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pondslime · 1 year ago

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liminal spaces

bo sinclar x afab!reader

rating: explicit

word count: 6.3k

Bo POV. It’s been a long day. Crackin’ open a cold one (and then another, and another) in a town the world forgot.

Crossposted on AO3 here.

⚠️ Established codependent toxic murder couple relationship. Reader’s pretty far gone and is ACTIVELY complicit in the wax murder fuckery. Nothing about this is healthy, lmao! Very dubious consent due to Stockholm Syndrome. References to violence/murders the reader has participated in.

Alcohol consumption and intoxication. Weird affection and drunken banter. Soft but in a VERY strange way because this is the worst situation imaginable, and the reader is clearly Not Doing Well. Childhood abuse/trauma is discussed. Light sprinkling of humor. Lots of kissing. 69ing.

Both parties are varying levels of drunk when the aforementioned making out and 69ing takes place. Bruises/rough sex are briefly mentioned, but the actual smut is very........not rough??? Daddy kink. Light orgasm control/denial and general smug asshole dialogue from Bo. Occasional degrading language. Unfortunately, this is still him we’re dealing with. ⚠️

💭💖@visceravalentines MEG MY BELOVED, thank you so much for this request!! I had a TON of fun working on it. I hope you enjoy it!! it’s kinda goofy, kinda creepy, kinda soft in the worst way possible!

It was messy, doing it in the house like that.

Bo stands and surveys the damage, a thrum of anxious excitement humming under his skin. The shattered remnants of one of the plates you’d prepared litter the floor, an explosion of potatoes and peas smearing the baseboard. All of this was a waste of damn good food—but then again, you never could expect the out-of-towners to have any respect for that kind of thing. Whistling, he picks up the biggest pieces of ceramic, sweeping up the rest and dumping it into the trash.

His eyes land on the knife you left on the counter. There’s blood coating the blade, dripping onto the laminate. He sets it in a glass in the sink, watching red bloom slowly in the soapy water. Glancing down at his hand, he finds his palm slick with blood. His mouth pulls into a smile as he gives the handle a stir. The blood swirls in stringy curls, metal clinking against the glass.

He runs a sponge under the tap and wipes the counter off. Washing the blood from his hand, he looks over at the glass. The bubbles on the surface are pale pink, the glint of the blade faintly visible through the cloudy red water.

He leaves that for later, for you.

He chews absentmindedly at the inside of his mouth as he dries his hands off, staring out the window. The texture of the dishtowel is all wrong—your skin is softer, and that’s what he wants right now. He thinks of the way you’d held the knife, your knuckles blooming white with the pressure.

Kid had been young too. Twenty-something.

God, he’s itching to get his hands on you.

He calls out for you, twisting his head to listen for a response. The only sound that answers him is a low crackle from out in the living room. A record spins on the dusty old turntable, the needle scratching away at the vinyl as it skips. He picks it up and the house falls into silence.

Walking over to the stairs, he calls for you again. Still, no answer. He lets out a frustrated exhale, squinting up at the second floor. He knows that you’re gone before he reaches the top step, but he checks anyway. The rooms are all empty. You must have slipped out when they were moving the bodies.

The needling edge of want in his belly is twisting unpleasantly. The killing was only as fun as what came after it. You couldn’t leave things like that unfulfilled.

Back downstairs, he opens the fridge and pulls out a case of beer.

“Always makin’ me chase you, girl.” He mutters to himself.

He finds you on the back porch of one of Ambrose’s many empty houses, hugging your knees to your chin. The screen door whines against its hinges as he pushes it open. If you hear him, you don’t move.

You startle when he nudges your shoulder with his knee, swiveling your head up to look at him. He offers you one of the beers with a grunt. Setting the case on the wood, he lowers himself down beside you.

“You can’t be runnin’ off like that.”

You make a small noncommittal noise, turning your face back to the dessicated yard. It’s an overgrown tangle of weeds and dirt. An explosion of honeysuckle hangs over the fence, the weather-beaten pickets bending underneath the weight. He follows your gaze across the lawn. A kiddie pool sits in a dense patch of crabgrass, the plastic cracked and sagging. Years of being baked by the sun have left the print nearly indistinguishable, vague splatters of cartoon flowers scattering the sun-baked surface.

He cracks a beer open, watching as you look out at all that nothing.

He was always spooning you out of yourself on days like this. Every time was the first time for you. Eventually, he was sure this would get old. You’d get tired of being tired and you’d stay put.

You haven’t made a move to open your bottle yet, your fingers scratching aimlessly at the label.

If you decide it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. That’s all there is to it. Pa had told him that once. Old man had never been one for good advice, but Bo figured there was something to that. He’d tried to pass that lesson on to you—once with words, once with his hands, once with a screwdriver jammed into the fleshy neck of another tourist.

That was before he figured things out about you. Before he’d realized that telling you things was pointless. So was showing you things. It could be right in front of you and it wouldn’t matter. You could watch him kill, clean up the mess, but you weren’t learning anything. You had to do things yourself. You had to have your hands on the blade.

“Need some help with that?” He reaches for the bottle, and you give it over wordlessly. Opening it easily, he tosses the cap off into the yard.

“Thanks.” Your voice is soft.

“Yup.” He hands the bottle back to you.

You sit there for a bit, sipping on your beers.

“Who used to live here?” Your voice breaks the silence, low and quiet at the back of your throat.

He peers around, glancing up at the rusty old wind chimes. They hang statically overhead, a wooden angel dangling dejectedly from the center string. There’s hardly a breeze today.

“A couple, I think. Had a kid. They didn’t last.”

You pivot your head towards him, a hardness to your stare.

“They moved.” He raises a brow. “Christ, girl. Lookin’ at me like I’m some kinda animal.”

The silence resumes. This time, he’s the one to break it, clearing his throat.

“Whatchu doin’ out here, anyway?”

“I like it here.” You mumble. “It’s peaceful.”

He’s always thought that was a strange way to describe dead things, but he’ll indulge you today.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Sinclair.”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Thought you’d like that.” You raise the bottle to your lips. When you speak again, there’s a sharp edge to your voice. “People trust a family man a lot more than a bachelor.”

“Got me a little actress.” He chuckles. “How many kids you say we have?”

“Twins.” You sigh, pinching at the bridge of your nose.

“Runs in the family.”

“Which side?” You murmur.

“Father’s.” He leans forward, trying to catch your eye.

“Mmm.” You say tonelessly, staring off into the yard.

“You kept those folks occupied for a while.” He states, his voice tinged with begrudging pride. “How you swing that? Thought all that noise would set ‘em off.”

“It almost did.” You take a deep swig of the beer, wincing a bit at the taste. “I just…told them I had two boys running around, so they shouldn’t mind any noises they heard. Said they're fine when they're loud. It's when they get all quiet that you have to worry."

“They buy that?” He arches a brow.

“I guess.” You shrug. “Said they were grounded and pissed.”

“Grounded for what?”

“Oh, uh—” You rub at your temple, squeezing your eyes shut. “I caught them in your shop, messing around. All covered in grease, digging through daddy’s tools.”

“Breakin' shit?”

“I was thinking finger painting in motor oil, but yeah, that works.”

“Little shits.” He lets out a low whistle.

The flicker of a smile teases at the corner of your mouth. It’s gone as fast as it comes. Figures that you don’t want to give it to him yet. You’re a selfish little thing. He takes another pull of the beer, remembering the sound you made when you plunged the knife in.

He’d faltered a bit on purpose back there. Let one of them get the upper hand, just long enough for you to notice. He’d gone down on the floor, hands wrapped around his throat. It wasn’t tight enough to hold him, but you didn’t need to know that. Your eyes were wide and glassy with panic when you’d picked up the knife. It was the same one you’d used to carve the meat out and portion it onto the plates.

When it came down to it, there were two men in the kitchen that afternoon.

One rack of knives and you picked the sharpest one.

He was always giving you choices.

If something loves you, let it go. If it comes back, it comes back with blood on its hands. Somebody had said that once. Probably.

“Pot roast was a nice touch.” He remarks. “Had some of it. Shame most of it ended up on the ground.”

“Can’t believe you could eat after that.” You breathe out.

“Works up an appetite.”

You go quiet next to him. He glances over to find you staring intently down at your shoes, your brow furrowed. There’s blood speckling the toe of your sneakers. He watches as you lean down and begin undoing the laces, pulling them off. Tugging your socks off with a tight exhale, you stuff them into your shoes. With a sigh, you toss them unceremoniously off the porch steps, letting them land messily in the grass.

“You gonna make it?” He knocks his knee against yours.

“Don’t know. Are you?” You reply back tartly. “Mr. Sinclair?”

“Well.” He deliberates for a second, pursing his lips. “That depends on you, baby.”

“What are you talking about?” Your voice is brittle.

“You either know or you don’t.” He shrugs.

You let out a breathy laugh, your mouth working into an open-mouthed grimace. For the first time this afternoon, he sees the shimmer of tears in your eyes. Throwing your head back, you down the rest of your beer. A bit of it spills out of your mouth. You swipe your hand across your lips, rubbing at them for too long, too hard.

When you turn your head to look at him, the tears are gone. They’re just another thing you aren’t giving him today.

“Guess so.” You place the empty bottle down on the stoop with a pointed thud. “Can I get another one of these?”

“Yes ma’am.”

A small collection of bottles has gathered on the porch, brown glass glinting in the warm afternoon light. Out in the yard, you’re standing with your back to him. Hands on your hips, you peer into the kiddie pool. He leans back on his elbows, his eyes tracing up your figure.

“There’s water in this.” You announce, your voice oddly serious.

“Oh yeah?” He calls over. “You gonna jump in?”

You spin on your heel, wobbling a bit. He watches you steady yourself, straightening your neck to fix him with a incredulous expression.

“No. Way.”

“Look at’chu, bein’ all smart.” He smirks. “You a little drunk, girl?”

“Nope.” The word lengthens in your mouth, pops.

“Uh-huh.” He nods, letting his eyes fall closed.

“Bo?” He opens his eyes to find you beckoning him forward excitedly. “Come see!”

He shakes his head. You shoot him a pleading expression. Frowning, he drums his fingers on the wood. Despite his better judgment, he raises himself off the stoop. He’s a bit drunker than he thought he was. Slowly, he makes his way across the yard. You beam up at him when he reaches you, pointing at the pool.

The two of you stand in silence next to each other, peering down into the grimy swill of water. Clumps of scraggly vegetation burst out from the sludge. A gum wrapper bobs dejectedly on the surface, its cheerful neon wrapper covered in muck.

“What am I lookin’ at?” He asks dryly.

“The water.” You exclaim. “There’s…organisms…growing in it.”

“Organisms, huh?” He chews at the inside of his mouth, biting back a laugh.

“Yeah.” You bat your lashes up at him. “I dare you to go in.”

“Don’t know ‘bout that, girl. That water’s lookin’ mighty deep.”

“It’s not deep at all.” You scoff, not registering the sarcasm in his tone. “It’s like…the shallows at a beach.”

“That don’t mean anythin’ too me. Never been to a beach.”

“Never?!” You gape at him, blinking.

“You see any beaches ‘round here, girl?”

“Wait.” He watches as you tilt your head, your eyes narrowing. A flash of realization steals over your face. “Can you swim?”

He debates lying to you, but the liquor in his system answers for him.

“No.”

Your eyes go wide, your mouth curving into a surprised grin.

“You done makin’ fun of me?” He grumbles.

“I’m not. Promise.” Your eyes twinkle. Drunk, you’re not very convincing. “Hey. You know what? I’ll teach you.”

“Oh yeah?” He gestures at the kiddie pool. “In that?”

You snort out an inelegant laugh, your nose crinkling. Grabbing onto his arm for support, you wheeze out a string of jittery cackles.

“Real hilarious.” He mutters, jutting his thumb back towards the porch. “You wanna go sit down ‘fore you hurt yourself?”

You let out an indignant huff, but you follow after him. With moderately more effort than usual, you make your way up the steps. Plopping down next to him on the porch, you reach over, tugging playfully at one of the buttons on his shirt.

“Don’t you get hot in this?”

“I’m used to it.” He picks up his beer. “Gives you grit.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” The liquor’s loosening his lips. “You wanna hear a funny story?”

You nod.

“So, gets real hot in the house. Sure you noticed. Always been like that. And I ‘member one day…had to be summer. Just like this. No breeze. And I…” He pinches his tongue between his teeth, searching back in his memory. “I broke this, uh, statue.”

“Why?” You rest your chin on his shoulder.

“Dunno. Ma had it in the hallway, right next to our room. Couldn’t tell ya’ what it was now. But it was an ugly fuckin’ thing.”

“Where’d she get it?”

“Made it, I reckon. She had a buncha that kinda shit, all ‘round the house.” He swirls the beer around in the bottle idly. “It’s not like I wanted to see it every day. And that’s why she put it there, I figure. She was always doin’ shit like that. Used to really piss me off.”

“So you broke it?”

“Not on purpose. I was just tryin’ to move it. But—” He shrugs, raising the bottle back to his lips. “That’s what happened.”

“Did you try to hide it?”

“Didn’t bother. It wasn’t the kinda break you can fix. There’s no gluin’ it back together.” He smiles a bit. “So you wanna know what I did?”

“What?” You pull back to look at him.

“Broke the rest of ‘em.” He breathes out an exasperated laugh. “Every. Single. Fuckin’. One. And Mama comes home, and oh, she’s mad. Bat outta hell.”

You’re quiet, watching his face.

“Downstairs, that’s Vinny’s now, but it wasn’t always.” He clears his throat, smacking his lips. “Used to be a root cellar. We added onto it, over time.”

“Yeah?”

“And she…” He laughs, leaning back on his elbows. “Stuck me down there for a bit. Put somethin’ on top of the hatch. Dunno what it was, but I couldn’t push it open. I was real scared. It’s dark down there and your eyes don’t—uh—they don’t adjust. Least mine didn’t. ‘Cuz there’s nothin’ down there to look at. It’s just those walls, and they’re just dirt.”

You don’t say anything in response. He continues.

“Dunno how many times I tried that door. And I kept feelin’ like there was somethin’ down there. Kept hearin’ things. But nothin’ ever came. Know why? It was just me down there.” His lips curve into a grin. “Wasn’t scared of the dark after that, I’ll tell ya’.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight. Nine.” He shakes his head dismissively. “Old enough to know better.”

You’re silent. When he looks over at you, your mouth has flattened into a thin line.

“What? Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

“That’s awful.”

“Says you, city girl.” He snaps. The concern on your face is making him feel oddly exposed, pinning him under the spotlight of your stare. “Shoulda known you wouldn’t know what the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Hey—”

“You grew up soft.” He spits out. “Never had to grow a backbone.”

You open your mouth and he cuts you off.

“You gonna tell me I’m wrong?” He glares at you. “Gonna pretend like that ain’t the reason you’re still here?”

“Bo—”

“Leave it.” He nods towards your beer. “It’s gonna be flat by the time you get ‘round to drinkin’ it.”

He’s not sure why he told you that story. It’s not like it had much to do with heat, anyway. Underground, it was cool.

You slowly shift away from him, angling your body back towards the yard. The porch creeks as you move.

The longer the silence drags on, the more it feels as if he can hear it. It’s a shuffling, rustling thing. It’s the type of sound you hear in a dark room, surrounded by wet earth. A sound that isn’t really there. He wrinkles his nose a bit, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth. Dimly, he can feel the slither of the noxious feeling that creeps over him from time to time. It comes on slow, starting as a insistent twitch in his eye. That’s before it begins to crowd around him, turning the taste on his tongue sour and flipping in his stomach.

You’re always tripping him back into old memories. Of course you are. You like dead places like that. You said it yourself. You find peace in all that nothingness.

He glares down at his hands. His goddamn wrists itch. There’s something wrong with you—wrong from the start, wrong in the way you just can’t fix. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.

Beside him, you clear you throat, raising your bottle up so you can peer at the label.

“Bottled in New Orleans.” You read out. “Have you ever been out there?”

He furrows his brow. Your question has sent his brain tunneling away from his thoughts. He wants to be irritated at you for that, but the soft buzz of alcohol is making that difficult.

“Yeah.” He grunts, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Played football in high school. We had a game out there. Grew up, went back. Been there a couple times.”

“What’s it like?” You chirp.

“It’s a city.” He shrugs. The silence is loosening its hold around his stomach.

You sigh, displeased with his answer. Setting your beer down on the bottom step, you fidget with your hands. Tentatively, you bump your leg against his. He glances down at you. Grudgingly, he claps his hand down on your knee. Emboldened by his vague acceptance of your affection, you scoot closer. He stretches his legs out as you lower yourself down, laying your head on his lap.

“Is it nice there?” You look up at him, your hair spilling over his thighs.

“If you like that kinda place, yeah. Sure.” He wraps his hand around your throat lazily, enjoying the even feel of your pulse against his skin. “Food’s good, music’s what you’d expect.”

“I heard it’s haunted.”

“Didn’t see no ghosts. Ya’ know what I did see? Bunch’a drunk idiots.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Was one for a couple weeks.”

“Really.” You giggle a bit. “Will you take me there?”

“Sure.” He huffs out a laugh. “Bring the kids, get the vows renewed.”

“Good.” You say, grinning up at him. “I want a beignet.”

Your blatant mispronunciation has a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll getcha one.”

“You promise?” You fix him with a surprisingly earnest expression.

He can promise you something now, even if he doesn’t mean to keep it. Dulled under the haze of alcohol, his thoughts are dizzy, impossible things.

“Yeah.”

He runs his thumb along the column of your neck and your eyes flutter shut. There’s a bruise against your throat. Taking another sip of beer, he circles it with his finger.

“I give ya’ this?”

“Yeah?” Your eyes snap open and you stare up at him quizzically. “Who else would?”

“Dunno. Figured it was from one of your New Orleans boys.”

“Well, you haven’t taken me there yet, so…it can’t be.” You roll your eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “I haven’t met any yet. It’s always just you.”

“Lots’a attitude today. Don’t think I deserve that, honey.”

He’s sobered up some by the time the two of you make it off the porch and into the house. Not by much, but enough that he’s steady on his feet. He can’t exactly say the same for you.

In the kitchen, you flip through a tattered telephone directory, gazing down at the faded print. He comes up behind you, resting his hand on the small of your back. Exterminators, landscaping, law offices. You turn another page and pause. The House of Wax looms in a full-page spread. Printed in black-and-white, it looks larger than life, its doors flung open in invitation.

Bring the whole family! Fun for all ages!

“There it is.” You say softly, tapping at the paper.

“Huh. Must’a been when they were still payin’ for ad-space. 80-somethin’—” He pats at his pockets, his brow scrunching. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“Didn’t bring any smokes.”

Your eyes widen and you jolt up.

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” He frowns.

“I, um, I got these off one of the guys from earlier.” You reach behind you. “They’re your favorite and I—”

Eyes alight, you brandish a box of cigarettes in front of him. They’re Marlboro’s, a bit crumpled from being sat on, but otherwise intact. He plucks them out of your palm, turning the box over in his hands. Flecks of dried blood speckle the label.

When he looks up at you, you’re shifting a bit back and forth on your feet, blinking up at him. He flips the lid open, taking a cigarette out.

“Well, ain’tchu all peaches and cream.” Walking over to a dusty table, he pulls a chair out. Dragging it along the tile, he angles it to face you. Sitting down, he fishes his lighter out of his pocket and offers it to you. “You wanna come light this for me?”

You nod, quickly bridging the gap between the two of you. He rests the cigarette between his lips, watching as you raise the lighter up. After a moment, the flame catches. He lifts his hand, inhaling a mouthful of smoke. Resting the cigarette between his fingers, he glances up at you.

“Put that on the table and c’mere.”

Pulling you down onto his lap, he takes another drag of the cigarette. He slips his hand under your tank top, pushing the hem up to wrap his fingers around your waist. Your skin feels softer today, warmer—he’s not sure if that’s the alcohol muddying his head, but he likes the way it feels under his hand. You hum in contentment, leaning forward to press your lips to his brow, trailing kisses down his nose.

“You wanna tell me what you want?” He asks.

“I don’t…want anything.” You pull back to look at him, tilting your head in confusion.

“Nothin’ at all?” He watches you intently.

“…No.”

“Gettin’ me shit. Kissin’ me like that.” He sighs. “You’re tryin’ to make me sweet on you. It ain’t gonna work.”

“I’m not!” You exclaim, eyes wide with surprise. You drop your voice to a hushed murmur, your eyes flickering down his face and landing on his lips. “Anyway, I don’t want you sweet.”

“You don’t?” He arches a brow, flashing you a bemused smile.

You shake your head slowly, humming out a low sound of dissent.

“Don’t want me treatin’ you nice, huh?” He teases. “Looks like we’re learnin’ all kinds of things about each other today. You wanna tell me what you do like?”

“You.” You don’t miss a beat.

“Uh-huh.” He smirks. “That so?”

“I would’ve gone to your football game.” You blurt out suddenly. “I wanna see you play. I bet you were good.”

“Depends who you ask.”

You play with the neckline of his shirt, dipping your fingers underneath it to stroke at his collarbone. He watches as you fiddle with the buttons on his overshirt, scrunching your brow up in concentration. Halfway down, your fingers worry uselessly at the fabric. You pinch your lips into a pursed frown, peering intently at the machinations of the button-down.

“Need some help there?”

You nod gratefully, dropping your hands from his shirt.

“Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you.” He laughs. “You don’t know which way’s up, angel.”

“I know a lot of things.” You announce.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like…I can’t be that drunk. Because you had the same amount as me.” You widen your eyes at him, your pupils blown out from the alcohol. “And you’re fine.”

“I had more.” He snorts. “Not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”

“Is that bad?” Your lips twist into a frown.

“You tell me, baby. You feel good?”

You smile at him, giving a small bob of your head in reply.

“Hold this.” He extends the cigarette to you.

He leans back in the chair, unbuttoning the rest of his overshirt. Shrugging it off, he watches as you raise the cigarette to your lips. He indulges you for a minute, resting back in the chair as you blow out a wispy curl of smoke. Reaching forward, he snatches the cigarette out of your hand.

“I was gonna finish that.” You protest. Flicking it onto the floor, he crushes it under the heel of his boot.

“Ain’t lettin’ ya’.” He shakes his head. “It’s a bad habit, baby.”

You open your mouth to argue and he shushes you. Cupping his hand against the back of your neck, he pulls your face towards his. Your mouth tastes like smoke when he kisses you. You run your hands up his chest, resting them on his shoulders.

You’re bold in a way you never are when you’re sober, all hazy and loosened up in his lap. You tug at his bottom lip softly with your teeth when you pull back from the kiss, rocking your hips against him. He raises his hand to your lips, easing your mouth open with his thumb. You lick at the pad of his finger, curving your tongue around it. Reaching up, you wrap your hand around his wrist, swallowing your lips around the tip of his thumb.

“Could get you to do anythin’.” He mutters, watching your eyes fall closed as you suck on it. “Goddamnit, girl.”

He pulls you in again, kissing the side of your face. Your skin tastes like summer, the shimmer of sweat from the sun on your cheek. You’re warm and sweet and close and he’d like more of that on his tongue.

“Think you can make it upstairs?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You smile. “I’m really not that drunk.”

“Sure, baby.”

Up in the bedroom, you lean your back against the faded wallpaper.

Golden rays pierce through the smudged windows, casting long beams of light onto the hardwood floor. When he pulls at the latches, they crack open with a showering of dust. Throwing off the blanket that covers the bed, he tosses it to onto the ground. Sitting down on the edge of it, he undoes the laces of his boots. Setting them on the floor, he inclines his head toward your jeans.

“Take ‘em off.”

You give him a lopsided smile as you work the denim down your hips. He pushes himself back, tucking a stack of pillows behind his head. You step out of your pants, kicking them to the side.

“C’mere.”

If you were sober, he might have a harder time coaxing you onto the bed. As it stands, though, you climb on without protest. He watches as you undo his belt, fidgeting with the fly of his jeans. He lets you pull him out of his boxers, trailing your fingers up his cock. It’s only when you move to dip your head down that he taps at your knee.

“Up here, baby.” He motions at you.

You look up at him in confusion. Scooting forward slowly, you watch his face.

“Turn around.”

You bite into your bottom lip and worry with the flesh there. Hesitantly, you turn. Without warning, he pulls you on top of him. You let out a muffled sound of surprise as he readjusts himself a bit, tugging your legs higher. You brace your hands on either side of his thighs, craning your head back to try to look at him.

“What are you—” He drops a kiss on your pussy through the cotton.

“Can taste you through these.” He rumbles out, his mouth pressed against the fabric. “Wet all the way through.”

Despite the warmth of the room, your skin prickles with goosebumps. You let out a shaky breath as he slides his hands up your thighs. You’re so still on top of him, hands flexing against his jeans. He reaches up and eases your panties off, letting them slip down your legs. His eyes slide down to your pussy, the shine of wetness obvious between your folds. He doesn’t touch you yet, pulling your legs further apart to get a better look.

“All this just from kissin’?” Raising his mouth up, he ghosts his breath along your sensitive flesh. “Oh, darlin’.”

He feels you shift slightly, your breath hitching in anticipation. He nudges at your clit with his bottom lip and you gasp.

“Hey, listen to me. I want you to do somethin’ for me.”

“Anything.” The word falls from your lips instantaneously.

“Don’t you cum til’ I say. You feel it, you hold it. You hear me, girl?”

“Yes.” Your voice wafts up to him, shaky and uneven.

“Yes, what?” He grunts when he feels your hand wrap around the base of his cock.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Get your mouth ‘round that dick.”

Your hand strokes up his cock as you lick a broad stripe along the side. Pulling you down onto his mouth, he grazes over your clit, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Tipping his chin up, he rounds his lips around it in an open-mouthed kiss. You freeze, your hands stilling and your mouth going slack. Your breathing is uneven, your lips hovering over the head of his cock.

“You forget how to suck dick?” He pulls back, flicking sharply at your thigh with his index finger. “Keep goin’.”

You drag your tongue around the head of his cock in messy spirals, lapping at the slit with tiny, careful flicks. Bobbing your head, you work your tongue up and down the veins.

You let out a yelp when he strokes his fingers between your legs, prodding at your entrance. He sinks a finger into you, and you give way easily around him. You arch back gratefully, your moan a dizzying vibration against his cock. When you swirl your tongue up his cock, he adds another finger, curling them inside you. He pumps his fingers into you, feeling your walls clench tightly around them. With a soft mewl, you raise your mouth off his cock.

“You’re gettin’ distracted, darlin’.” He murmurs. “Stay focused.”

“I’m trying.” You whine against his skin.

“Not hard enough.” He smirks, squeezing at the soft flesh of your thighs.

“Daddy…”

“It’d be a real shame to leave you like this, baby.” He muses. “Figure you wanna cum, huh?”

You keen out your agreement, your breath hot against his skin.

“But you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’.” He sighs, pulling his fingers out of you. “You gotta put the work in, darlin’.”

He feels your body shake as you nod, taking him back into your mouth with a moan. Your lips close around him, and he lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Now there’s my girl.”

He flattens his tongue against you, licking up your pussy in long, lazy sweeps. Slowly, he drags his tongue onto your clit, lapping against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You tremble on top of him, bowing your head to take him deeper. All those little noises you’re making are vibrating back on his cock, making him pulse hungrily in the wet clasp of your mouth.

Once again, you lose the rhythm you’ve set, your lips falling open. He chuckles, clucking his tongue in disapproval.

“What am I gonna do with you, baby…” Leaning his head back, he reaches up to drag his thumb through your folds, playing with the wetness there. You gasp, your hand trembling around his cock. “Ya’ know, if I didn’t know better, I’d figure you were ‘bout to cum.”

You moan.

“But you wouldn’t, not when I told ya’ to hold it, right?”

“Daddy, please.” Your voice is strained. The desperate edge to your voice has his cock twitching, heat building in his belly.

“Always wantin’ somethin’.” He murmurs. “Little slut.”

You aren’t going anywhere, not with all that blood on your hands. He dips his tongue into you, running his hand up your thigh. You hate him half the time and you hate the killing more. But that’s what makes you like this, leaves you wet and begging and his. You rock back on his tongue, your moan garbled around his cock.

You only hate things that are part of you. You inhale enough smoke and it’ll catch up to you eventually. You can’t take that back.

With a choked sob, you raise your head off his cock, high-pitched, stilted cries falling out of your lips. You desperately try to take him back into your mouth, but your lips shake, panting hot and useless against his skin. Poor thing. Your desire to please him can’t ever match that needy hunger between your legs.

You whine when he withdraws his mouth, violent little tremors racking up your legs and making them shake.

“Gotta ask you somethin’.”

You kiss up his cock, a broken cry tipping out of your mouth. It’s a sweet gesture, a pretty apology. He’ll forgive you, but he won’t tell you that—it’ll mean less if you know. He rubs at your clit with his thumb, watching you twitch helplessly under his finger.

“You like killin’ for me?” He asks. You tremble, whimpering against his thigh. “Like the way it feels? It make you wet?”

“Yes.” You whisper.

“Then you can cum, baby.” He says, tugging you close again. “You earned it.”

He seals his mouth around your clit and you’re thanking him for it, over and over again. You’re summer on his tongue, salt and skin and that edge of sweetness you only give him when you think he isn’t paying attention. You tense up on top of him, pressing back onto his mouth with a pitched sob. You shudder with a full-body shiver as you cum, the air filling with your moans.

Still shaking, you lean forward to wrap your lips around him with renewed fervor. He grits his teeth. He’s close, closer than he thought, the warmth of your mouth dragging him wildly towards the edge.

“Just like that.” He bites out, digging his fingers tightly into your thighs. “Don’t fuckin’ stop.”

You’re wet, you’re in his mouth, you’re stealing cigarettes off a dead man. He’ll take you to the city with a wallet full of bloodstained cash and you’ll sit on his lap in a bar.

“Goddamnit, girl.” He groans, his jaw tensing up. His hips buck up and you gag, spit dribbling down his cock. You take him deep as he spills in your mouth, swallowing your lips around the base. He grits his teeth as the pleasure rolls through him, dribbling out of him onto your tongue.

Even as the sensation begins to ebb, you keep him in your mouth, gently sucking around his softening prick. Milking out the rest of his cum, your hands stroke up and down his thighs.

He swallows roughly, wetting his lips. They taste like you.

“That’s good, baby.” He breathes.

You lift your mouth off of him with a satisfied sigh, dropping kisses along his length. With shaky hands, you reach back and pull your panties back into place. Climbing off him gingerly, you turn to face him. You’re starry-eyed and weak, wiping drool off your chin. He opens his arms a bit and you lower yourself down into them.

The sun is slipping away now, hanging low in the sky. He watches the dust motes bounce in the pale gold light. You nuzzle into the crook of his arm, your breathing slow and rhythmic beside him. He’s almost sure you’ve fallen asleep when you raise your head off his chest.

“Did you mean it?” Your expression is pensive.

He could ask you the same thing.

“What?”

“About New Orleans.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, shaking his head. “You get in the truck, I’ll take you right now.”

“You’re not supposed to drink and drive.” You yawn.

"Course, ‘cuz we’re law abidin’ citizens. How’s tomorrow sound?”

Tomorrow, he’d take you back to the house and the days would begin again. There was work to do in the morning, wakes to visit, more glass to sweep up. Sometimes you ask him questions just to see what he’ll say. He never knows what you want him to tell you.

“I’d like that.” You shoot him a tired smile.

It was a nice dream. There wasn’t enough gas in the tank, though. Not enough to get much of anywhere.

“You got it, then.”

#he shouldn't have worn the stupid hat if he was not prepared 4 this #if ur willing to talk the talk. u better be ready 2 walk the walk.#ILY MEG I HOPE U LIKE THIS MWAH MWAH MWAH #house of wax #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #slashers x reader #slasher fandom #x reader #my fics

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