#EVERYONE IN MY HOUSE IS ASLEEP | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

its-monster-mash · 2 years ago

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Didn’t Your Momma Ever Tell You not to Talk to Strangers

Bo Sinclair X Reader - Part Three

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Rough Sex(Consensual), Allusion to past non-con(not with Reader)

Part One Part Two

You stir awake, confused with your body aching, in an unfamiliar bed. The last night’s events come back to you when your eyes settle on the man sprawled out on the bed next to you.

Bo.

He looks so peaceful, almost angelic where the light peeks through the heavy curtains and illuminates him. You can’t help but to lean down and press a soft kiss to his forehead.

A sharp inhale, and a soft sigh, and he’s settled deeper into sleep’s embrace. For a moment, you think about settling back into the blankets yourself—it would be so easy to settle into the crook of Bo’s arm—but you’d skipped lunch yesterday, and then missed dinner in favor of satisfying more urgent hungers, so the treacherous bastard that is your stomach forces you to stay awake.

Still though, it’s hard to tear your eyes away from him, now that you have a moment to take in his form in relative stillness.

You know it’s rude to stare, but there’s no one awake to catch you now, so you let your eyes wander over him unreserved—more studying him than anything. Your breath catches in your lungs when you get a good look at his wrists—you’d thought you’d seen scars, but you’d been so preoccupied with the rest of him last night that you didn’t really let it sink in.

You can tell by the thickness and coloration that these are old scars, and you shudder to think of what exactly could have done that to him.

He lets out a small whimper in his sleep, and that reminds you that your little habit is still fucking creepy when the subject of your fascination is asleep—perhaps moreso.

He makes more small sounds of distress, and you wonder if maybe you should wake him—would that be more kind than letting him sleep?

Probably not—he exerted himself quite a bit last night, taking you through round after round of sticky, sweaty, bloody sex—honestly you’re surprised the two of you aren’t sticking to the sheets right now. Smoothing the mess of his hair out of his forehead, you lean in to press another soft kiss to the clammy skin there, and you’re relieved to see him calm, relaxing back into a deep sleep.

Food.

The cavity inside of you aches from the emptiness, and it’s loud and insistent enough to take precedence over the ache of your muscles, and the bruises he’s left all over your body like a lover’s lipstick.

There’s an old Korn shirt folded up beside your pillow that most definitely wasn’t there when you fell asleep—you figure Bo must have left it there for you. You don’t bother to go and find your bra, pulling the soft-worn shirt over your head like a trophy.

Damn.

It’s been a long time since you’ve worn someone else’s clothes, and you relish the way it feels against your skin.

No sense in bothering with bottoms—the shirt is long enough that you’ve worn dresses shorter than it—and you doubt Bo will complain if he’s got easy access when he does wake up.

Especially if he comes downstairs to find you fixing the two of you some breakfast.

He laid down a few ground rules before you fell asleep in his arms last night—you could help yourself to anything in the kitchen as long as you made enough to share, but under no circumstances were you to go in the basement or to go outside without him.

You’d made fun of him about his Mysterious Basement, and something strange flashed across his eyes before he explained that there was a lot of dangerous old equipment down there that he didn’t want messed with—and that the locals are not the friendliest with outsiders, so it’s just best that you don’t go tryin’ to explore the town without him.

He didn’t need to explain himself to you, though—you’re plenty happy to follow his rules since he’s kind enough to let you stay with him after shit hit a boiling point with Tasha and her annoying little boytoy.

It was her that wanted him to come along after all—but all he’d done was bother you.

She had the fucking nerve to be mad at you for it.

You look forward to stopping in to see Bo every time you make your bi-monthly road trip, but yesterday you’d hoped that reminding Tasha, and Corey, of your crush on Bo would get them both to lay off—but Corey pushed you over the edge.

Maybe Tasha was right—maybe you are putting yourself in unnecessary danger; Bo is still technically a stranger to you, after all—you don’t even know his last name.

But if you’d stayed, you couldn’t guarantee that you’d behave—at least this way you could stay in a house with someone you want to trust—rather than getting kicked out on the side of the road after you inevitably wiped that smirk off of Corey’s face.

You don’t think of yourself as particularly violent—but there’s only so far you can be pushed before something snaps in you, and you know it—it’s just safer for everyone if you stay here with Bo until Tasha can come back without him.

But none of that’s important right now.

Now the pressing issue is getting yourself acquainted with his kitchen—first thing’s first—you’d better get it cleaned up before you start digging around for ingredients. It feels a little tacky to get cooking and then only wash what you used when he’s got so much lying around.

Ooh, better start coffee too, you might need it by the time you’re done cleaning up.

It’s not that you’re judging—you’ve seen worse messes in the college dorms, to be honest—but he never did discuss any kind of rent for your stay, so the least you can do is take care of this much.

You’re washing up the last of the mugs when the sound of the kitchen door startles you, and an equally taken aback man stands in the doorway, staring at you with wide eyes that you’re sure match your own.

Bo didn’t tell you anyone else was supposed to show up, but the sheer confusion on the man’s face at the sight of you suggests he’s actually supposed to be here.

“Hey,” you force yourself to start talking, very much wishing you had bothered to find your shorts. “Uh…I’m a—guest—of Bo’s.” You’re suddenly very aware of all the bruises on your body, and you hope to god the man has the decency not to mention them.

You hold your still-soapy hand out for him to shake, and he accepts it a bit awkwardly.

“Blink twice if you’re here against your will.”

For a moment he looks serious, but at the look of utter confusion on your face, he breaks into a wide grin and an easy laugh that makes you feel a whole lot better.

“I’m just foolin’ wit’cha.” He drops his duffel bag to the ground, taking a seat at the table as he studies you. “So you’re Bo’s mysterious girlfriend—heard a lot about you—wasn’t sure you actually existed.”

“Not sure I’d use that word quite yet.” You offer an awkward laugh, turning back to the sink to hopefully hide the way the thought of being something more than just a convenient Fuck Buddy to Bo makes you blush.

“Bo would.” He grins, seeming to relish your discomfort. “Name’s Lester—I’m the baby brother.”

“Nice to meet you.” You smile at him, tugging the hem of your borrowed shirt. “I didn’t know Bo had brothers.” Of course, you don’t actually know very much about Bo to begin with.

“Yeah, there’s two of us—Vincent is Bo’s twin, but uh—I don’t know if you’ll see him any time soon.” Lester squints, squeezing his lips together like he’s suddenly not sure exactly how much he’s supposed to tell you—given Bo apparently hasn’t bothered to fill you in on much of anything.

“Why not? Is he away?” Your brow furrows; it’s really none of your business—but he seemed to offer the information readily enough.

“Vin’s shy—he’s one a’ them reclusive artist types.” He drums his fingers on the table. “He’s real talented though; got a lot a’ work down in our Momma’s ol’ Wax Museum.”

Your eyes light up, and suddenly you find yourself forgetting to be self-conscious. “No kidding; I saw the outside of the Museum when Bo drove me up here, but I haven’t been in.”

His eyes narrow on you, his expression becoming ever-so-slightly hesitant—you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t spent so much time studying body language over the years. “Just how much of the town have you seen?”

“Not a thing,” you admit. “I’ve only ever stopped by to see Bo—and last night he said he doesn’t want me going down into town without him.”

“Oh.” Lester nods slowly, like things are falling into place for him. “Okay, that makes sense.”

You’re about to open your mouth to ask more questions, when Lester perks up. “Hey, you’re the one always bringin’ Bo snacks and stuff—did I interrupt you gettin’ ready to cook breakfast?”

There it is.

“I was just getting the dishes out of the way before I start looking at ingredients.” You dry your hands off on your shirt. “Bo said I could help myself to the kitchen as long as I made enough to share.”

“Oh, so now he’s all about sharing,” Lester huffs, and you can’t help grinning at the way his arms cross like a petulant child. “Greedy bastard won’t let anyone else try the goodies you bring him.” He does his best to look all big and mean and grumpy, and you snort when you realize he’s doing an impression of Bo. “She made it for me—get your own girl.”

“Oh he didn’t,” you laugh. “That’s so rude.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” He throws his hands up into the air. “So—you want me to help you find anything? That oughta earn me a seat at the table, right?”

“Sure, Lester.” You smile at him, crossing your arms playfully as you picture Bo hoarding your gifts and calling you his girl. “I’ll bake some muffins if we’ve got the stuff for them—that’s a sharing food.”

“Wow, you are sweet.” He pulls over a chair to climb on, getting a better vantage point to peruse the cabinets. “The hell are you doin’ wit’ Bo?”

“Well, he’s been sweet to me.”

“Sure as hell have,” Bo grumbles, wandering into the kitchen in nothing but boxers and socks.

Your chest tightens at the sight of him, thinking about what Lester had said. “I made coffee—Lester was just helping me find the ingredients I need to make a batch of muffins.”

His expression softens, and he sidles up real close to you, his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “Coffee, fresh baked muffins, and a pretty girl gettin’ it for me—man could get used to that.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, wrapping a possessive arm around your waist. “There’s a can ‘a pumpkin in the third cabinet over.”

That’ll occupy Lester for a second; long enough for Bo to lift your shirt up for a quick peek—relishing the marks he’d left on your body—evidence that may as well spell out ‘Bo Sinclair Was Here’. He chuckles when you cover yourself back up at breakneck speed—pleased that he’s the only one you’re eager to go showin’ off for.

He takes a step closer, pinning you between the kitchen counter and his large frame—he relishes the way your hands splay across his chest when he presses a less than innocent kiss under your ear. “Sorry I forgot to tell you we ain’t alone on Laundry Day,” he whispers, his hot breath washing over your ear before he teases you terribly with a lascivious nip. “Otherwise I’d take you right fuckin’ now.”

“Still in the room,” Lester groans in mock irritation, tossing the can of pumpkin at Bo.

He’s fast as lightning when he turns to catch it, and annoyance flashes across his face. “Hey dumbass, you could’a hit her.”

“Oh no way,” Lester laughs. “You wouldn’ta let your girlfriend get hit.” He mocks Bo with an exaggerated show of over the top kissy noises, and Bo whips the can back at him.

“I’m gonna hit you if you keep runnin’ yer damn mouth!” Bo makes the sourest damn expression you’ve ever seen—not unlike a kid in full-tantrum mode—before he picks up Lester’s duffel bag and tosses it to him—a little more gently. “Go do your fuckin’ laundry—shit’s stinkin’ up the place.”

“Oh because roadkill is so much worse than motor oil.” Lester rolls his eyes, but ducks when Bo grabs a mug out of the dish strainer. “It was nice to meet you!” He shoots you one last smile before running off into some other part of the house.

“You guys are such brothers—”

You’re cut off by Bo’s lips on yours, and you gasp when he picks you up and sets your ass down right on the kitchen counter. “Sorry,” he grunts, not sounding remotely sorry. “Couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Bo!” You shriek, weaving your fingers into his hair when he pushes his way between your thighs, his hot tongue dragging through your folds and across your clit.

Your pussy is still sore and swollen from the absolute punishment it took from him last night, so you’re already overstimulated when he slips a finger inside, growling like an animal as he sucks on your clit.

You can’t help squeezing your thighs together around his head, and apparently that was the wrong move, because his mouth leaves your clit in order to bite down hard on the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

He grins when he hears you yelp.

He leans back, taking a good eyeful of you sat up on the counter, your face flushed with need—for him—with only one of his old shirts for modesty. He sees something in your eyes that he’s never been able to simply take from the victims he’s had before.

You want him, and there ain’t a lick of shame in your eyes about it.

He rubs the already bruising spot where he’d bitten you with a careful tenderness, and you hum. “God, you’re just so damn good for me.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. You’ve spent exactly one night here—he knows it’s not the time to be laying it on so thick. You ain’t like the other girls—you still like him by choice—he doesn’t want to fuck that up by letting you know just how much of an effect you have on him. How much he’s fixated on you from the very beginning.

He doesn’t want to give you that kind of power over him—he can’t afford to give you a knife to twist.

But God help him, there you go twisting it anyway.

He’d been so caught up in his own head that he hadn’t noticed your soft hands creeping up to cup his cheeks—fuck—you always look so fuckin’ sweet when you hold him tender and look into his eyes.

He’s terrified you’re gonna look right into his soul, and that you won’t like what you see.

“Wanna be your good girl,” you whisper, your lips ghosting his before you take his bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh Sugar,” he groans, moving his hand between you to rub your clit—taking back at least a little control. “You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

You whimper so sweet against his lips, and he drinks it all in. He kisses the corner of your mouth, the curve of your jaw, your throat—lower and lower until he’s once again settled between your legs.

You deserve this. So good for him. The longer he can keep you dumb for his touch the longer he can keep you here and drag out the illusion that he’s the man you want, the man who makes your heart flutter with something other than fear.

Two fingers—you’re already wet enough that he ain’t bothering with just one—curl against the sweet spot inside of you, and your hands are back in his hair as you squirm in his grasp.

“Want you to look at me,” he growls against your clit, before his tongue darts back out to trace his full name.

God.

There’s a desperate hunger in your eyes when they meet his, and he knows that the tears of pleasure pricking at your lashes are all for him.

“Fuck, Bo,” you whine, wriggling your hips against his face. “Gonna cum.”

“Come on, Baby,” he grunts. “Le’me have it.”

He’s utterly transfixed by the way you try to keep your eyes open when you lose control of your body—like you want to see the man between your legs as he laps up your sweet juices.

It’s a big fuckin’ ego boost, and it goes straight to his head.

Suddenly, he’s standing, looming over you and wrapping a hand around your throat while the other keeps on pettin’ your sweet pussy.

“Bo, please,” you whine, your thighs trembling from the overstimulation. “It’s too much.”

“Bo, please,” he teases you, though he gives you a break long enough to pull his cock free from his boxers, sliding it through your slick before smacking you a couple good times against the clit. “You want this cock, honey?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders while your eyes fixate on where the head of his cock just barely dips into you.

“Words, Sugar,” he insists, the hand on your throat moving to cup your jaw to force you to look him in the eyes. Mistake. His heart flutters at the look of utter need you give him. “You want more than just the tip, you're gonna have to remember your manners.”

“Please, Bo,” you beg, your lip quivering pathetically as you try to will your pretty little head to form thoughts. “Need to feel you inside me.”

Need.

He can’t help himself from sinking into you—‘Need’ feels like a good word when he’s buried deep in the warmth of your sex. He kisses you hard, and he knows damn well his grip on your jaw is gonna bruise—but as long as you keep clinging to him for dear life and moaning so pretty in his mouth he can’t be bothered to care. His tongue traces the curve of your lips, before plunging past your teeth to dance against your own.

“You like tastin’ yourself on me, Sweetheart?”

You nod, stealing another kiss like you can’t help yourself before deigning to speak. “Fuck, Bo, yes.”

One of your hands snakes around to squeeze his throat, and the growl that escapes him is nothing short of feral.

For a split second, he’s enraged that you’d fuckin’ dare, but the manic lust on your face as you choke him is so damn hot he nearly busts right there.

Instead, he pulls out of you, ripping himself from your grasp. You let out a ragged moan from the loss of contact, but he doesn’t give you enough time to be disappointed before grabbing you by the back of the neck and slamming you face down against the table, giving your ass a good hard smack with his free hand.

God damn you’re a filthy slut—wriggling your ass back against him like you’re desperate for it.

Lucky for you, you’re not the only one who’s nasty.

He rams his cock back into your heat, his grip on your neck still forcing your face down into the table as he chases his release like a beast in rut.

He growls in your ear, more animal than man, before taking the lobe between his teeth. “You’re mine, you fuckin’ hear me?”

“Bo!” You shriek, the coil at the core of your pleasure threatening to snap.

“Say you know you’re fuckin’ mine,” he growls. “‘I’m yours, Bo.’” His other hand slips around you to palm your clit roughly, too roughly. “Say. It.”

“I’m YOURS,” you all but sob as you come undone around his cock, body all alight from the too-intense pleasure.

He’s not far behind—his thrusts become erratic, and he doesn’t even care about dragging it out any longer as he explodes inside of you, panting like a dog against your shoulder as your bodies melt into shuddering spasms.

“Damn fuckin’ right.”

He allows himself to slump back into one of the kitchen chairs, dragging you with him with his cock still inside you.

You take his hand to your lips and kiss his knuckles. His heart lurches in his chest.

“Fuck, Bo.” You lean your head back against his shoulder, smiling at him with that blissed out and dumb look on your face. “That’s one way to work up an appetite.”

His hand snakes up to squeeze your titty through his old shirt as he laughs, burying his face in your shoulder.

He can hardly fucking believe you’re real.

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