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slasherrcentral · 2 years ago

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Don’t Fear The Reaper — Bo Sinclair. (18+)

Summary: after getting sent on a work related business trip in the dead of summertime, your car overheats and you’re left with no other choice but to pull off at a truck- stop. and when a disarming southern stranger offers to help you out, you’re inclined to accept, in absolutely no position to decline his hospitality. but in hindsight, you should’ve turned tail and ran like the wind.

Notes: filth, absolute degradation, nothing but. i dont know where the inspiration for this actually stemmed from, but i’m such a slut for mechanic beauregard. this is heavily a noncon story, there WILL be sexual assault below the cut. please do proceed with caution. trigger warnings galore!!! you’re getting fucked in a disgusting bathroom. also, reader is thick asf. also, yes, all my stories WILL be this long. i like details, what can i say?

Dedications: @bosinclairz @ventiswampwater @leewalkin @visceravalentines 🫶🏻

Warnings: sexual assault under the cut, abuse, foul language, spit eating and blood, dub con, non con, forced orgasm. please be mindful of your trigger’s and proceed with caution.

The summer air was thick and heady — both windows down, radio cranked up, good spirit in your veins. This was your last chance to prove yourself to the ignorant, arrogant man that you had the misfortune of referring to as your boss. He was a royal pain in your ass, and it seemed like he got off on making you fidget.

Your last chance to move up within’ a highly publicized company that you’ve dedicated your very blood, sweat and tears into, since you graduated high school. You’d eagerly jumped at the opportunity — wanting to show them that you’re more than another name, that you’re worth something even when your boss recommended someone prettier and skinnier to go in your place. You packed a bag within’ the hour—pencil skirt scratching your thigh’s, and bid farewell to your loved ones, all of whom couldn’t be more proud, and neither could you. Your outfit was tight, constricting your airflow to your cushy stomach — but you forced yourself not to care, forced yourself to feel pretty for once, a little bit of fat wasn’t going to deter you from success just ahead of you, waiting with open and welcoming arms. There’s nothing that could stop you, not now.

Well, maybe a sputtering engine could. Cursing, your hands found the steering wheel and pounded. This is exactly your luck, your car giving out on you, halfway through your six hour drive. You couldn’t believe it, it seemed possible. How was this your luck? And when pillowy, black clouds of thick smoke came from your engine, you knew it was reality. This was happening, your vehicle was about to fucking explode. Glancing around frantically, you saw a sign for a rest/truckers stop, lurking about half a mile down the road. It was unclear whether or not you would make it but you’re going to try, hitting the gas pedal, throwing on head hazard lights. You’d careened slowly to the trucker’s stop, sighing in relief once you pull into a safer spot; thanking the sweet lord above that you didn’t get in some sort of fatal accident along the way.

Cursing, you threw open your door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind you with fervor. You were a rabid dog, pulling at your hair and baring your white teeth, pulling open the hood of your car. You’d been watching your father working on vehicle’s since you could babble the word mama, and you had come to observe and learn quite a few things along the way; including what an overheating engine sounded like. Sputtering out a cough as grease and tar overcame every sense in your body, you backed away quickly, waving your hand to rid the smoke.

Glancing down at the damage, you were immediately sent into a panic. You raced back into your front seat, where your phone sits idly in the center console. You didn’t know if you’d get a signal through or not, your hands were beginning to shake, but it’s worth a shot, worth a long shot in the dark. Pacing, you dialed 911, only to be greeted with white static noise. You could imagine your boss telling your supervisor that you’re unreliable, that he knew this was going to happen. It gnawed a deep, black hole into your ambitious core; chipping away with a digging tool until you’re hollow, withering away like a flower in the sunshine that was deprived of water for too long. And when a rumbling, southern drawl echoed from behind you, you almost screamed out to whatever god was listening.

The phone dropped from your hands, forgotten onto black pavement. The man threw both of his hands in the air, taking two solid steps backwards. You would have badgered him to get away from you but after a glance in his direction, you’re left speechless. There couldn’t be a doubt that he was beautiful - rigid jaw pointed and prominent, deep blue eyes captivating, brown curls peeking out from beneath his old, blue trucker’s cap. Grease was staining his fingers, nails chipped and dirty. Your guard came down but only some, apologies echoing from chapped lips. When nights mellowed into mornings- and push came to shove, you’re a real sucker for blue eyes.

“You scared the shit outta me,” You breathed, “I’m so sorry for squealing at you like that, probably sounded like a stuck pig.” Sweat lined your brow and the tight, constricting collar of your button up shirt. Your chest, busty and the cause of your two undone buttons, are certainly not missed by the stranger before you. And with most men, you’d be inclined to tell them to take their eyes and shove them up their own ass, but that damned mop of unruly curls made you decide not to. What’s the wrong that could come of it, anyway? His genuine concern seemed … well, genuine.

“Don’t bother me none,” He flashes a wolffish grin in your direction, “Noticed ‘yer havin’ some car trouble, anythin’ that I could do to help ‘ya out?” That accent wasn’t missed, made you weak in the knees, made it rather hard to form a proper sentence. You nod, with your chin jutting towards the hood where smoke has started to bellow from the seams. He whistled, high- pitched and sudden like he was calling a mutt home, making you jump out of your skin once again. When tension seemed to fill the air he filled in blank space, honey-coated smiles and coos within’ moments. It’s ironic now, how naive you’d been at the time, seeing absolutely no reason for distrust. Why else would he have stopped on the side of the road in a half-assed trucker’s rest stop, if not to lend a hand? Stupid girl, should’ve known better, could’ve called up a nearby towing station and gotten the hell outta dodge.

Carefully inching closer, as if not to startle you again; he’d closed the distance in between you both, brown work boots hitting the pavement with soft thuds as a strong, thick hand came down to grasp the car hood before yanking it up with a careful precision that had peaked your curiosity, wondering how many different occasions that he’s had to do this before. After you’d caught yourself staring at his hand’s and the big, red pendant novelty ring on his finger, you opted to clear your throat and take a few steps back from the thick, black tendrils that bellowed from the engine. And as you’re looking back on it now, you should’ve noticed how his eyes never left your bare legs or how his wet, pink tongue ran across his top lip after you had bent down to collect your phone from the ground.

“That’s a damn shame, cher.” He tuts, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Engine’s sputterin’ like hell, surprised that ‘ya even made it this far out. From the city, I mean, by the looks of that get-up.” A glance was thrown in your direction, starting from your heels and working up to your pencil skirt and button blouse, stopping at your hair that you’d pulled into a tight bun and was perched high on top of your head. Oil stained fingers itched to reach up and pull at the strands until your scalp scorched and burned. He smiled at you, an open and inviting grin, satan’s den in the form of man. That smile never quite reached his eyes.

“That obvious, huh?” You chortled, “My asshole boss sent me out here, told me it wasn’t a far trek, guess it was a little bit further than I’m prepared for.” Your car, nicknamed ‘ole bessie, has been passed down to you from your older brother and was at least fifteen years old. But judging from the stranger’s beaten up, filthy truck, you could guess that his was even older. He is smirking at you now, lopsided and amused. And you blushed—opting to chew on your bottom lip instead, breaking eye contact.

“Got some coolant in ‘mah truck. Once the engine has time to cool on down, that should do the trick.” He has pulled a cigarette out of the front pocket of his stained, dark blue mechanic’s jumpsuit. Cocking an eyebrow at you — he holds the crumpled, soft pack out in offering, and you accepted with a soft ‘thank you kindly.’ Its not very often that you indulged in smoking, but in light of your current predicament, you found it hard to say no. After lighting his up, he took two large strides forward, holding the lighter under the cancer stick for you. He’s stolen another glance down your blouse, too, seems it didn’t matter to him if you’d noticed or not. You had to admit, at the time, you’d found it extremely attractive; having never really been ogled so unabashedly before.

“I really appreciate this,” You express, “Didn’t have to stop and help. I have some money in purse that I can give you for your troubles.” You were about to go and grab your purse from the front seat — eager to show gratitude for his kindness in any-way possible, but a thick, ringed hand shot out to catch your wrist.

“Won’t be necessary, darlin’. Momma raised herself a gentleman, don’t take money from pretty girls.” He is beaming at you, cigarette tucked between his canine teeth and low, honeyed voice softer than before. You didn’t realize you were blushing until he has stepped around you, walking towards his own truck, in hopes he’d be able to locate the fluid that your car needed; adjusting his cap on his head, showcasing chestnut brown curls that framed the nape of his neck. You’d assumed that he wanted you to stay put so you did, puffing on the cigarette to ease your nerves. Rifling through his truck bed, you could hear some swears leaving his lips — brow’s furrowed in concentration, smoke curling around his chiseled, scarred jaw-line. Briefly, you wondered how he’d gotten it.

You stubbed the cigarette out beneath your pumps, sated for the time being. You’d catch those piercing eyes, from time to time, flicking back to you. You’re positive that he could tell you’re still on edge. What doesn’t help matters either is the comment he had made, calling you pretty. It’s wasn’t often that folks called you pretty and when they did, it was with an intention of getting into your pants. Nothing more- nothing less. But, there was something about him, something that made his crude gestures flattering. Butterflies erupted in your stomach.

Holding up a bottle of coolant, the stranger sauntered back over to you, flicking his smoke onto the black tar, leering victoriously. You sighed in relief, thanking your lucky stars. Because if it wasn’t for this man, you’d be rowing up shit’s creek without a paddle.

“Forgettin’ my manners. Names Bo,” He was pressing past you and setting out to work on your engine, now that your car had time to cool down. When he leaned over, you couldn’t help but notice marred, pink scars, decorating both of his wrists. Looked painful, like his appendages throbbed and ached. “This oughta help, have ‘ya back out on the road within’ the next hour.”

“I’m (Y/N). Nice to meet you,” You’re smiling, “Is Bo short for something? I don’t mean to pry,” You were genuinely curious and attempting to make a decent conversation, seems like you’re going to be here for quite a while longer— if what he said held any truth.

“Beauregard,” He retorted from over his shoulder, “I didn’t like it much growin’ up, don’t mind it now. But your name, now that’s a mighty fine name. Suits you, sugar. I’m just about done here, too.”

All of the pet names were throwing you for a tail spin, disarming you before you even realized it. That’s the thing about serpents - they wait for the right time to strike, the most opportune moment. And now when you’d remember this day- you’d remember just how easy it was to talk to him. How there was no tension, awkwardness or regret hanging in the air. And more than anything else, you remember hoping he might offer to take you out on a date or ask for your phone number. Stupid, stupid fucking girl.

He asked you about your job, about your friends and your family. He listened intently as you spoke, telling this perfect stranger your life’s story. He chuckled at jokes you made, told you a little bit about just where he’s from, told you that he’s an active mechanic.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna run to the restroom real quick. Wait here for me?” You bat your eyelashes, and send him your most charming simper. You hoped that might convince him to wait before heading out on the road again, so you would have the chance to give him your cell phone number. Much to your delight - it had worked out in your favor. He tipped his cap to you like some good ‘ole southern boy, leaning against the old, rusted exterior of his vehicle.

“I’ll be right here, sugar. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing.”

You felt like you were walking on air on your way to the nearest restroom. It was getting dark quickly and your boss was going to ream your ass whenever you finally making it to the hotel tonight, ready to be up early for the conference that was going to change your life. It’s safe to say that time was of the essence. The air in the restroom was rabid—and you fought the urge to close your fingers over your nose as the door slammed shut behind you. When you turned to lock the door, there’s nothing there. Just an old, rusted latch, fucking great. Oh well, you shouldn’t be long at all.

After relieving yourself, you stood in front of the sink and grimy mirror. Your hair was becoming disheveled in this thick Louisiana heat, your mascara was smudged, there was a sheen of sweat on your chest and brow. It wasn’t missed by you just how badly your chest could be seen, rippling through the buttons and standing at proud attention. Jesus Christ, you looked like a whore, no wonder this man stopped to help you out after you looked like a picture of perfect filth. After washing the grime from your normally pristine hands—it was then that the flimsy wooden door rattled. You jumped, you gripped the sink in surprise. When it happened again, you were inclined to squeak out a response.

“Um, I’m in here! Sorry, I’ll be done soon.” Quickly, you began drying your hands and making a quick break for the door. Hopefully, the handsome stranger would still be waiting for your arrival. But after the door slammed opened, and you screamed, you realized that he could not be waiting for you back at his truck. Because he is right in front of you, and he’s snarling, and he doesn’t even look like same person anymore. You were frozen, eyes wide and lips trembling, backing up into the sink. What was happening? You couldn’t think straight, but before you even had the chance to question, Bo kicks the door shut with the back of his brown boot, top lip curled up like the sight of you disgusted him and also enraptured him all at the same time.

“W-what are you doing in here, Bo?” Your heart rate is picking up now, pulse going off the charts. You look at your surroundings and there was nowhere to go— you were trapped like a caged animal. Your cell phone was back out in your car, nobody knew where the hell your vehicle was stranded at and you didn’t have a weapon close by to defend yourself with. There was absolutely nothing standing between you and him. You began to cry, you weren’t a moron— you knew what he wanted. You should’ve known what he wanted earlier.

“It’s real cute how dumb you girls get.” He takes a step forward, eyes glinting. “Tell me darlin’, did you think i’d just let ya flash those fat tits at me and not do anythin’ about it? ‘Yer in my parish, sweetheart. Nothin’s free.”

“Let me leave. Please,” You pleaded with him, “Please, you’re scaring me. I don’t want this,” You backed into a corner, jolting when you hit the wall, putting two hands up to press against his chest when he closed in on you, beginning to panic. You pictured him taking you out on the town, bringing flowers to your door, pressing a soft kiss to your lips when the night came to an end. This is not what you wanted, not how you wanted it, not what you were expecting. You’d been fooled, the mask is off now and he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, waiting for the right time to attack the unsuspecting rabbit.

“You wound me, darlin’. Makin’ them eyes at me, skirt ridin’ up them big ole’ thighs. What did ‘ya really think was gonna happen? Didn’t your parents ever teach ya not to be takin’ candy from strangers?” Bo mocked, a cruel pout forming on his lips.

His breath fanned in your face. Sweet and smoky, like mint gum and cigarettes. His rough, calloused hand’s moved from the supple flesh of your hips, to your ass, and then up to your tits, where he squeezed until you thought they’d burst under his iron tight grip. His lips were on your neck now, where he bites harshly at the sensitive skin under your ear. You squealed and push against him, nails clawing at his mechanic’s suit and raking down the right side of his face, where blood’s drawn and slowly blossoming to the surface.

The formidable man pinning you against the wall let a pained hiss escape his lips, bringing two fingers up to survey the damage done to his pretty face. And when those fingers returned to his line of sight, glistening a crimson red, his smirk disappeared in moments, with something similar to rage taking over his features.

Grabbing a fistful of your hair, pressing your head back against the mucky wall — his knee pressed in between your legs and resting solidly against your clothed cunt, which had bile rising in your throat and an unwelcome heat pooling in your stomach, he smacked you across the face before you had the chance to plead for mercy, so hard that little while specks began to dance around your vision. Your lip busted open, you could feel it and the gravity of your predicament begins setting in. You cried out in pain, couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t stop white hot terror from bubbling up in your gut. You did not stop pushing against his chest, the sound of your expensive pumps scraping against the floor as you’re trying desperately to gain enough leverage to punch, scratch or claw at him, any fucking thing to get away.

“P-please, stop! Don’t hurt me,” You blubber, “Just let me go, I won’t say anything to anyone! I swear it,” You understand how you it sounded, but you’re so scared; worried that he planned to do more than just a simple smack across the face. You’re effectively sobbing and both of your hands are grasping at his shirt collar, like he’d anchor you to the ground. Bo snickered at you, a menacing and complex sound. Leaning forward, he’s licking the warm and salty moisture that is gathering from his cruel treatment off of both cheeks. And you, making a noise of disgust, flinched when his lips had grazed over the spot where he just smacked you.

And when both of his hands came up to tug your shirt from your body so hard that button’s went flying in all sorts of directions, hitting the dirty floor with a clatter, you’re certain that you might melt into the floor. That sickening tear of fabric would be embedded into your memory for the rest of your life, the glint in his ocean blue hues when he see’s your nipples standing at full attention through the thin fabric of your bra. You had your arms crossed over your chest, your eyes welling with fresh tears, your entire frame shaking like a leaf. Fingers came forward to grab both of your sensitive, stiffened nipples in a vice grip and pull. It hurt badly, stinging like wasps and hot like fire.

“S-stop! Get away from me, fucking psycho!” You’re making a move to head for the door, having used the leverage from your leg against his thigh to push hard against his chest and send him into the sink. You got your fingers wrapped around the doorknob — barely, before he descended on you again. The hair that you spent hours doing this morning was mulled between meaty fingers, nails digging into your scalp painfully, your head snapping backwards and a hand crashing over your mouth to stop the screams from releasing.

“Little fuckin’ bitch,” He panted gruffly into your hair, “Where ‘ya think you’re goin’, hm? There ain’t no one comin’ round these parts after dark. It’s you and me, sugar, ain’t that sweet? ‘M gonna fill ‘ya up so good.”

You were back against the wall—this time your face is smushed against it uncomfortably and your plea’s for mercy are garbled under the weight of his hand. Your attempting to bite him, but he’s got your sore mouth clasped so tightly that you could hardly open it. He’s ripping your bra from your body, using enough of his strength to tear the straps from your skin. His hands were all over your chest, the skin spilling through his fingers. His erection was firm against the prominent, fleshy swell of your ass through your skirt. His knees were pressed against the back of your thigh, forcing your legs apart. You’re still sobbing, he doesn’t care.

“Wish I could take a nice, big bite out of these yummy tits, darlin’. Would die a happy man.” Bo was pinching, pulling and twisting your nipples. And when he finally gets his fill of berating your chest with calloused and bluecollar fingers, he then bit down on your shoulder, making you squeal under his assault and underneath the weight of his hand. He kept his teeth locked onto the junction of your collarbone and your throat as he used this opportunity to shove your skirt down. Your haze diminished then, and you were back to fighting against his hold, screaming against his palm despite how exhausted you were.

“Shut the fuck up, girl.” Bo cooed softly into your ear, breath fanning against the nape of your neck. Those words were said so softly, so sternly, that one might assume he was trying to soothe a child who has just thrown a temper tantrum. “Wouldn’t wanna have to rough up this beautiful fuckin’ face some more now, would we, sugar? Already bruisin’ like a little peach.”

You cowered, reduced to nothing but horrified mewls, your knees wobbling in place as he makes quick work out of sliding the hand that was not clasped over your mouth down the front of your belly, stopping to fiddle with the fat and squeeze it for a moment, before long and calculated fingers delved underneath the elastic waistband of your black, lace panties. When he finds your clit with ease, you shriek at the sudden contact, nerve endings alight as he begins to stroke slow and precise circles around your button.

“So fuckin’ soft,” Bo muttered, “And wet, too. Gonna have this cunt creamin’ all over me in no time, darlin’, that I can promise ‘ya.” In one, swift move, he forced your panties down around your knees. You heard the sound of his metal belt clinking, he took his hand off your mouth to slip it off easier, and then proceeds to fasten your hands at the small of your back, with the rough leather biting against your wrists. You were so violated, so exposed. He was not even going to prep you, he was just going to fuck you, to strip away the dignity you’d spent so long building up inside.

You heard the sound of him spitting into his hand, and you felt the thick head of his cock prodding up against your entrance. You stiffened, lower lip trembling, wide- eyes waiting for him to make his next move. You could not fucking believe this was happening to you, right in the middle of a disgusting bathroom, out in bum-fuck nowhere. Would you ever be the same again? Would it eat away at you until there was nothing left? That was, unless he decided to kill you when he was done. Both hands restricted, face smashed against the wall, your eyes red and puffy- all you could do was wait now for inevitable circumstances.

When Bo pressed sheathed inside of you, burying his cock to the hilt in one fluid movement that sent little, disturbing sparks down your spinal cord and into the very tips your toes, you let a strangled groan escape; your body attempting to adjust to his thickness. The pool of drool that gathered at the corner of your lips, which you didn’t even know was there, began falling down your jaw and onto your chest. He growled and snapped your head back by your locks again, licking your spittle from your jawline and sensitive neck.

“That’s a good fuckin’ cunt right there,” Bo proclaimed, “Fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me so good. It’s milkin’ me for all I’m worth, sweet thing. ‘Ya like that?” His hips found a steady, deep rhythm that made you hiss out through clenched teeth. He was not fucking you hard— not yet, but he was fucking you thoroughly. Your fingers flexed in their binds. The snap, snap, snap of his hips had the most inhuman sounds coming out of your mouth, you were pleading for him to stop and to get away, but it’s also safe to say that a helpless moan or two slip.

“You’re sick in the fucking head.” You spat at him from your place against the wall, words distorted and angry, neck shining with sweat. One hand is on your hipbone, the other knotted in your hair, hips stilling against you. He grinds into your core, chest vibrating with pleasure, circling his hips in a way that has you seeing stars. It’s disgusting that a part of him feels good, he was trying to find that special spot deep inside of you, you could feel the tip of his cock prodding around your guts.

“Says you, sugar. Drippin’ down your thighs right now, gettin’ me all sloppy and wet back here.” And then, Bo was fucking you in earnest. Pounding into your pussy, hips colliding violently with the back of your trembling legs, animalistic grunts in your ear. You were no virgin, but you’d never been taken like this before. It terrified you, it consumed you, it awoken you. “That’s it, that’s what good, dumb little city girls like you do. Take that fuckin’ cock. All ‘yer good for, anyways.”

Your eyes were rolling into the back of your skull, your wrists were raw and red, your flesh rippled with every soul-crushing thrust. In a move that horrified you, he moved his hand from your hair to your neck, latching around the skin and constricting like a snake. He had never relented his brutal pace, punishing you for sins that you’ve never committed. Using that leverage on your neck, he pulled you from the wall and slammed your shattered body down onto the sink, forcing the hues of your eyes to meet his own in the mirror. You thrashed against him. You didn’t want to look at the inhuman creature doing this to you, and you did not want to look at yourself being fucked like this.

Bo was a man possessed. His curls are damp with the sweat from your struggle, curling around his neckline, sticking to his forehead. His eyebrows were furrowed, and highlighted deep, sensual lines in his forehead. A pink tongue was caught tight between white teeth. It didn’t help to close your eyes, he’d only squeeze your neck even harder until you opened them. He brought his free hand down on your left ass cheek in vigorous succession, six times in a row, and you preened back against him when the tip of his cock found that spot, wailing at the newfound pain in your backside. Thick, hot fingers hooked into your mouth, preventing your mouth from emitting any sound and you’re drooling.

“Christ, shut the fuck up.” Bo sneered at you through the reflection in the grimy mirror. His fingers were on that patch of skin between your hips and your thighs, gripping the skin so roughly that you’re certain there would be bruises from his assault. “Bustin’ that cunt wide open and all ‘ya can do is fuckin’ whine about it. Pathetic little fuckin’ whore.”

He tightened the leather felt around your wrist, using that leverage to lean back and drill into your weeping pussy at an angle that had your mouth popping open, tears streaming down your cheeks, a litany of prayers and curses tumbling from your mouth inhibited, now hidden behind the salty skin of his digits. He chuckles, seemingly pleased by your shameful slurs of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck!” You groaned, your shoulders aching from the stretch inflicted on your muscles. Your own body betrayed you, your orgasm was looming- your pussy practically weeping around his cock. You were close, undeniably close to coming. Three more of his hard, deliberate thrusts and you’d be flying off the handle. When his hand left your mouth to brutally rub tight, constricted circles on your clit with your own saliva, you’d gushed around him with a strangled shout.

“Downright pissin’ on me, sugar.” Bo sounded just as gone as you were, Louisiana accent thicker than ever, “Gonna fill ya up, girl, gonna make a mess inside you. Never gonna forget about me, city slicker. ‘Yer gonna have a nice husband one day, layin’ down in a big ole bed, touchin’ that perfect cunt to the thought of me, knowin’ you’ll never feel like this again.”

You were a warbling, drooling mess by the time he did spurt rope after rope of his spend inside your wet hole, holding you in place and cursing aloud, teeth bared. It was a sight to behold. You were grotesque, you felt so vile and so degraded and so used. Bo releases both of your hands from the loop of his belt, and you collapse, falling to the ground and assuming a fetal position.

It seemed to amuse him, because he smirked down at you, taking the heel of his boot and shoving your body onto your back so he could loom above you — so your looking up at him, directly into those murderous eyes.

“Get up, darlin’. Turns out, ‘yer engines shot to shit. I’m gonna have to take ‘ya on back to town with me, about twenty five miles out. It’s ‘yer lucky night, sugar, gonna give you the grand tour of a little town called Ambrose.”

#bo sinclair #brian van holt #horror #slasher #house of wax #bo sinclair brain rot #bo sinclair x reader #gore #blood #dubcon #house of wax 2005 #house of wax fanfiction

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creepling · 1 year ago

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nine people i’d like to get to know better

tagged by @gift-of-prophecy (seeing your love for RAT BOY took me back i use to listen to him all the time!! need to get back on his shit)

last song. new flesh - current joys

favourite colour. sage green

currently watching. the boys (rewatched s1 and on s2 rn)

last movie/tv show. back from seeing fnaf and i have… some thoughts

spicy/savoury/sweet. savoury all the way im a slut for salt

current obsession(s). texas chainsaw massacre (wow shocker), baldur’s gate 3, trying to actually get good at tcmg.

last thing you googled. if i speak… jk i don’t remember but it was probs porn

tagging. @hauntedjohnny @johnny-slaughter-me @chernayawidow @bitterpotionn @bosinclairz @uhlunaro @dykejohnnysawyer @lambf4rm @whatitshouldvebeen

#tag games

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sketchy-rosewitch · 1 year ago

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Face Reveal 🤭🤭 Got to meet Brian and Jon today! Very genuine men and they will be at Spooky Empire next year if anyone is curious!

Also so cool I got to meet @bosinclairz and @nightlight1219!! (Zsasz also recorded the video)

Read under the cut for some facts and things that happened when I was there!

Brian spit out some pizza when he saw my sister and I’s cosplay then apologized for eating when we had came up to him (goofy ass mf fr fr)

Brian hugs like a dad :3

Brian’s favorite character to play was Butchie Yost from John from Cincinnati so I recommend watching that show just in general

He was also laughing and genuinely shocked about me watching Whipped (2000)

He golfs and surfs and is golfing tomorrow in Oregon 🤷🏻‍♀️

Told him I played on varsity golf in high school and he seemed proud.

Jon offered to sign my mask on the inside then sign my photo for free. I got to tell him I feel bad for Dalton every time he dies

Brian signed my photo and mask but signed my photo personally and for free :3

Brian said Paris was amazing to work with and she’s such a great person.

Brian’s favorite House of Wax character is Dalton

They gave me and my sister high fives multiple times after our photo op.

#house of wax #bo sinclair #house of wax 2005

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bosinclairz · 2 years ago

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i’ve been working on this for 3 weeks but it’s finally done . proud to be the only mf who wrote him

tagging bff @slaasherslut for no reason other than im mentally insane

#danny cooper #intruders 2015 #zsaszs writing

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rxccoonboo · 6 months ago

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@bosinclairz is just playing hard to get ....

bro pls i have a partner 😭

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slaasherslut · 2 years ago

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Getting To Know Me Tag

I was tagged by my lovely wife @rottent33th. Thank you t33thy! MWAH

Relationship Status: Single

Favorite Color: Black

Song Stuck in my Head: Demolisher - Slaughter to Prevail

Last Song I Listened to: Demolisher - Slaughter to Prevail

Three Favorite Foods: Spicy crab maki, brownies, spinach dip

Last Thing I Googled: Magic The Gathering rat cards (im making my own deck im a loser ik)

Dream Trip: I wanna take a trip to Maine.

No pressure tags: @venus-haze @visceravalentines @soupbabe @goldrose-star @devil-doll13 @6lostgirl6 @hamburgerslippers @bosinclairz @ethanhoewke @hall0ween-twn

#slaasher speaks #tag game

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cherubgorearchived · 1 year ago

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everyone, it’s @bosinclairz bday wish them a happy one 🔪

#minxie rambles.#🫶🏻

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visceravalentines · 2 years ago

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bo being mean is my fav bc ik damn well he’s on some “you’re not good enough to touch me” type shit

ohhhh my god yes

he'a literally railing you. he's literally inside of you having what is clearly a very good time. and you make one little move to touch his face or hand and he slaps you away like "don't you fuckin' dare, I'm not your fuckin' boyfriend"

making you suck him off but you cannot touch him at all, not even to brace yourself against his thighs, so you're just reduced to this helpless little fucktoy.

if you forget yourself and try too many times he ties you up. but he doesn't tie you up from the beginning bc he likes watching you struggle to obey the rules and fail bc he's a big meanie

#asks #bosinclairz #bo sinclair #he's such a bully *twirling my hair*

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pondslime · 1 year ago

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see me personally i love ur bo stuff maybe it’s just bc i’m fuckin gay as all hell for him an i need him carnally BUT that doesn’t matter

i love ur writing an u write what makes U happy!! that is most important me thinks

fdhjdfshjfdshj AWWWW THANK U LMAO 💖

oh and definitely definitely!!! I'm always goin off about how tiresome and bothersome it is to write for that loser but I'm blatantly lyin and scamming 😌🥰 bc he's my (sigh) favorite

#whenever I'm like UGH WRITING FOR HIM AGAIN #just know that I'm also like ugh 😍🔨 writing for HIM again jdfskjfdskjfdks #he's the perennial thorn in my scrivener doc. a WEEVIL #asks #bosinclairz

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f1nalboys · 1 year ago

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@visceravalentines @bosinclairz they’re making a den of thieves 2 how r y’all feeling abt that

edit: never added the pic sorry

#idek if murph lives in that movie or whatever #but . imagine more brian #yeah YEAHHH

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slasherrcentral · 2 years ago

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Run, Rabbit, Run — Bo Sinclair. (18+)

Summary: after attempting to run away from him again, maybe you will finally learn your lesson this time around.

Note: this is so fucking filthy and i’m not the least bit sorry for it, bo sinclair has fully rotted my brain. please don’t read if you are sensitive to any of the triggers involving violence, stockholm syndrome, spit and blood or talks of murder. this is some shit below the cut and viewer discretion is very much advised.

Dedications: the wonderful @visceravalentines for inspiring this work with her fic “I’m so dirty, babe” because it’s changed my entire life. and also to the beautiful @bosinclairz , who inspires me to have a blog even half as cool as theirs. thank you !!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Warnings: predator/prey play, name calling and abuse, heavy stockholm syndrome implications, spitting, blood, choking, bdsm elements, topics that elude to past murders, slight voice kink ( if you squint ) ( not even if you squint ), extremely heavy and violent sexual content.

The morning air was frigid while your bare feet pattered against the concrete, your breath leaving your chest in heaving, tired gasps. He was right behind you, the tell-tale pattering of old, worn out black work boots was as clear as the day you’d stumbled into the tiny, vacant town of Ambrose, when he had to chase you down for the first time after discovering his horrible, malicious intentions. You’d been so stupid then, too naive and entirely too trusting. His low, sultry drawl had given you a false sense of contentment. Those piercing, wild blue eyes had drawn you in like bee’s to honeysuckle. He’d even gone as far as to call you darlin’, that wolffish grin peeking out behind sharp canine’s as his eyes scanned your figure, making you fidget in place. Denim shorts, white spaghetti strapped tank with a crimson red bra visible underneath the flimsy cloth. You should’ve ran right then and there, should have found something to clobber him over the head with. But you didn’t. You’d been begging for it then like you’re begging for it now.

“Run, little rabbit! Run!” Bo laughed manically behind you, sending a series of chills down your spine. He was taunting you now, always taunting and menacing. His disease lusted for the chase, for the terror he inflicted upon you. The deep, rumbling chortles and your pants were the only sound ringing through the abandoned, haunted town. Nobody was coming to save you. There was nobody for miles and miles. You should know, you tried to escape him before. Look at where that got you, restrained in an old medical chair and tortured for two weeks straight with no reprieve from your misery. Your body was still blanketed with scars from that incident, constant reminder’s of who you slept next to at night.

You could still feel the stitched up wounds, courtesy of Vincent, on your inner thighs, rubbing against the denim of your washed jeans, blue jeans that had belonged to another girl before you, a girl that had thought she could escape too. Her worn, tattered Polaroid picture was still hanging up inside of Bo’s makeshift workshop. It was taken not long before he’d grown tired of her whining, and put her out of her misery with the sharpened blade of his hunter’s knife. You wanted to rip up that picture, chew it to pieces and spit it out on the ground. You did not like the idea of him still looking at her after you fell asleep at night, when your hole was of no further use, thinking about all the things that he did to her.

He was right, when he’d spat in your face that you never learn, duct tape digging viciously into your wrists. You didn’t think he’d be in the house this morning, didn’t think he would catch you making a bee-line for the open porch door. But he did, and now you knew, he was not going to make the same mistake again. You were dead. Another poor soul forever incased in wax, just like all the others, and you could practically hear them laughing at you as well. Stupid, stupid girl. Thinking you ever even had a chance. Stealing a glimpse over your shoulder, he looked murderous. Pointed, narrowed blue eyes burning into the back of your head. His top lip was curled up into a snarl, growls burrowed deep in his chest, canine teeth exposed to the dewy morning air. You knew Bo wasn’t running as fast as he could be, choosing to make a fun little game out of this instead. You hated his games. It’s because of them that you’ve almost been killed, strung up from the ceilings with ropes and leather straps as he took his careful time ruining your body. A body that was no longer yours — a body that he molded to his darkest, most unfathomable desires.

You were tired. You wished he’d kill you, get it over with once and for all. Vincent would make you look beautiful again, maybe he’d put you in the movie theater, where you could always watch a film. Where you’d never, ever be alone again. Where you could fade into nothingness. Where you could forget about how pitiful you were and how disgusting it was for you to love the very man who stole everything from you. Your goals, ambitions, drive for the future. You’d been on your way back to campus from your spring break trip when your car broke down, leading you here. Leading you to him. Hell, you’d even heard your name on the radio some months ago. Your parents were looking for you, your friends are worried, your teachers insisted that it wasn’t like you to vanish. Bo had laughed when he saw the tears on your cheeks, spitting that they’ll never find you here, that you’re his.

In a move that surprised the both of you, and because the little spitfire that Bo came to adore so much is still buried somewhere deep down inside of you, you hook your heels into the gravel and duck to the left, where a house was awaiting your heady arrival. Slipping on the morning muck—you crash right in front of the steps, a pained groan leaving your chest. Get the fuck up now, he’s right behind you, are the only two things your mind kept shouting. Despite your gasps for air and the pain, you manage to dodge Bo just as he gets within’ arms length of you. He leered at you, twisting to follow you up the stairs and into the shabby, white house. You’d flung yourself into the residence, pressing your frame against the door. It doesn’t have a fucking lock, you’re fucking stupid to think that it did. Barreling all of your weight against the door, which wasn’t much because you’ve lost a considerable amount since arriving here, sustaining a diet of eggs and sandwiches. Your teeth rattled within’ your gums as Bo pounded on the front door behind your aching back, screaming expletives, demanding that you open it up or he’ll carve you like a thanksgiving turkey.

“You’re really in for it now, little bunny.” He huffed out a callous chuckle. And then like rumbling thunder on hot summer nights or heat lightning cracking in the air, he slammed up against the door with his elbow. You’re whimpering now, scanning the house for an exit, but it seems like there’s none. There is, however, a staircase. Hearing the wood split, knowing that he was getting in, you slipped away from the door and made a run for the stairs. He was inside in a matter of moments, his chest heaving and his fists clenched tight at his sides. You’re certain that he’s going to kill you. You’d die here, in the little sad house on the corner, staring into those ocean blue eyes all the while. You hoped that when he does it, that he looks at you. That he see’s you, one more time, and that you’d sit with him for the rest of his days. It’s the very least that he could do for you. You bolted, his glare burning into your back, clambering up the stairs.

It took no time at all for him to reach you, wrapping a meaty fist around your bruised, scarred ankle. You’ve screamed, you’re sure of it, throat burning and warm, wet tears streaming down your cheeks as you began sending hard kicks behind you— hoping one of them would land. One had to land. Had to give you time to make an escape from his rage. “Let me go right now, you fucking psychopath! Let me go! I hate you, I hate you and this fucking haunted town so fucking much!” You’re rambling now, jumbled and frantic. He laughs, that bastard laughed at your hysteria—dragging you down the stairs, slowly now, one at a time. Taunting, always taunting, his malice gave you enough time to send a brutal kick right at his nose. Your kick landed, right on the bridge of his prominent nose. He yelped, surprised for a fraction of a moment, then he roared. Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto his tee, down onto the dirty, blue carpet below. You gaped, waiting, terrified. And when Bo’s gaze fixed back on yours, you knew that you were in for a world of pain. You’d knocked his favorite truckers cap off his head, made him bleed his own blood. Good, you thought. Means you hadn’t lost every piece of your soul—yet.

“You wanna play fuckin’ games with me, sugar? We’ll play, then. Disobedient little bitch, forgettin’ all of the manners I’ve taught you.” Before you had any time to prepare for the blow, he sent a monstrous kick with a steel-toed boot directly to your rib cage. You gasped, couldn’t help it, your lungs attempting to suck in the sweet air that had just been knocked from you. Your head was swimming— small mewls leaving your lips, sputtering out some thick coughs. “Look at ya, poor thang. Writhin’ around, helpless and achin’. Soundin’ sweet for me, singin’ like a bitch in heat down there.”

You were flung onto your back, eyes wide and scared, still dazed from the blow to your mid-section. Bo’s on top of you within’ mere moments, hands now latched tightly around your throat. You’re squirming under the weight of him, heels digging into the carpet and your mind beginning to haze over. It was brutal, you were almost certain that your eyes were going to pop out from their sockets if he pressed down any harder. He was showing sick, twisted restraint— you hated him, hated him so much for it too. He could just end your misery and get it over with. He could extinguish that inferno that builds up inside of your gut when you’re sitting in the passenger’s seat of his truck, windows down and taking in the breeze on back road’s, sandy curls that framed the nape of his neck swaying in the wind, pillowy pink lips curled into a grin as you sang along, obnoxiously, with whatever song he’d chosen.

Or when you’re both in bed, crushed against his chest, strong hand clasped against the swell of your hip bone whilst the other cradles a cigarette and he’d murmur praises in your hair and the crickets sang outside your window. Or when he made you true Louisiana cuisine, snapping at you to stop munching on his goddamned vegetables and grab him a beer from the fridge. When you did, he’d kiss the crown of your head. You needed, desperately, to get away from him. You’re in love with him inconsolably so, to the point where it’s killing you, right here and right now.

He let go. He fucking let go of you and then wrenched calloused fingers into your mouth, hooking the long, ringed digits over your bottom teeth and under your tongue, pulling down with such force that your head rattled. Your mouth popped open—slick and waiting, sobs bubbling in the back of your throat. His iris’ are pitch black now, the dark has swallowed up the light, primality glinting in pools of midnight hues. So busy gasping for air after his attack on your neck, Bo was anything if a man of true opportunity. He hadn’t yet made up his mind what he was going to do with you, what he would have to do to break you. You noticed gears turning in his head, pillowy pink tongue jutting out, running across his bottom lip. He wanted to hurt you, he was going to .. but there was something else, something that you couldn’t quite pin.

“Keep that fuckin’ filthy mouth open, ya hear?” Bo’s leaned down now, snarling into your ear, the smell of sweat and blood swimming in your nostrils. It was so overwhelming, so intoxicating. Made you burn down below, made you wither into yourself with shame. “I don’t wanna have ta’ ruin this perfect little face, that beautiful little mouth. My cock has always looked so good nestled in that throat, don’t ya think so, sugar? Makin’ me hurt ya’, thought ya’ knew better by now.”

A white glob of his spit pushed past his lips; dangled past his chin, slowly lowering into your plump mouth, one of his personal favorite assets on you. Now you’re squirming again, keening at him, a silent beg to cease his infernal teasing and sink his knife into your throat, but you should’ve known. He wouldn’t let you go that easily, not without proving his point first. His saliva’s drooling into your mouth — sliding it’s way down your throat and you’re swallowing it without any command, with meticulously trained obedience, courtesy of the man currently pinning you down to the dirty floor. He was smirking again, tongue poking out to wet his lips, and sanguine curls sticking to his damp, tan forehead.

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He crooned, “There’s my good, dumb little baby. Just how I want ya’. Don’t need one thought in this pretty head.” And then he backhands you, sharp and fierce. It busted your lip, throws your head to the side, makes you cry out in terror as pain radiates in your cheekbone. One hand made a quick work of hooking into your jaw again, keeping meaty fingers pushed invasively into your tongue while the other slid into your flimsy underwear. It hurt so bad, those fingers in your mouth and pushing against the newly opened wound on your bottom lip. And it felt good, too. So fucking good. He made a house inside decay and rot, and you lived there with him, singing songs on the radio and making breakfast in his shirt. Those wax figures were all laughing at you now, you could hear them. You were filthy, utterly grotesque.

Two calloused, rough fingers were on your clit. You’re strained and babbling into his hand, whimpering like some bitch in heat, as Bo so kindly put it. His deep, thundering groans does nothing to help your current state, only aiding your back in further arching, heart thudding wildly against his own. Slow, slicked circles around your swollen bud sent you reeling, exhausted legs still kicking underneath of his weight, white dots speckling your vision. His fingers were still locked on your jaw and stuffed inside of your mouth, and when you’d whined at him again because you felt like your teeth were giving way to his brute strength— he had taken his hand out of your battered mouth to send a ferocious slap to the same cheekbone as before. Bo knew that it would only hurt more that way … it did.

“B-Bo! Stop, p-please, just fucking kill me!” You cried, fingers digging into his white v-neck, as if attempting to anchor yourself into him, into that moment. Sticky, warm tears were freely flowing now, and he leaned in your face to lick them off your bruised cheekbone. He always did love how quickly bruises blossomed on you, like paint to canvas. His breath, always so hot and wet, invaded your rattled senses. Then, all at once, he sinks two fingers into your core, giving you no time to adjust before setting a brutal pace that had your legs shaking, your head thrown back against the staircase. “Stop Bo, stop, stop! F-fuck, I can’t take it! Please, please!”

“I know you’re lyin’ to me, angel.” He kissed your inner earlobe—sloppy wet kisses careening down your neck, before he stopped at your jaw to bite down. It hurt so bad, the skin breaking, your moans turning into sharp, bellowing shouts of agony. The dig of his fingers were keeping you grounded, expertly finding the sweet spot inside of your body like all the times before, calloused fingertips rubbing into the sponge of your g-spot and pulling an animal-like wail from the back of your throat, hips wrenching in an attempt to throw him off. “Christ, this cunt is fuckin’ droolin’. Makin’ a big ‘ole mess. You don’t know what to do with yourself whenever ya ain’t gettin’ stuffed fuckin’ full, do ya? Fuckin’ empty inside, needin’ somethin’ to scratch that itch.”

Tears continued blurring your vision- chest heaving as you struggled to intake enough air underneath of Bo’s braun. Your heels have stopped digging into the filthy, dusted blue carpet beneath your feet. Your fingernails have stopped assaulting his neck and chest, leaving a litter of angry, crimson red welts and scratches behind, which had only seemed to spur him on. His lips found yours, another all too familiar occurrence, gnashing of tongues and teeth and blood and spit and regret and stone-cold hatred and unspoken love all at once, your peak lurking dangerously close to the surface. He was right, always right. You needed him, needed this. You craved it, actually, and the realization only made your tear ducts well up more. When he broke away, he was feral looking as he loomed above you. And when Bo’s lips pursed to send another big, white glob of his spit directly into your face; spittle hitting your sore cheek, chapped lips and bruised chin, you screamed out for him, fingers digging into his back and arching off the floor with a steady groan, eyes rolling in your skull as wave after wave of euphoria overtook your body. His teeth were digging into your collar bone now, tearing skin and growling like a rabid dog, his arm was under your back and holding you against him as the rest of your orgasm has turned you into a mewling, squirming mess in his tight hold. Like a little kitten, you thought, trying to wriggle free from grasp and scamper off into the woods.

“Right there, angel. Jus’ like that. Feels so good when you’re cummin’ all ‘over my fingers, don’t it, my sweet girl? Almost made me forget about your punishment.” His southern drawl, filled with false comfort and low, rumbling honey, turned venomous again. “I’m gonna fuck ‘ya into the ground now, little bunny. When I get done with ya, maybe you’ll finally fuckin’ understand exactly where this sloppy cunt belongs, after I fuck it stupid. Not that you need any fuckin’ help with that.”

You were thrown onto your stomach, head smacking against the staircase and making you simper in pain; although, not as much as the hard knee pressing into your spine suddenly did. You cried out, legs aimlessly flailing once again. You could hear him making hasty, frantic work of his black leather belt behind you, and grumbled curses leaving his blood-stained lips. Your entire body was sore and stinging, eyes filled up with tears and dried tears staining your purple and yellow cheekbones. Your lip was split, your cunt was aching, sputtering and clenching around nothing, your spine threatened to give way underneath the weight of his clothed knee. “I-I’m so sorry, B-Bo! Please, please, I won’t ever run from you again!”

And when you heard the metal buckle release, before that same belt looped around your hands — securing them to the small of your back, you felt the weight of Bo’s love for you. He didn’t want to kill you, he didn’t want you to leave him. He couldn’t fathom what he’d ever do without your scrambled eggs and toast thats always just a little too burnt in the mornings, without your pattering footsteps behind him while he worked about Ambrose, always lingering and always wanting, eager for any chance to be near him. Or without your perpetual, infuriating kindness, how you’d cradle the nape of his neck and press kisses to his sweaty head, whispering in his ear how good he is, how he’s worth something. No, he couldn’t kill you, couldn’t ruin this, but he could make it hurt— he’d always make it hurt. Snarling, he took his boot off of your spine and made quick work of shedding your denim jeans and undies, pulling them down your legs with jarring force. You’d arched back into him without realizing it, seeking his warmth and his embrace. He laughed at you— again, reaching down to pull himself free from the confined black slacks around his waist.

“Ya ain’t sorry for nothin’ yet, angel.” He made a noise similar to annoyance in the back of his throat, “But ya will be, that I can promise ‘ya. If ‘ya wanna act like yer some disobedient little mutt with no fuckin’ common sense or house trainin’, forgettin’ what i’ve taught ‘ya, that’s how yer gonna get fucked.” With one big hand pressing in between your shoulder blades, whilst the other found purchase underneath of your waist, Bo’s cock was pressed up against your heat. Your stained face was pressed down into the carpet, which smells soured and stale from years of abandonment. You’re holding your breath, still trembling, waiting for Bo to sheath himself inside of you. “Here I was, fixin’ to be sweet on ‘ya tonight for being so good ‘fer me lately, only to find my angel tryin’ to run away. Mama must have been right, i’m a damn fool. You wanna break it, darlin’? Break this old heart of mine?”

You sobbed into the carpet—fingers digging into the fabric. You felt guilty, felt so damned guilty. It’s part of your sickness, part of who you are now. You never wanted to hurt him, even when you had opportunity, even when he made you bleed and scream and beg. Never wanted to know a world without him, without ocean blue eyes and calloused hands and the smell motor oil left behind on his clothes. If you ever were found, a therapist would tell you that you have what normal people call Stockholm Syndrome. All of your friends would plead with you to see reason and stop thinking about him. Your parents would want him to spend his life in prison. And all the while, you would dream of being back here with him. You’d be in that small cell with him, refusing to leave his side. You’re filthy, and fucked up, and dirty, belonging all to him.

Your tongue wanted to stick out childishly, at all the ghosts who’ve been taunting you since your arrival; wanted to tell them all to shove it. He was yours, he cared about you. You had him in a way that nobody would ever have him again. You ruined him just like you’re ruined now, bound together by your vileness, something not even Trudy could say from her grave.

“N-no! I never want to break your heart, please,” You didn’t know what you were pleading for, pushing the warm clench of your pussy into the head of his cock, “Bo! I need you, I need you so bad, p-please fuck me hard and make it hurt! I-I need it to hurt please, sir.”

The levee broke. Bo slid into your wet, willing hole with an ease that was almost embarrassing. Almost. This is where you were meant to be, right here- pinned under the man who you loved more than life itself, even if it’s never going to make sense again, even if it’s so wrong. Even when you felt him push your body into the carpet, even more so than it already was, his breath steady on your goosebump-ridden back as he gains his bearings, hissing through clenched teeth at the feeling. You held your breath, wanting to savor the sound, knowing that it’s your body that makes him lose his composure. His ringed fingers dug painfully into your shoulder blades, but you didn’t mind. Your face was smushed down into mildew-coated carpet, and you still didn’t mind. You’d pry open your chest and wrap your fingers around your still-beating heart, handing it over to him if that’s what he wanted from you. When he grants you with another bone-shattering thrust, hard and deep, stopping for a moment to grind his pubic bone into the flesh of your ass, you snapped back to reality with a loud wail, that bounced from the walls of the small home and makes Bo’s pillowy top lip curl up into a pleasured sneer.

“That’s my fuckin’ angel. My good fuckin’ girl, always ready to be pumped full ‘o me, aren’t ya?” That damn southern drawl, you could live inside of it if he’d allow you to. You nodded, the best that you could with your face shoved so brutally into the floor. But that wasn’t good enough, not for the man behind you. Bo’s thick, veined hand took mercy on your shoulder blades and grabbed a fistful of your matted hair, whilst the other locks itself around your waist in an iron clad grip that made drool start pooling in the corners of your dried, cracked open lips. “Speak up when I’m talking to ‘ya, girl. Won’t bother sayin’ it twice, either. Use ‘yer cute little lips and start singin’ pretty for me, sugar.”

“P-please, sir! I need it so bad, need to be full of you, need to be yours! Please, fuck me, please!” You were absolutely wrecked before he even started, babbling directly into the carpet while his hand held your face there by your hair, scalp stinging so pleasantly, your mouth drooling and hanging opened, waiting for yet another sticky, wet surprise from his mouth. And he began fucking you, in earnest, balls slapping against your ass with a volume that should be disgusting, so damned raunchy that it could’ve hit top views on the latest porn channel. You couldn’t get enough, didn’t want to ever get enough — wanted to feel that cock, always so thick and angry, plunging into your achin’, soaked little hole for the rest of your life.

“Right there, sir! Oh, fuck yes!” You’d moaned into the creaking staircase—your body moving on it’s very own accord, pushing yourself back against his brutal thrust, desperate for any release that he we going to give you; crimson blood still leaking from his nose and falling on your bare back with little droplets that makes your toes curl into themselves, cracking at the bone. There was a prominent warmth in your belly, a dam that was sheer minutes away from breaking, a heat that made the chill, morning breeze seem piping hot. You’re clinging to the surface, grasping at whatever purchase you can find on the floor, screaming for him like a banshee. He felt too good, he felt so good, and you wanted to kill him for it, make him bite down on your rage and on your searing, weightless devotion to him. Get a taste of his medicine, make him bleed for your loyalty. He was pawing at you now, keeping you in place against him, driving his cock into you at a speed that should be considered brutality, hisses and low, thundering groans echoing. But you’re alive, your body on fire, your heart swelling.

“And If ‘ya really think that I’d let ‘ya slip away from me, you’re dead fuckin’ wrong.” Bo hisses into your ear as a coil began to tighten in your stomach. “Ain’t nothin’ on god’s green earth as sweet as this cunt and she knows who she belongs to. You’d just come back to me, baby, beggin’ me to take ‘ya back again. Thats if, ya don’t go blabbin’ to the pigs—like the fuckin’ bitch that ‘ya are.”

“I-I love you, Bo,” you’re sniffling into the floor, “Love you, so fuckin’ much. I’m not leaving- I need you, you make me so happy, sir.” You weren’t lying to him, and that’s the most devastating part. Bo hummed and he seemed pleased by your dramatic confession and the genuine sound of your voice, flipping you with a force that rattled your bones. You were dazed, whining and confused, the back of your head slapping against the staircase and further aiding your current state, all the white dots that danced in your vision returned, and it made Bo squeeze your inner thighs like he was trying hard to maintain his own composure, the sight of you reduced to nothing but a pliant, squealing little toy to use like a fleshlight was enough to make him tail spin.

Bo sits back on his broad haunches, pushing your thighs up against your chest and effectively folding you in half, before drilling into your core at a numbing pace that has your watery, puffed up eyes rolling back into your skull and screams that ran your throat ragged in seconds, the air between you both becoming so thick that you could practically taste it when you opened your mouth to keen for him, your hands reaching up to tangle in his tee-shirt, which you wanted to pull from his skin. He used the ball of his thumb to rub tight circles onto your clit, granting you one step closer to sweet, unabashed release. When Bo brought his hand up from his assault on your clit, to slap it without mercy, you began to spasm in his grasp.

“Keep those fuckin’ eyes open,” He snapped down at you, “Look at ‘ya, filthy fuckin’ bitch. Spread wide for me, cummin’ all over the carpet. You feel that, angel? Feel ‘yerself creamin’ nice and hard ‘fer me?” You do, could feel it starting in your toes, splintering it’s way through your body, spurting at the seams. You were delirious with pleasure— could hardly manage more jumbled whimpers and pleas for his mercy, for what heaven he’d be willing to give to you in this little hell, something that would be yours to keep.

“Y-yes, sir! It feels so fucking good,” You wheezed, “I’m gonna cum, sir! I’m gonna cum!” Jaw slackened, eyes squeezed shut, toes curled up, fingers bunched up into his old work tee-shirt. Your orgasm was a violent thing, turbulent and licking up your spinal cord. You felt your sticky, hot release spill down your thighs and onto his thighs, the wet clapping of your skin meeting his own sounded akin to the sweetest music you’ve heard, the symphony of your bodies colliding with a passion that you’d never, ever known before. Bo groaned, his peak wasn’t far behind, lurking just underneath the surface, his head lulling backwards to stare up at the cracking, white water-stained ceiling. This has to be his heaven, his own place of worship nestled between your thighs.

“Baby,” Bo’s body folded over your own, lips closed on your neck, red hot kisses left in his wake. “Gonna cum, gonna fill ‘ya up. Mark ‘ya from the inside out. ‘Ya ever pull this shit on me again, I’ll slit that fuckin’ gorgeous throat ‘an bleed ‘ya out like a snuffed deer. Hear me?” When Bo kissed you again, smooth as butter, tasting blissfully of copper and cigarettes — you hooked two trembling legs around his waist and pulled him deep, your hands finding purchase in his damp curls. Curls that you wanted to root your fingers through forever, anchoring yourself to him. You loved him, wanted to burrow into his skin and stay there for good.

“I-I hear you, sir! I’m so sorry, p-please forgive me Bo, wanna be so good for you.” You hiccuped, “Wanna be your angel. Please, let me be good for you, daddy. I’m empty without you, make it feel better.” It wasn’t very often that you flipped the daddy switch, made him so hot under the collar. But when you did, you knew you had him right where you wanted him. His groans, the resounding grumble that vibrated deep in Bo’s chest, was confirmation that you had him on a wire. There’s nothing left to do but send him teetering on the edge. When your hips came up to meet his thrusts, you did exactly that, wide eyes staring up in awe as his damp, disheveled frame succumbed to bliss.

“Jus’ like that, sweet girl, fuck!” Bo clenched his teeth, brows furrowed in concentration and head lulled while spurt after spurt of his spend painted your walls in the essence of him, marking his territory, making sure you understand who you belonged to. This was his, no one else’s, not even yours. After he collapses on top of you, panting and thoroughly exhausted from the chase you put him through and from fucking you into the carpet; he placed little, gentle kisses on your chest, up to your collar bone and neck line before finding your sore lips.

“Never run from me again, angel.”

“I won’t.”

With the world waking up outside and basking you in a glow of golden hue, you smiled up at him through dark, crimson blood stained teeth and when he returned the same smile back to you— his bloody canine’s showing, you know that you weren’t lying to him.

author’s note:

how are we doing? are we okay? yeah, me either. thank you all so, so much for reading! i have a lot more of ‘ole Bo sitting in my draft’s, more to come from yours truly.

#bo sinclair #brian van holt #horror #slasher #house of wax #bo sinclair brain rot #bo sinclair x reader #gore #blood #house of wax 2005 #house of wax fanfiction

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blurrymango · 1 year ago

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@bosinclairz hey look.

princess (referring to a boy)

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sketchy-rosewitch · 1 year ago

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Enantiodromia: Murph Connors x gn!afab!reader

Part 1

Warnings: Police, Nick O’Brien, choking, kidnapping, drugs, Reader does not have a filter, starvation, mentions of foster care system, allusions of abuse.

A/N: This is going to be a mini series cause fuck it.

Taggies: @bosinclairz @visceravalentines @blurrymango

A sting comes across your face and you bolt awake, gasping for air. Your body sweats as you look around, taking in your surroundings.

The room smells like alcohol, sex, and weed and you’re surrounded by five men and some prostitutes.

You go to rub your face but see your hands cuffed to two end tables near you. A groan escapes your lips.

“Who the hell are you?” You sneer, looking between all of the men.

“Nick O’Brien. Leader of the Regulators. I practically run the sheriff’s department.” A brown haired man says.

Fucking cops.

You look up at the ceiling and sigh before your head falls back down.

How the hell could you be so stupid? You had one job and that was to not get caught. Now you’re here. Getting caught. Except, you’re not in an interrogation room. You’re in a hotel room and everyone is doing hard drugs and drinking.

Oh which means these men are worse than cops. Even better.

“Did I do something wrong Sheriff?” The question comes out as snarky as you can make it with the pounding headache you have.

“Not if you tell us where a couple of your friends are.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shrug your shoulders and look away. Yeah like you’re admitting practically where your house is and snitching on what is about to go down, risking your life when no one is even going to get hurt.

“Sure you do, we aren’t stupid.”

You snort still not making eye contact with any of them. “I’m not tellin’ you shit. I have no reason to.”

You notice O’Brien get up, he’s out of your site so you look at the rest of the men, two have their guns out and are wiping them down. This makes you roll your eyes. “Are you actually trying to intimidate me right now? Cause I’m not afraid to die.”

With that a sudden pressure is put on your throat and you gasp. Face turning red and lungs already burning. Your face hurts but you don’t let up, instead letting your eyes roll back to get some type of relief. You couldn’t even try and get him to let go even if you wanted to be.

Eventually his hold loosens and you take in a loud deep breath.

“Pussy.” You mumble then feel a hit to your head making you cringe. “I’m not sayin shit. You’re wasting your time and mine too. Just let me go already.” You growl.

“We don’t plan on releasing you until you do say shit. We need to know where Kennedy and Quinn Abrams are!”

“The fuck is in it for me then? Cause right now I’m not hearing shit, only getting threatened and choked out! Which means I ain’t saying shit!” You shout, the leader looks at the other cops as they have a very silent discussion, then he turns to you and sits on the coffee table.

“Won’t go to jail.”

Your eyes roll back. “That’s not good enough.”

You hands tap nervously in the arms of the chair you sat in.

Kennedy and Quinn provided you a home. You don’t wanna be out on the streets like you were after you got out of juvy. You can’t go back to that.

“I need a place to stay. Somewhere they can’t find me cause if I go back there I’m dead and I’m not dying by their hands, you will not throw me in jail and you will help me find a job. There’s no work around with this either. This is the deal or shit ain’t coming out about the Abrams.” You explain, tongue poking the inside of your cheeks. You aren’t going to let the same treatment of Kennedy and Quinn happen again. You can’t be left with nothing.

“Fine.”

You sigh. “They’ll be at those warehouses on Kings Street. Buncha cars there cause they were trying to see which one was best for me. They have other people working for them too I don’t know their names. I just know they’re making all the guns and shit. Big robbery next week. Hostage situation. All that. It’s all I can tell you.”

Your hands are shaking now as you reside in a limbo of whether or not you walk out with a roof over your head or sleeping on the sidewalk by a street lamp.

“Murph you get to watch over them. Tomorrow afternoon we meet to discuss our next moves.” O’Brien stands up and uncuffs your wrists and you rub them gently.

A man with greying sandy hair stands up, putting his gun in his pants. He pulls out some money and gives it to the stripper that was playing with his hair during most of the interrogation. Then he pulls out his car keys and that’s when you assume that he is Murph. So you stand up after him.

“Checking out early Connors?” Another one of the men seem to tease him.

“Yep. I’ll see you guys tomorrow though. C’mon kiddo.”

Your brows furrow at the nickname before you follow Murph walking around all of the other men and out the hotel door. The halls are quiet, only echoing your foot steps and his.

You notice the way he’s dressed. He’s much older than you are but his fashion sense is similar to that of a high school boy.

You snort but look away when he looks down at you.

“What?” He says, walking over to press the button for the elevator.

You shrug and wait for the door to open before you two step inside. He presses the garage button.

“So are your wife and kids gonna be okay with me staying with you?” You ask leaning against the railing.

“Don’t have either.” His voice sounds slightly bitter but you ignore it.

“Not surprised.” The elevator dings and the doors open, he steps out and you follow after him.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

He unlocks his truck and the two of you get in. The truck smells of cologne causing your nose to tickle. You rub it, the answer.

“Well, I’m sure wifey wouldn’t be happy her husband is cheating with a sexy young babe in a hotel room with a bunch of your guy friends. Sure your kids would end up hating you too.”

Murph sighs and starts his truck driving out of the parking garage and to his house.

The drive is quite other than the soft rock playing on the radio and you look out at the city lights passing by and slowly disappearing as the truck heads into a suburban part of LA.

It’s close to four in the morning when the truck parks in a drive way. Murph gets out and you follow after him. You can’t see much in the dark but the silhouette of the house is huge. You smirk and watch as he unlocks the door.

“Cameras and motion detectors are at the front back and side entrances. I turn on security when I leave the house and go to bed. You’ll be safest here. Until we arrest Kennedy and Quinn you’ll be under my watch, even when I leave this house. Understand?”

You toe off the shoes and nod your head. “You got any food?” You’re already making your way to the kitchen which is honest to god HUGE.

You head right towards the fridge and open it rummaging through to find something good to eat. You find left over wings and some juice so you grab them and shut the fridge with your foot.

“Can’t just waltz into someone else’s house and take their food without asking.” Murph crosses his arms and leans against the counter, you put your food on a paper plate and shove it into the microwave.

“Wasn’t taught manners in the foster care system or in juvy. My bad.” You say, nonchalantly making your way around the kitchen to find a cup.

“How old are you anyways.”

“Shouldn’t you know that? You’re a cop, I mean my shit is in the system after all.”

“Well I don’t. So just tell me.” Murph rolls his eyes and rubs his face. He’s clearly getting fed up with you and it makes you feel better about himself.

“23.”

The microwave beeps and you go to pull out your food. You sit down at the marble island and start to eat.

“Got huge attitude problems for being 23.” Murph walks to the plastic container and throws it in the sink to wash later.

“Again, foster care system, juvy, also Kennedy and Quinn.” You take another bite and wiggle a little in your seat. “Man, I haven’t eaten in days! Shit is delicious!”

“Thanks. When you’re done I’ll show you your room. Tomorrow when I get back we’ll go shopping for some clothes alright?”

You give him a thumbs up and watch as he types on his phone while you eat.

It doesn’t take long for you to finish and throw out the paper plate and scraps, you down your juice and Murph starts walking towards the stairs.

The upstairs holds a loft with four doors and a closet. You take a second to look around as he gets out towels, blankets and sheets. It’s a game room, there’s a pool table, shelves of board games, card games, and video games. A couch and loveseat, and a flatscreen TV, the TV stand holds even more video games and consoles from all the way back in the 90’s to now.

You wanna touch it all.

“Come on, can show you everything some other time.” Murph tilts his head towards a small hall and taking you to a large guest bedroom.

“Bathroom is the door by the pool table. My bedroom is down that way. If you need me” He points out your door and across the loft to another small hall and door. He looks at you up and down, you wear a tight tank top, jacket, and loose blue jeans,“I have an old shirt you can use for tonight, uh and shorts too.”

Murph leaves your room and goes into his, you take a chance and look around, feeling how soft the bed is you smile.

Finally no more couch.

There’s a tv in the guest room which surprised you. The closet was empty and all that sat on the bedside tables were lamps. The room was a beautiful light blue.

You swear this man could’ve done interior design as a side job if he wanted to.

You snort to yourself and start to take off your socks chucking them in a corner.

You realize you’ll need more than just clothes tomorrow.

Murph comes back and hands you the shirt and shorts.

“Goodnight.”

“Night.. uh thanks.” You say, the older man raises a brow at you crossing his arms.

“You didn’t have to take me in, I mean honestly I expected to be brought to a homeless shelter. Just, thank you.” Your hands sweat, something that only happens when you know Quinn was going to get pissed at you for some random shit.

“It’s not a problem. We need to keep an eye on you anyways you’re our only witness after all.” You feel the room get tense so with a tight lipped smile you nod your head.

“Goodnight Murph.”

He nods back at you and shuts the door behind him.

You take off your clothes hastily.

Of course you were being used again, they weren’t going to keep their damn promise, why the hell would they? They solve a case and move on, not caring who gets hurt along the way. You were a witness, evidence of Kennedy and Quinn. Nothing more nothing less, in a month you’d be back on the streets, no job, no money, and you know damn well if you came into that Sheriffs Department bitching these bastards would act like they didn’t know who you were. Well fuck them, fuck Kennedy and Quinn, and fuck your parents for conceiving you.

Everyone will have hell to pay when this case is done.

#murph connors #murph connors x reader #bo sinclair #brian van holt

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