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bosinclairz · 2 years ago

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Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums

pretty please read warnings before going any further

warnings: very graphic depictions of violence, bo is his own warning, the love is not reciprocated, stockholm syndrome, abuse, allusions to past abuse, vomiting, misogynistic language, mentions of past rough sex/oral, dubious consent, non con (just in case), (presumed) blood as lube, rough sex, bo is not nice, blood and guts, fucking in front of a dead body, gutting, reader actively participates in the murders (mostly unwillingly), bloody sex, daddy kink

word count: 2k i think 3k if im feeling generous

tags: @languidcryptid @visceravalentines @blurrymango @possumteeths @sketchy-rosewitch

Two years, six months, and twenty three days. That’s how long you’ve been in Ambrose. The outside world has given up. Your missing posters falling from the light poles, crumpled up and left behind. You were assumed dead. Your case was closed, they didn’t have any hope.

But here you were. You didn’t know how long you’ve been out here, and you didn’t need to know. Each day molded together to form something despicable. Bruises blossomed on your skin, and you can never remember how you got them. Who gave them to you always remained the same;

Beauregard Sinclair.

Had he been fucking you, hitting you, or both, to leave those marks?

You begged for a hickey once, wanting passerby’s to know who you belonged to. Bo indulged you. It didn’t go away for weeks, and it scarred. He bit too hard, maybe on purpose. Maybe he was trying to rip out your throat, but you held onto him as you always did. Your savior.

You like to think he needs you as much as you need him. You’ve told yourself it so much while you were in his basement you believe it as fact. Something to focus on, keep you going. He did, he kept you going, he must love you.

Something like the Big Bad Wolf, he always bared his teeth when killing. The blood splatters against his face, staining the front of his clothes and you’re revolted to feel yourself becoming wet at the sight. He’s conditioned you, you can’t help it. Did little red riding hood always find the wolf so handsome? Maybe she was scared at first because of her feelings. You mustn’t find a beast beautiful.

Like a deer, you find yourself frozen in place as Bo’s hands wrap around a victim’s neck, squeezing the flesh between them. He gasped for air, his feet kicking uselessly, Sinclair had a good grip.

His eyes bulged, popping out of his skull as you hear a sick snap. Bo must’ve broken his neck. Bile rose in your throat as you watch the scene unfold.

The mechanic leaned back, panting heavily. You couldn’t hold it back as he picks up the eyeball, and crushes it in his fist. You throw up onto the pavement, the image replaying along with the sound.

“Like a cherry,” The wolf says, baring his teeth at you in what you assume is a grin.

He moves off the dead body, coming over to you to hold your hair back as you empty your stomach. A sweet gesture, and you almost forget the gore in his palms.

Patting your back as you dry heave, he hums a nursery rhyme you can’t quite remember. Mary had a little lamb, maybe, The words were unclear, but perhaps it was exhaustion setting in.

“Take me home,” you whisper, looking up at Bo.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

——————

You never truly forgot that night. Beauregard’s violence knew no bounds. You often found yourself cleaning up broken mugs, plates, blood, anything he left behind. A violent man, and your scars to prove it.

Tonight was no different.

You hadn’t been paying attention. Your mind started to wander as Bo scarfed down the food you had made. Pot roast. It took several hours, but at least Bo seems to enjoy it.

He must’ve asked you something, or said something to you. He slammed his fist on the table, causing you to jump and look at him.

“‘Fucks s’matter with you? Eat your fuckin’ food,” He snarled.

You open your mouth to respond, and Bo raises an eyebrow in warning. You’re quick to close your lips together, and pick up your fork. It must’ve been a rhetorical question, he didn’t want you to respond. You’re stupid like that, never knowing what he wants.

Your jaw aches as you bring a piece of meat to your lips, biting down softer than usual. His assault on your throat just a few hours earlier still seemed to bother you. It’s hard to eat, but you manage.

You try to hide every wince you make, hoping it’ll go unnoticed by your captor. Either he doesn’t see it, or he chooses not to say anything. You’re grateful no matter what. You didn’t want him to break your jaw.

“Gonna ask me how my day was?”

Your voice is hoarse. You must’ve forgotten to drink water today, or maybe it was Bo’s dick so far down your throat you couldn’t breathe. “How was your day, daddy?”

Bo speaks with his mouth full. It used to annoy you, but he’s worked that out of you. You’re just glad he enjoys the food. “Long. Had lotsa shit in the garage I hadda deal with. Tourists comin’ in soon. Les called ‘bout twenty minutes ago. Two people, he says.”

It’s a bit late for tourists, you think. Maybe they couldn’t wait, really had to hit the road or something. You used to be that person once. Always in a rush. Bo helped you learn to take your time.

“What should I do?” Sometimes Beauregard wants you to play the housewife role, most times. Other times, you’re just a coworker, maybe a sibling if he’s feeling it. He’s got so many storylines just for you, you’ve forgotten your real one.

“Think y’should wear that dress I like. Help ‘em out in the shop ‘til I get there. We’ll kill ‘em together.”

Together sounded so nice when he says it. You remember you love him, looking down at your plate with a smile.

Bo glances up at you, irritated with your silence. “‘Fuck you smilin’ ‘bout?”

“Nothing,” you respond, “I just love you.”

Bo makes a face of disgust, grumbling something you couldn’t quite hear before he stands. “Finish your plate then go to the shop.”

“Yes, daddy.”

——————

The bell rings as the glass door opens. A man and a woman enter, hand in hand. You close your magazine, smiling at the couple.

“Good evening! How can I help you folks?”

The woman comes up to you, letting the man look around the station. “Hi dear. We’re so sorry for comin’ in so late, we’re having a bit of car trouble. Husband says the coolants leaking, needs to get it fixed or something. Truth be told, I don’t know anything about cars.” She laughs softly, and you share it.

“I don’t know much about cars either. My husbands the mechanic, I just tend to the cash register,” you grin, thinking that in a perfect world, it would be just like this. Maybe he’d actually propose.

“Ain’t that sweet? You and your husband run the place together?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s just using the facilities real quick, should be out soon.” He’s worn off on you. You can feel an accent starting to bloom. Ambrose is a strange place.

“Oh, no worries! I’m Janette, and this is my husband Charles,” Janette replies, gesturing to her husband, who gives you a small wave.

She asks for your name, and you stutter.

What was your name?

“Hey, Honey,” Bo says, coming up behind you, placing a hand on your lower back. You forgot that you were wearing the dress he liked.

You knew Janette felt something was off, and you smiled nervously up at Bo.

“This is my husband, Bo,” You say quickly, leaning back against his hand for comfort.

You didn’t know your name, but Bo still calls you his, and that’s all that matters.

“Evenin’, y’all,” Bo shakes Janette’s hand, and then Charles’. “Y’all lookin’ ‘round for anythin’ in particular?”

Charles tells Bo the issue, taking your husband out to his car to show him. Janette and you are left alone. The silence isn’t as nice as it used to be.

“Is everything alright, sweet pea?”

“What do you mean?” You question, fiddling with the end of your dress. She knows. She knows she knows she knows she-

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

Help? Why would you need help? This is where you belonged. It’d kill Bo more than it’d kill you to leave this place. No. No you don’t need help.

“I’m alright,” You smile, digging your nails into your palms. Something in the back of your mind was screaming at you, telling you to get help. This was your opportunity, why would you pass it up?

A bloody Charles crashes through the front door, and you jolt. “JAN-! Jan he’s-! He’s crazy! We gotta get outta h-“

A shot gun blast, and you duck behind the counter. The kind woman screams in horror, sobs following quickly.

“Charles! No, god-!”

You hear crunching glass, and you assume it’s Bo. And with Jan’s horrified screech, you’re correct.

“Come on out, baby.” His tone is sickly sweet, and you peak your head over the counter. He’s covering her mouth with one hand, the other keeping her hands behind her back.

You wished she wouldn’t look at you like that.

“You wanna finish her off?”

She was so nice to you. You don’t want to kill her. You’re so scared, you can’t stop yourself from shaking.

“I wanna go home, daddy.”

His face twitches, “Kill her first, then we can go home.”

“Promise?”

Bo’s getting angry, you can tell. Maybe you shouldn’t have talked so much. You’d pay for that later. He takes a deep breath, “I promise, baby. Come over here.”

You stand, slowly making your way to them. Stop looking at me like that-. Stopping once you’re just a few inches in front of the pair, you look down to Bo.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take that shard of glass right there,” Bo nods his head to it. It’s a big piece, and you can see where this is going. “Cut the cunt open.”

The woman thrashes, screaming into Bo’s palm as you reach for the glass. He manages to keep her in place, shushing her. It feels heavy in your hand, or maybe that’s the nausea coming in. This was always the hardest part.

You crouch down, pushing the sharp edge against her stomach. You’re so fucking terrified, maybe more than her. Bo’s saying something, you realize. He’s encouraging you.

“Cmon baby, cmon. Fuckin’ gut the bitch, baby.”

You pull your hand back and bring it down hard, stabbing Janette in the stomach. Bo’s laughing as blood starts to cover your hand. You twist, and she chokes. Pulling the knife to the side, you start to cut her open, a flash of a smile appearing on your face. All for him.

Her small intestine slips out, and you gag, pulling your hand back and turning your head to the side. The wet squelch of it hitting the floor was enough to make you gag again, vomit rising into your mouth.

It’s quiet. She’s on the ground now, her back soaking up the blood that poured. Bo’s looking at you, a twisted smile on his face as you start to sob.

“Can we go home now?”

“Aw, baby,” he raises a hand, and you flinch on reflex as he starts to pet your hair. “You can’t quit half way. I said gut her.”

You sniffle, looking at him in confusion. How the fuck were you supposed to gut her? You didn’t even know how. His face changes, he’s mad again. You didn’t even say anything this time.

He pulls his hand back, and slaps you hard. “You need me to show you how t’fuckin’ do it? Gotta do everythin’ my fuckin’ self. Goddamn useless is what you are, girl. You’re almost fuckin’ done, just take out her insides, you dumb bitch. Like this.” Bo takes your hands, and shoves them inside the woman’s stomach.

It’s wet and slimy, and you puke, choking on tears as he uses your hands to scoop out the viscera. You can’t breathe, between sobbing and vomiting. There’s blood everywhere, all over your hands and that dress Bo likes. Why does he like this dress again?

Your brain is swimming, you can’t think. You start to lean into Bo, who takes it differently than you about to pass out. You can feel the intestines moving beneath your fingers, and you dry heave. They still squirm, you remember, they’re like worms.

Black starts to fill your eyes before a harsh slap brings you back.

“I’m tired, daddy.”

“That’s shock talkin’. Keep them eyes open, girl.” Bo’s bloody hand squeezes yours, and you can’t tell what’s warmer, the body, or his hand. Both, maybe. Your hands are still inside her.

She’s empty now, you think. You don’t feel anything else, you can’t even feel your hands, can’t feel his. You push yourself away from the body, all the way back to the counter, a blood trail following you. Are you bleeding?

He’s put the large intestine on your dress, that’s where the bloods coming from. Your shaking hands throw it off you, wincing at the wet noise of it hitting the ground as Bo laughs.

“What? Don’t like my gift?”

You look at him, fear in your eyes again. Head to toe, he’s covered in blood. Looks like he played in blood rain. Looks like a wolf, standing over a sheep.

“I wanna g-go home. I do-on’t feel good,” you stutter out, hugging your knees to your chest. Bo hums, tilting his head at you. He smiles the wrong way, it’s upside down. That’s not right. His face is backwards, sideways. He’s above you, and you can’t see.

Another slap. You’re so damn tired, can’t he see that? You just want to sleep. You did what he asked, why can’t he let you sleep?

Easy access. That’s why Bo likes this dress. Easy access.

His rough hands pulled your dress up, revealing blood soaked panties. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t talk. Couldn’t tell him no. You were too tired for this, couldn’t he wait?

The answer is him pulling down your underwear. No, he couldn’t wait. You’re wet, but you think that’s just the blood.

It’s not, or maybe it is, with how easily two of his fingers slip inside you, curling to find that spot you know only he can hit. You hope it’s not blood.

You whimper, your hand coming up to grip his wrist. Did you want more, or did you want him to stop? Either way, it doesn’t matter. It never does, this is always for him.

“Y’feelin’ better now, huh, baby?”

“Daddy…” You whine, rolling your hips into his hand as he adds another finger. His lips ghost your neck, “Yeah…, that’s right, princess. Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gotcha.”

You were close, and you knew he felt it too. Bo knows all your tells by now. He’d never give you something without you begging for it first, so it’s no shock he removes his fingers from you, but you whine anyway.

You hear him unzip his blood-soaked jeans, pulling them down enough to free his cock. He’s hard, he’s always hard. You’re wearing the dress he likes, covered in blood. You’re not all there in the current moment, and he loves it.

He slides his dick through your folds, lubing himself before pushing into you without warning. The stretch hurts, it always does. You’re so fucking tired, but the pain keeps you from falling asleep.

You’re on the edge of sleep, so close to falling, but he keeps tugging you back with each thrust.

He kisses you, and you taste iron. Your blood, or his? The kiss is bruising, and you struggle to kiss back. Always taking, and you’re always giving. Perfect for each other, made for each other.

“I love you,” he lies. It sounds so real, you believe it. You know he loves you, you’ve always known. Tears prick your eyes, and your lips twist up in a smile.

“I love you too,” you moan, gripping the fabric of his shirt. He thinks you’re a liar, but you’re squeezing him so tight. You’ve always been confusing like that, lying to him so pretty as you clench around him. Some goddamn slut you are.

His pace picks up, your head knocking against the counter. Bo doesn’t care, he’ll hurt you worse than anything else can. No one and nothing hurts like he can.

“You gonna cum?”

You nod, whimpering. It’s too much, it always has been. Maybe it’s shock, but you feel too much of everything right now. You can’t handle it, but Bo’s always there. He’ll help.

“Go on, girl. You deserve it. You’ve done so good,” the praise is sick, and he doesn’t stop as you cum, your back arching off the bloody ground.

Bo’s close behind, fucking into you harder, throwing you harshly into overstimulation. It hurts, he’s getting deeper and now you’re sure the blood is yours. He cums with a strangled groan, his head falling forward into the crook of your neck. He nips at the flesh there, no softness without a twinge of pain.

“I love you,” you repeat, submitting yourself to exhaustion.

His faces twitches again, “I love you too, girl.”

#bo sinclair #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #my writing

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