Alia won't approve." 

Michael stared up at him, lips sealed. He tilted his head and raised the ball again. His posture hinting that he wasn't asking. 

"Ok." 

Darrell took the ball and the glove he had brought. In their game, Darrell was the only one who did the throwing and catching. Michael would hit the ball as hard as he could with a bat, and watch as Darrell struggled to catch it. Peak entertainment. 

"Further?" Darrell called from down the street, the House of Wax behind him. 

Michael kept pointing at him to go further. He was going to knock the ball right out of town. Darrell reeled back and pitched. The bat hit the ball with a deafening thwack!

It rode the air like a comet. Arching high, Darrell knew chasing after it was futile. Then, it dipped, whistling, and crashed through one of the lower windows of the House of Wax. 

The glove slipped off of Darrell's hand. Michael turned on his heels and let the bat clatter on the street. In case they incurred Vincent's wrath, he was detaching himself from the incident. 

Darrell picked his way through the wasteland of discarded car parts, cut through a crack in a wooden fence, and entered the House of Wax. 

The door swung right open and he crossed the slightly dusty threshold. He was greeted by a main room glowing with yellow lamps, filled with intricate carvings that he knew for a fact were all wax. In an odd trick of the eye, the bulbs seemed to fill the room with shadow more than light. The result was dismal and bleak. 

Darrell's thoughts strayed unhappily as he eyed the sculptures. It was as though the misery stored in that room was seeping into his bones. Distracted, he went from one display to another, admiring the detail of each handiwork.

Vincent was so talented. He and Ellie went together perfectly. If only he could understand what he had done that made him so angry. 

There was a rapid clicking on the floor. He recognized it at once as the padding of an animal. Jonesy, tail wagging and mouth bearing the rogue ball, watched him from a safe distance. 

Darrell dropped to a crouch. "Hey, girl! Good job! Give it here." 

Jonesy tucked tail and ran. 

"Hey, no! Come back!" Darrell gave chase and stumbled from one room to another.  Jonesy girl, no! I'm not supposed to be in here."

He came upon the back of the building, past an elaborately decorated dining room, and into a doorway that led to the basement. 

There were sconces in the walls, housing steadily burning candles. Embedded among these were different faces, each with a unique expression. Darrell followed the faces upwards and looked overhead. Spanning the ceiling, her eight spindly legs astride the stairway, was Arachne - Horrid, freakish, and beautiful all at once. Face smooth with youth. Bosom full and immodestly bare. Eyes hungry. Head held high with pride. 

"What is this place?" muttered Darrell. 

Bark! Jonesy had dropped the ball at the bottom of the stairs. 

Darrell crept down the steps. As he was reaching for the ball, Jonesy's jaws snapped at his wrist and she made off with the ball again. He walked into the room. It felt like a furnace. Great, big cauldrons of wax hung on chains over large fires. Knives, saws, and sculpting tools hung on the walls. A bloodstained steel table stood in the middle of the room. 

But worst of all, there was a figure - human-shaped - suspended in a macabre iron contraption.  

Darrell was pulled to it by some sick fascination. He thought he could see the glimmer of an eye under the rough wax, blue and bright. He stood inspecting the thing, heart hammering. 

Its fingers twitched, and Darrell screamed. 

He spun around and found himself face to face with Vincent. There was a knife in his hand. 

Darrell interposed the table between them and made a run for the stairs after circling it twice. Vincent tried to grab him by the hair but missed. 

Darell ran right into Michael in the dining room. The taller man stepped in and locked Vincent's wrist in a crushing grip. 

Crack! 

Vincent had landed a punch on Michael's jaw. Michael recovered almost immediately and was able to grab the blade of the knife just as it was about to pierce his side. Blood dribbled onto the floor. 

He changed his hold on the blade, used his free hand to hold Vincent's arm, and knocked the weapon out of his grasp. 

When he looked back, Darrell was gone. He was sprinting down Main Street, sweating, panting, heart hammering. He understood it now - why the town had felt so empty, why the girls had tried to keep him entertained indoors at all times, why the sculptures looked so real. 

Lester found him sitting on the curb sometime after dinner. "Y'alright there, buddy?" he inquired cheerfully. 

Darrell did not respond. 

Lester sat down beside him. "I, uh, heard what happened." 

"S'Mikey ok?" 

"Yep. Didn't feel a thing, Alia said. He's been patched up." Lester took a crumpled pack from his pocket and lit a cigarette. 

"Ya in on it, Les?" 

Lester did not respond.

"Y'know," Lester began, "What we do out here, we been doin' it a long time. An' ya know, you can get used ta anythin' if you're 'round it long enough. It ain't easy to put it down."

He blew the smoke out and brought Darrell's attention to the cigarette. The red glowing tip flickered as he waved it around.

"It's like quitttin', ya know?" he explained, "Ya can't just do it." 

Darrell was nodding. He knew how that felt. 

"Besides, this is my family," Lester added, "I love them. More than anythin'."

Darrell had begun to think of them as his family, too. It had felt too good to be true. 

"Here's one for ya. Those missing kids, d'you do that?"

Darrell glanced sideways at Lester. There was no judgment in his eyes, no hate like in Vinny's. His expression was open, sincere. 

"D'you kill 'em?" 

Darrell resigned himself and said, "Killed more than just them." 

"Are you gonna stay with us?" 

"Can I?" 

"Sure!" 

There was thunder overhead. They raised their eyes to the sky. Lester grinned. "Anyway, with that comin', you ain't goin' nowhere." 

[writing-good-vibes]

For the summer prompt list: sentimental with bo sinclair x reader 👀

ahh thank you for sending a prompt, anon !! 💗 bo, my beloved, he's got a lot of love lately so this one is a bit less fluffy (despite the prompt) than my last one, which i hope is okay !! as always, i hope y'all enjoy reading !! WARNING for mildly implied stockholm syndrome.

bo sinclair (sentimental)

Bo was a very sentimental man.

Most people wouldn't know, just by looking at him, but he was. He held onto everything, knickknacks and paper cuttings and clothes and books.

Bo holds onto everything because if he doesn't he'll lose it. Oftentimes he loses the things he does try and hold onto. And sometimes he loses the things he thought he had the tightest, most desperate grip on.

This is where you come in. Bo's had a hold on you for months now and, at the turn of the season, as the days grow longer and even hotter, his grip isn't loosening.

With only the memories of sunny days and burnt shoulders to keep your mind company, you tried to settle into Ambrose. These days, Bo let you wander up and down Main Street, so long as he could still see you from the garage.

These days, when Bo sat you on his lap and smoothed his rough palms over your waist, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward. Months ago, you would have squirmed, watching as his smirk darkens and sharpens. Now you watch as the same smirk softens and lifts, a kiss pressed to your temple.

[soupbabe]

Sinclair Brothers w a Plus Size! S/o

Self Care time w more slashers that have been on the knoggin lately >:)

Bo Sinclair

- I'm gonna say it,,all the Sinclair Bros love fat ppl it's canon because I said it

- He finds a lot of relaxation in how plush you are

- It's very common to find Bo sneaking up behind you, wrapping his arms around your wide frame and just sigh in content after a stressful day

- Also he just loves seeing in you in shorts djdhdknd

- Like?? Kind of guy to purposely drop something just so he can see you pick it up 👀

- You have a nice ass and he will not shy away from telling you

- Man is extremely possessive/jealous when it comes to people flirting with you

- Like he'd wrap an arm around you while the future victim chats you up and Bo steals enough kisses in front of them to get uncomfortable and move on

Vincent Sinclair

- He thinks you're stunning omg

- Dhdksm he's just taken by your soft form, he hasn't seen many with a body type like yours and he loves it

- He loves drawing you omg

- Literally there are pages of his sketchbook dedicated to you, from the mundane to more intimate poses where there's more of your skin on display

- Let's not forget about sculpting you in his free time

- When there's barely anyone passing by in Ambrose, he's made you his passion project. The sculpture does reveal a large amount of your body and every tiny detail

- From rolls, stretch marks, cellulite, whatever. It's all meticulously sculpted and shows off those commonly disliked features into something to be praised and thought of as beautiful

Lester Sinclair

- He's absolutely smitten by plus size folks omg

- Lester just has that shy smile whenever he sees you like wow you're so handsome/pretty

- He's also very clingy, always having an arm around you

- Ever since he started dating you he's enjoyed the mornings

- You're just so warm, add in Jonsey in the bed and he's sure he's in heaven

- His job can take a lot out of him, so please let him lay on top of you and run your hands through his hair,,, immediate sleepy Lester

- Yeah he's a bit on the lankier side of things but that's okay

- That just means he could steal some of your clothes! He loves how baggy they are on him and it's really the cutest sight you've seen

[aggravatetheaxe]

“why me? out of everyone you could’ve chose. ”

for vinny 👀

I can't remember which prompt list this was supposed to be from ahhh I'm sorry!

VINCENT SINCLAIR X GN READER

This one is sort of NSFW, it mentions you having sex and stuff, but there's not any sexual contact, discretion advised

Decided to use she/her for Vincent in this one, sorry if that bothers anyone

--

The heat of your climax was still thrumming through your body as you relaxed into the musty sheets of the cot. It wasn't the first time you'd had intimate contact with Vincent, but this was different than those quick, confusing touches and stolen kisses; different than writhing lazily on the couch and finishing in your pants. This had been long, hot, involved, overwhelming ... meaningful.

You closed your eyes against the pleasure still racking your body, breathing out slowly and relishing the warmth of Vincent's arms. Her breathing was ragged though she tried to control it, and she was so close you could hear her pulse. A strand of her hair kissed your face and trembled with every heartbeat.

The way she was clutching you to her chest, the way her fingertips gripped you, it almost felt like she was trying to confirm you were real. That this had actually happened. Like she was saying Don't leave, you're mine.

You certainly didn't plan on leaving. You were perfectly content, floating in the dark haze behind your eyelids and enjoying your favorite Sinclair's scent and the ticking of her pulse.

The pair of you stayed that way for a while, but soon - too soon - Vincent's warmth left you. As she shifted and slowly rose from bed, you felt her rather than saw her. It was a few more seconds before you opened your eyes to the soft candlelight.

She - she and her had come so surprisingly easy since Vincent had told you - stood facing away from you, her slightly wavy curtain of hair falling around her bare shoulders. She was entirely bare, in fact, and you studied each scar and freckle on her toned body as she approached a nearby table.

You observed with interest as she snuffed out the candles on the very corner, then opened a leather-bound book. With a quiet sigh, she scribbled something down with her left hand while the right rested, loosely curled, on the table.

What note she could be taking right after your first time having sex, you had no idea, but you couldn't help your curiosity. Slowly, you sat up in bed, still watching her.

Jonesy took that as an invitation to jump from her dog bed up onto the cot, and the jingling of her tags drew Vincent's attention. She glanced over her shoulder, acknowledge you and Jonesy, then turned back to what she was writing.

"Vincent?" you said after a moment. "Everything okay?"

She nodded but didn't look back. After a moment, she reached for the recently snuffed candle and jostled it, letting the still-hot wax run over her knuckles.

Given how tense her shoulders were, you had no choice but to take this as a sign that things weren't okay at all. You carefully slid your feet out from under Jonesy and stood, tugging your underwear on before approaching. After a moment of hesitation, you touched Vincent's shoulder.

Again, she didn't turn to look at you, but she sighed and set her pen down. Before you could get a peek at what she'd been writing, the book was closed, and she turned toward you.

"Why me?" she signed limply, like it took an incredible amount of effort to put the thought into words at all. "Out of everyone you could have chosen?"

The question stopped you in your tracks, but she was looking at you expectantly, her blue gaze as analytical as it was pleading. You stuttered before saying, "What do you mean? Bo is awful and Lester is so ... short tempered."

Vincent searched your gaze. It was clear that she wasn't convinced, but she took a breath and signed again, "Not out of everyone in Ambrose. Out of everyone. You could have anyone in the world."

You doubted that was true, but that she thought so meant more than she knew. You exhaled softly and lifted your hand, cupping the cheek of her mask. She'd kept it on the whole time - had actually stopped you from removing it - but that was okay. Whatever made her comfortable.

"I don't know how to describe it," you said at length. "Why does anyone want anything? How could I not be ... in awe of you?"

Vincent stared a moment. "How? Why?"

"You're like a snake, or a spider, or a siren. Something deadly and beautiful. And being close to you ... that's special."

A pause. "I'm not special."

"You are, though. You don't have to reject that just because your mother used to say it all the time. You don't have to pretend it's not true because it makes Bo feel like shit." You leaned in, placing a kiss to the mask's chin. "Come back to bed ... and I can show you just how special you are to me."

Vincent stared again. Then, decisively, she placed her hand in yours, letting you pull her close and lead her back to the warmth of your embrace.

"Don't leave," you mumbled, running your hands down her arms. "You're mine."

[visceravalentines]

ok bestie for real though

I have this idea/fantasy that just

Bo torturing someone, getting turned on, and seeing him so strong and scary and bloody turns you on to the degree where you're just staring, he's like "what" and you basically beg him to let you help him/use you to get off

cue him fucking you right there, in front of the bleeding, suffering victim 🥰

maybe even just shoving you down onto your knees to fuck your throat but still positioned in a way that he can continue hurting the person, dig around in wounds or smear blood around

smear blood on your face too 👀

Babe I loved this request and for some reason it was so hard to get it right, I'm sorry it took so long! It is some 2000 words long tho so maybe that helps. And Bo is...😳 really something. We should make sure he stays in Ambrose lol.

The Devil Himself

Bo Sinclair x GN!Reader

There is a living torture victim in the room for the entire scene. She is actively being tortured throughout. Dead dove, do not eat. Smut, blood kink, corruption kink, oral, throat fucking, biting, dirty talk, sadism, stabbing & torture, Bo is dark and dominating and the reader is super down for it. Bo does not hurt the reader.

The station basement was pretty well soundproofed, but the scream you heard as you made your way to the back and opened the door to the stairwell made you flinch.  It was loud.  It had been some time since Bo had taken anyone downstairs.  Unfortunately for this particular victim, that meant he would be rather…tightly wound. 

You rapped lightly on the basement door before swinging it open.  Bo loomed over the woman cuffed and taped to the chair, a sneer fixed on his face as he gagged her.  His gaze snapped over to you as you entered and the glint in his eyes was manic, ravenous.  The intensity of it stirred something in you.  His expression softened, only a little, when he saw you. 

“What d’you need, darlin’?  I’m busy.”

“I wanted to let you know the power’s still out south of Magnolia Street.  Les and I tested it and – ”

The woman in the chair shrieked again through the gag.  Bo sighed, seized a screwdriver off the nearby counter, and plunged it into her thigh.  The victim squealed, sobbed.  Your eyes widened. 

“You want somethin’ to scream about, I’ll give you somethin’ to scream about.  Shut the fuck up, I’m havin’ a conversation.” 

You bit your lip.  His voice got so much deeper, gruffer, when he was mad. 

Bo furrowed his brow when he turned back to you.  “What?”

“Nothing.  I was saying…Magnolia Street.  We think one of this group hit a power pole or maybe even cut a line somewhere.”

He rubbed his forehead.  “Fuckin’ excellent.  Y’need me to come look at it now?”

“No, but you should look at it soon.  Can’t have a third of the town in the dark.”

Bo rounded on the victim.  “Y’hear that, honey?  You and your friends made a bunch o’ extra work for me.  You know who gets to pay for that?”  He tapped the screwdriver still buried in her leg. 

Her panicked gaze sought you out and she babbled something through the gag. 

“Hey!”  Bo said so sharply you and the victim both jumped.  He grabbed her jaw, turned her head.  “Don’t fuckin’ look at them!  You got nothin’ to do with them and they ain’t gonna help you.”  He glanced at you as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms and the scars on his wrists.  “You best run along, darlin’.  I got things to do.”

You folded your arms, leaned against the doorframe.  “...can I stay?”

He looked surprised.  “You wanna stay?”

“I want to watch you work.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  “This ain’t work, this is play.”

“Even better.”

Now he smiled for real.  “You stay back, I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“I’ll behave.”

“Well that makes one of us.  Here.”  He selected two knives of different styles from the counter and held them both out to you.  “What’s your preference?”  You picked one and he winked at you.  “Good choice, darlin’.”

He sliced through the victim’s clothing, exposing her abdomen.  She pulled halfheartedly at the tape around her wrists. 

“Gotta have more fight than that, bitch,” Bo remarked.  “Let’s see now.”  He flipped the knife in his hand.  “Your boyfriend smashed my sideview mirror, so that’s one.”  With practiced precision, he carved a long, shallow slice down her abdomen.  She wailed and he smirked.  “Your friend shot at my fuckin’ dog, so that’s worth two, I think.”  He opened up two more gashes in her stomach and she thrashed.  Blood was flowing freely, soaking the waistband of her jeans.  “You messed with my town, and now I gotta fix it.”  This time he seized her face and drew the tip of the knife across her cheekbone, slowly, the tip of his tongue protruding through his lips in concentration. 

You were enthralled.  You had seen him angry.  You’d watched him kill before, knew he was capable of immense violence, but this was different. 

The victim tried to wrest her face away from him, made eye contact with you again, but before she could even attempt to speak, Bo’s fingers plunged into the wounds on her abdomen almost to the second knuckle. 

Her scream was bloodcurdling but Bo was louder as he roared, “What did I fucking say?! You don’t get to look at them!” 

The screams devolved into sobs and Bo chuckled darkly, shook his head.  “Y’got pretty eyes, honey, bet my brother can make somethin’ nice with ‘em.  If you wanna keep ‘em in your head, you look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.  Y’understand?”  She nodded, whimpering, and he leaned forward, pressed his lips to her forehead.  “You understand.  You be good for me and I won’t make this any longer than it has to be.”

A delicious chill ran down your spine.  He was terrifying, your Bo. 

He wiped a bloody tear from the victim’s cheek, whispered something to her that you couldn’t make out.  You were captivated by the blood on his fingers, the way he adjusted his grip on the knife, his presence filling the room, unassailable, aggressive. 

The victim looked up at him, pleading around the gag.  He shushed her, lifted her chin with the blade of the knife, shook his head.  With one flick of the wrist he opened a slice on the curve of her jaw.  The blood spattered his cheek.

He glanced at you, did a double-take, raised an eyebrow.  “You okay, darlin’?  You need to leave?” 

God, he was handsome.  The fluorescents caught the immaculate angles of his face.  The concern in his expression for you even as he inflicted brutality on this poor stranger made you weak. 

You found your voice at last.  “I’m okay.” 

His worry dissolved.  A wicked smile crept across his face.  “You’re more than okay, ain’tcha?” 

You tried to suppress it.  You tried to remind yourself you should have some decorum, a shred of self-respect.  But he straightened up to his full height, faced you with a devilish glint in his eye, and that was the end of it. 

“Get over here.” 

You obeyed.  You barely felt the concrete floor beneath your feet. 

He flipped the knife back and forth in his fingers.  “You like watchin’ me, darlin’?”  You nodded.  “That’s bad.  You oughta be ashamed of yourself.” 

You lowered your gaze to his lips.  “I’m sorry.” 

Bo tilted his head, grinned at you.  “You little monster.”  He tipped your face up with one crimson finger beneath your chin and kissed you slowly, deep and hungry.  His teeth caught your lip and tugged.  “On your knees,” he murmured with his mouth less than a breath from yours. 

You sank like a stone.  The way your pants tightened between your legs was unbearable.  You looked up at him expectantly, the whimpers from the victim next to you all but fading from register. 

He regarded you with a mixture of affection and arrogance.  You hadn’t seen him exude this kind of confidence, this kind of control, anywhere else, not even in bed.  You would’ve kissed his boots if he told you to. 

His head veritably lolled to the side and he addressed the woman in the chair.  “You have my permission to look, honey.”  His attention returned to you and he gave you a nod. 

With quick, precise movements, you unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped his fly, worked him out of his boxers.  He was hard already.  You waited, lips parted, eyes locked on his, until he said, “You know what I want, darlin’,” and then you took him in your mouth to his base in two slow, desperate motions.  He allowed his head to fall back with a contented groan, tightening his grip on the knife still in his hand. 

You worked your head back and forth, easing him deeper, bumping against the back of your palate.  Your hands brushed his hips, his thighs, anxious to touch him everywhere at once.  The knife hung heavy in your periphery.  Part of you wanted to drive him to weakness, stimulate him until he couldn’t think straight.  Part of you wanted him to pin you against the wall and fuck your throat. 

Bo licked his lips, cradled the back of your skull with his palm, thrust himself deeper.  “That’s good, darlin’, that’s real good.”  He shot the victim a smug look.  “I’ll be right back with you, honey, don’t you worry.  God, baby.”  You moaned around him, shifting your weight back and forth, desperate for friction.  “Got you real hot and bothered, huh?” 

There was a frantic rattling sound as the woman focused all her efforts on freeing her right hand.  The duct tape stretched as she twisted her wrist, breathing hard. 

With a huff, Bo steadied you with a hand on your cheek and plunged the knife into the victim’s forearm.  She screamed, thrashing in the chair, and he sneered at her as he refocused his attention on you. 

He caressed your jaw, smearing bloody fingermarks across your skin.  “What if I fuck you right here, angel?  Would you like that?” 

You gazed up at him eagerly, pupils blown, and nodded. 

“You’re gonna have an audience.  ‘S that okay with you?” 

You circled his frenulum with your tongue, felt the heat rise in your cheeks. 

“I thought so.”  He held your chin and pulled away from you, regarding you with something like pride.  “Take your clothes off, sweetness, I want you right now.” 

You couldn’t get them off fast enough.  He pulled you to your feet with absolute chivalry, yanked you to the table nearby, grasped the back of your neck and bent you forward.  You were less than five feet from the victim, Bo positioned at an angle between you. 

You felt his hips against your ass, his erection sliding between your legs, his chest pressing against your back.  “Want me so bad you can’t even wait for me to kill this bitch, huh?”  he murmured in your ear.  “Shameful, darlin’.  Filthy.  Someone oughta take a belt to that ass.”

You arched against him, moaned his name. 

“Behave yourself,” he warned, his hand drifting over your throat, crimson fingerprints on your skin.  “I wanna take my time with you.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle of lube, worked it in and around your entrance with calloused fingers. His touch was covetous, his fingertips teasing.

You all but writhed against him, desperate for him, the smell of blood sharp in your nose.  He parted your legs with his knee before he forced himself into you all at once, almost to his base, and you keened, threw your head back, ground yourself backwards to push him in deeper. 

“What did I fuckin’ say, you dirty thing?”  You could hear the laughter in his voice.  “God, I’m gonna have to start killin’ people in the streets for you.  And here I thought you were so wholesome.”  Bo snapped his hips experimentally, pinching his tongue between his teeth in satisfaction at the sound you made.  “You like bein’ fucked by a bad man, baby?  You’re gonna make me worse if you don’t calm down.” 

He looked over his shoulder at the victim, who was dissociating in shocked silence.  “Now you oughta speak up there, sweetheart.” 

He grabbed the screwdriver and gave it a twist.  She screamed.  Bo smirked, thrust into you with such force you saw stars. 

His hands wandered over your body, his touch tender and violent, stroking, squeezing, pinching, dragging his nails down your ribs.  His fingers found your sex and he caressed you ruthlessly.  You felt exposed, at his mercy, deliciously used, absolutely despicable.  The pace of his hips was relentless. 

When your legs were shaking, Bo twisted his fist in your hair, tugged your head back to his lips.  His teeth nipped at your earlobe.  “Oh, darlin’,” he whispered, “I think I’ve ruined you.”

Your eyes flew open.  The last of your nerves snapped into place.  You gripped the table.  “Bo – ”

“Why don’t we seal the deal, angel?”  He pressed his lips to the skin behind your ear and demanded, in a low and sugary growl, “Cum for me right now.”

You collapsed into irresistible spasms, wracked with pleasure, choking out a gasp at the sheer force of your orgasm.  Bo practically purred as you contracted around him, his forehead against the back of your skull, mumbling praise as he slipped smoothly over the edge. 

Completely spent, you slumped over the tabletop, flinching when he took a bite out of your shoulder.  He kissed the same spot right after.  “You’re quite the sight, doll.”  He nuzzled your cheek.  “Why don’t you head up to the house and wait for me?  I wanna hold you for a while.” 

You stood up slowly, accepted your clothes as he handed them to you.  You glanced at the victim. Her eyes were glazed over, face pale, breathing deep and tremulous. Her struggles had ceased.

“You won’t be long, will you?”  Already you felt lonesome and he was mere feet away, pulling his jeans back on. 

“Be there before you know it.”  He flashed you an absolutely winning smile, the kind that charmed old ladies and pierced prom queens’ hearts, that made people feel seen, put them at ease. 

“I got somethin’ to finish up here first.”