#lester sharpe

[nerds-yearbook]

In 1949, a playboy CIA agent and his female assistant went to Alaska to investigate UFO sightings and also had to deal with Russian KGB Agents. ("The Flying Saucer", flm)

[arrimorr]

Ok, while we are on the topic of Malevolent, I decided to post some mlvlnt thingies I drew last year

[captain-archernerd]

Happy birthday Matt Mercer the eternal GM and his few PCs!

[quisters]

Just a man out for a walk with his guide dog 😊

[danrifics]

[x]

[ceaselessims]

the most heartbreaking thing about s4 and this interlude to s5 for me is that arthur would have forgiven john. arthur would have understood. he still might. but for godsake john doesn't know how to trust intuition and feelings yet, so he selfishly makes the choice to want arthur's mind wiped because he doesn't know how to deal with shame

[screecherofthenight]

GUYS. GUYS. Malevolent Formula One au where Arthur is a driver for Renault (yes, this is because of the yellow and black color scheme, sue me) and John is his race engineer (literally talks him through the race and tells him what to look out for. It fits so well). Bonus points if the team principal is either the KiY or Kayne.

[humming-doodles]

some lazy arthur doodles as I continue to try and figure out how I want to draw him - I think i'm fairly happy with his face by this point but I really do hate drawing men's hair lol

[earlymorningfoxhunt]

Freak On a Leash

I fucking love right Darkthur so much, I've been rotating these guys in my brain for the past week. Hes wonderful, I want him dead, here's my ramblings about em:

Arthurs horribly fucked up, hes not jazzed about killing but he sees it as a tool in his arsenal + it helps that he kinda enjoys the blood lust

John gets his arm amputated because of an infection/ it being mangled and dubbed too far gone by doctors, neither can protest in their comatose state. John is half awake even with anesthesia so he feels when they start sawing through flesh and bone. his coma period is much more horrific, with Lilly being the only thing to anchor him to hope. Arthur waking up feels like a godsend.

John can still feel the residual limb and can slightly move the elbow around. when he gains control of arthurs right leg, theres a learning curve to walk, tho they adjusted after having to sprint around the island caves.

Dreamlands is where they begin to bond/Arthur sees him as a person and John feels like more than an a voice in his head. its a stained relationship but they realize they still care about each other after they escape the pits.

Arthur invokes the "do you trust me" as they reach the plateau, John says yes

Arthur hold up the dagger to his chest

"i have your fucking heart"

Hastur is flabbergasted and almost impressed that this hobbled man he threw in the pits still has fire in him.

John is freaking the fuck out.

Arthur is using both of them as a hostage to negotiate 100% of what they want. "John will be mine, you will return us home, your stupid fucking cult will leave us alone, and you will rot in the dreamlands half the king you once were. you will lose to a mortal or die along with your better half."

"you're bluffing. would you really trade your life for this parasite? Arthur Lester, you're smarter than this."

Arthur doesn't break eye contact when he plunges the dagger into his chest.

the kings tendrils fly towards him with a guttural screech.

all forward momentum stops with the weapon, less than an inch from Hasturs fluttering heart. blood pumps down his tattered dress shirt with only a sharp inhale and twitching eye to indicate pain.

a smile dusts his face "is this really time for games, king?"

"how does it feel to be beneath someone you consider lesser? I bet it stings" Hastur growls and arthur twists the knife "down boy"

"John do you really want to stay with this freak?"

John, vaguely pissed off "my dick has lead me places i wouldn't go with a gun"

kiy: oo get it white boy

john: do NOT get it white boy

[seraph5]

Bloody But Unbowed - Blue

Im probably going to mess around with this pic a bit more and see if it can be rendered a little differently but I’ve been wanting to mess around with a limited palette for a while so this was fun. This isn’t any particular moment in the show just another sort of seasonal vibe artwork.

Image Description: there is a single digital illustration of Arthur Lester and John Doe in the midst of a fight with an unseen opponent. The image is rendered mainly in dark blues and glowing gold eyes and blood. Arthur is wearing a decorative 13th(ish) century tunic with a tear in the chest and stomach. He is crouched clutching his wounds and looking up through his hair which has fallen across his face. His expression is determined and calculating. John is leaning over the top of him, arms either side of Arthur, bestial claws beared threateningly. His expression is a wild glare, sharp teeth grit into a snarl, eyes wide and processing their enemy. His tentacles are whipped up into a roiling frenzy as if trying to create a barrier between their opponent and Arthur.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS x FEM!READER

You are in a toxic relationship with the Marvel Comics Villains

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Venom, Carnage, Loki, Green Goblin, Kraven, Dr. Octopus, Shocker, The Lizard, Crossbones, Zemo & Muse

DOCTOR DOOM (VICTOR VON DOOM)

- Doom does not love lightly. He does not love kindly. But he loves. His iron will bends for no one, yet for you, it has shifted—an anomaly he cannot ignore, a flaw he will not permit. You belong to him; a sovereign claim written in the air between you, in the way his gloved hand tightens around your wrist, never enough to bruise, but enough to remind. When you question him, his voice is measured, calm, edged with the warning of a storm waiting to be summoned. “I am your salvation. You will not defy me.”

- You are the only one permitted to see beneath the mask. The weight of it, the suffering behind it, the ruined flesh that others would recoil from—he allows you to touch what no one else has touched. But your love is not a healing force, not for him. You do not soften him. If anything, you are his indulgence, the one weakness he refuses to cut out. And if you were to leave—no, you will not leave. Doom does not lose. Doom does not allow.

- There are gifts, grander than you could have imagined. Lavish, excessive, proof of his power and his devotion. A kingdom at your feet, riches beyond measure, knowledge beyond human understanding. But a golden cage is still a cage, and Doom’s affection is a thing of iron, of walls that do not crumble. You once thought his love might free you. You understand now—it only reshapes your chains.

- You are his equal in name, never in power. He calls you queen, but he is still the god of his world, the ruler of all. He will never bow to you, but he expects you to bow to him, to stand beside him as he burns the heavens and reshapes the earth. And if you resist—if you dare resist—his fury is not loud, not wild. It is quiet. Devastating. “You forget yourself,” he will whisper, and you will feel the walls closing in.

- He would never kill you. Not even in his deepest rage. But he will remind you of what you are, where you stand, who he is. You are his. Not his prisoner, no—but not quite free, either. And somewhere in the depths of his ruined soul, where he will never let you see, he wonders if you will ever truly love him back the way he loves you. Or if you, too, only see the mask.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- You are the only thing he has never missed. The first time he laid eyes on you, he knew—knew the way a bullet knows its target, the way a knife knows flesh. Obsession came naturally. Love? Love was unfamiliar. Messy. He was always precise, always perfect, but with you, he is reckless. Your laugh hits him harder than a sniper’s round. The way you say his name? A wound that never quite heals.

- He is chaos, and you are caught in the storm. His moods shift like a blade flicked between fingers, unpredictably sharp. One moment, he is draped around you like a lazy cat, lips at your throat, whispering filth and affection in the same breath. The next, his grip is too tight, his eyes too wild, his smile wrong, like he’s deciding whether to kiss you or cut you. “You like it,” he tells you, and maybe the worst part is—you do.

- Violence is his love language. Every scar on his body has a story, and sometimes, he gifts you the same. Not in cruelty—never in cruelty—but in something warped, something dark. A knife against your skin, not breaking, just resting, just waiting. A bullet casing dropped in your palm, engraved with your initials. “Got bored on a job,” he says, but you know better. You always do.

- He does not beg. Not for anything, not for anyone. But the one time you tried to leave, the one time you thought you could walk away, you saw something raw in his eyes. Something broken. He didn’t chase. He didn’t drag you back. No—he simply waited, appearing where you least expected, watching, watching, watching. “You’re mine,” he said, not a demand, not a plea—just fact. And when you came back, he only grinned.

- You love him, and it will ruin you. But what a way to fall. What a beautiful, burning, all-consuming thing you have become, in the hands of a man who never misses.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- He knows you better than you know yourself. The way you move, the way you breathe, the slightest shift of your expression—he reads you like muscle memory, like a sequence he’s learned a thousand times over. It should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes you feel watched, dissected, like a puzzle he’s already solved.

- There is no normal with him. One moment, he’s charming, teasing, almost easy to love. The next, he’s cold, distant, slipping into the void of who he is—who he’s been made to be. “I don’t remember everything,” he tells you, voice low, almost bitter. “But I remember you.” And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it isn’t.

- He does not show jealousy, but you know it’s there. You feel it in the sharpness of his grip, in the way his voice drops when another man looks at you too long. He doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t need to. A glance, a smirk, a quiet, lethal warning—you are his, and the world knows it.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. His affection is measured, calculated, a thing given when he decides, when it suits him. And yet, there are moments—rare, fleeting—where he lets his guard down, where you see something unguarded in his gaze. You try to hold onto those moments. They always slip through your fingers.

- He would never forget you. Even if the rest of the world fades, even if his own past crumbles into dust, you are written into him. And that is both a comfort and a curse.

VENOM (EDDIE BROCK)

- His love is not singular. It is him. It is the symbiote. A force that wraps around you, claims you, fills every part of your life until you cannot remember what it was like to be alone. And maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you never did.

- He is protective, possessive, primal. The world is a threat, and he is the shield between you and it. No one touches you without consequence. No one looks at you the wrong way without meeting something dark, something hungry. “Ours,” the symbiote purrs, and Eddie only nods.

- He is rough but careful. His hands are big, his strength overwhelming, but with you, he tries. He tries so hard. But sometimes he forgets, sometimes he grips too tight, kisses too hard, loves too fiercely. “Sorry,” he mutters after, and you wonder if he is apologizing to you, or to himself.

- You are his anchor. Without you, he is lost. Without you, the hunger is too loud, the rage too consuming. He would burn the world to keep you, to hold you. And you—God help you—you would let him.

- You will never be free. But maybe freedom is overrated when love feels like this.

CARNAGE (CLETUS KASADY)

- He doesn’t love like a man. He loves like a fire, like a slaughter, like something that was never meant to be gentle. He loves in blood and laughter, in the gleam of a knife, in the way he whispers your name like a hymn before the killing starts.

- You are not a weakness. No, no, no—you are a prize, a conquest, a thing he has decided is his and his alone. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ what’s mine,” he says, and the world listens. The world fears.

- He is chaos incarnate, and you are caught in the spiral. One moment, he’s sweet—almost boyish, playful, crooning about how good you are, how perfect, how he’s never had a reason to be soft before. The next, there’s blood on his hands, and he’s grinning like the devil himself.

- You will never know peace. Not with him. But you will know passion, madness, devotion. You will know what it means to be loved so entirely, so terribly, that nothing else will ever compare.

- And if you ever tried to leave—well. You won’t. Not really. Not for long.

LOKI (LOKI LAUFEYSON)

- Loving Loki is like loving a storm. He is not constant, not safe, not something you can hold onto without feeling the sharp bite of the wind against your skin. One day, his hands are gentle, lips tracing whispered sonnets against your throat, promises woven in silver and silk. The next, he is a tempest—cold, distant, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Did you think you could own me?” he sneers, eyes burning with something unreadable. But he does own you, doesn’t he?

- He loves in illusions. Words spun like spider’s silk, so sweet, so delicate, so convincing that you almost believe them—until they unravel. He tells you that you are the only real thing in his life, that you are the one person he cannot deceive. But then you wake in an empty bed, the scent of him fading, and wonder if he was ever really there at all.

- He is jealous in ways you do not see. Not possessive in the way of mortal men, not in anger or in violence, but in something deeper, something ancient and godly. He does not rage when another looks at you, does not make threats. Instead, he smiles, charming, effortless. And then, days later, your admirer is humiliated, ruined, their life quietly destroyed by misfortune that does not seem like misfortune at all. Loki never admits to it. He doesn’t need to.

- He will test you, always. He will push, he will deceive, he will break your trust just to see if you will forgive him. “If you loved me, you would know,” he tells you, after yet another lie, another disappearance, another game. You wonder if he is trying to prove something to himself, or to you.

- And yet, he always comes back. No matter how far he runs, how many times he swears he is done with love, with weakness, with you—he returns. And every time, you let him. Because you are just as much a part of this game as he is.

GREEN GOBLIN (NORMAN OSBORN)

- His love is a dangerous thing. A poison, slow-working, seeping into your bones before you even realize it. He is charming, confident, the kind of man whose presence fills a room, whose voice makes you feel like you are the most important person in the world. And for a while, maybe you are. Until his moods shift, until his gaze darkens, until the weight of his temper presses against your throat like an invisible hand.

- He is a man of control. Everything in his life is structured, calculated, dominated by his will—including you. You are not a woman, not a person, not a lover. You are a piece of his empire, a treasure that belongs to him alone. If you step out of line, if you disobey, if you dare to question him—oh, how disappointed he is. And Norman’s disappointment is worse than anger.

- There are moments of softness. Moments when he holds you close, when his fingers brush through your hair, when he murmurs that you are the only thing keeping him sane. You believe him. You believe him even when you shouldn’t. Because those moments are rare, and they are beautiful, and you would rather live in the warmth of them than acknowledge the cold that follows.

- You are not afraid of him. At least, that is what you tell yourself. But when his voice lowers, when his eyes gleam with something manic, when the Goblin lurks beneath his skin—you know better. He has never hurt you. He never would. Would he?

- And yet, you stay. Because Norman Osborn does not lose. And you? You are not sure you would survive being without him.

KRAVEN THE HUNTER (SERGEI KRAVINOFF)

- You are his greatest hunt. Not prey, no—never prey—but something just as thrilling, just as dangerous. He looks at you like a predator watching a storm, something wild and untamed, something that he alone has the right to claim. And claim you he does, with hands that grip too tight, kisses that leave bruises, love that feels more like conquest than devotion.

- He loves you fiercely. Too fiercely. It is not gentle, not soft, not something that can be tamed or reasoned with. His love is obsession, possession, a thing that devours. “You are mine,” he tells you, eyes dark, voice thick with an accent that only makes the words more final. “And I will kill any man who dares to think otherwise.” You do not doubt him.

- He is both man and beast. There are nights when he is human—when he speaks of his mother, his honor, the burdens of his bloodline. He tells you that you are his salvation, his reason. But then, there are other nights—nights when the hunter takes over, when his hands are rougher, his words sharper, when he drags you beneath him with all the primal hunger of a lion taking down its mate.

- You run, sometimes. Not away—never away—but just far enough to remind yourself that you can. That you are still your own. But Kraven always finds you. Always. And when he does, there is no punishment, no anger—just satisfaction. “You wanted me to chase you,” he says, smiling. And perhaps, deep down, you did.

- You wonder if he loves you, or if he only loves the hunt. But does it matter? Because no matter how far you try to stray, you will always belong to him.

DOCTOR OCTOPUS (OTTO OCTAVIUS)

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He loves you, of course he does—what fool would not?—but love, to Otto, is not a thing of tenderness. It is logic, calculation, the certainty of possession. You are his as much as his machines, his work, his mind. A brilliant, beautiful thing that he has claimed as his own.

- He is a man of ambition, and you are caught in the storm. He speaks of a future where you will stand beside him, where the world will bow, where he will rewrite the laws of science, of nature, of reality itself. He speaks of your place in it, but never as an equal. You are not a scientist, not a genius, not a mind like his. You are something greater—you are his muse, his reason, his beautiful, fragile thing.

- There is jealousy, but it is cold. Otto does not throw tantrums, does not break things in fits of rage—no, his jealousy is quiet. A lingering gaze, a remark too sharp, a conversation steered into dangerous waters. And if someone else dares to look at you, dares to try and steal what is his? Well. Accidents happen.

- He does not like defiance. Not from you. Not from anyone. And when you push, when you try to remind him that you are your own, his temper is not loud but cruel. Words like scalpels, sharp and precise, cutting in ways that cannot be stitched back together. “Ungrateful,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Do you think anyone else could love you as I do?” And the worst part is—you don’t know if they could.

- He adores you. He does. In his own way. And perhaps that is why you stay—because there is something beautiful in being loved by a man who bends the very world to his will. Even if, in the end, he will bend you, too.

SHOCKER (HERMAN SCHULTZ)

- He is not a good man, but he tries for you. He is a criminal, a thief, a man who has never known softness—but for you, he tries. He buys you gifts, leaves you notes in his messy handwriting, does his best to be gentle with hands that were made to break things. “Don’t deserve you,” he mutters sometimes, eyes dark with something unspoken. But he never lets you go.

- He is rough around the edges. Sarcastic, sharp-tongued, impatient. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet desperation of a man who has never had anything good in his life—until you.

- He does not know how to love without holding too tight. He is not cruel, but he is possessive. He cannot lose you. He won’t. And if you try to leave, if you pull away—he doesn’t threaten, doesn’t shout. He just looks at you with something hollow in his chest. “Please,” he says, voice hoarse. And you stay. Because how could you not?

- He is dangerous, but not to you. Never to you.

- And you wonder if that makes you lucky, or just another thing he refuses to let go of.

MYSTERIO (QUENTIN BECK)

- Loving Quentin is like being lost in a dream. A beautiful, haunting dream spun in golden light and smoke, a world where every word he speaks is poetry, where every touch is a promise wrapped in silk. He makes you feel like the center of the universe, like a goddess sculpted from mist and stardust. But dreams are not real, and neither is Quentin.

- He lies, effortlessly, constantly, beautifully. You do not know if he even realizes he is doing it anymore. “You’re the only thing I see clearly,” he tells you, voice thick with something like devotion. But you’ve seen the way his illusions flicker, the way his masks slip just for a second. You do not know if he loves you or the idea of you—the version of you he has created in his mind, the one that exists only in the stories he tells himself.

- You never know what is real. Sometimes, you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping, reaching for him—only to find an empty bed. A trick. A performance. A cruel game played by a man who needs control over every scene in his life. “Did you think I would leave you?” he asks, amused, when you confront him. “You know me better than that.” And you do. That is the problem.

- He is jealous in ways that are terrifying. Not loud, not violent—no, his jealousy is theatrical. He does not scream when another man looks at you. He does not threaten. He simply makes them disappear. Ruins their lives. Turns them into shadows, forgotten faces in a world rewritten by his illusions. You do not know how many times he has done it. You do not ask.

- And yet, you stay. Because when he loves you, when he looks at you with those dark, endless eyes, when he whispers your name like an incantation—you feel like magic. And isn’t that worth the cost?

THE LIZARD (CURT CONNORS)

- Curt loves you in two minds. One of them is gentle, human, the man he was before. He kisses you with careful hands, calls you his brightest light, tells you that you are the only thing keeping him grounded. But the other—the Lizard—does not know how to be gentle. Does not understand softness, does not understand love as anything but possession.

- There are days when he does not remember what he has done. When he wakes up with your bruises under his fingertips, with your fear still thick in the air, and he does not understand why you flinch. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, eyes wide, horrified. And you believe him. Because this is not him. Not really.

- You are afraid, but you do not leave. Because when he is Curt, when he is himself, he is everything. Brilliant. Kind. The man who kisses your fingertips and tells you stories of science and discovery, the man who wants to heal the world. But then the scales come back, the hunger in his eyes, the way he grips your wrist too tight. And you wonder—will there come a day when he does not turn back?

- He begs you to stay. Even when he knows he shouldn’t. “I need you,” he tells you, voice breaking. “I need you more than anything.” And maybe you need him too. Maybe that is why you stay.

- But love cannot fix what he has become. And one day, you will have to decide if you can love a man who is not always a man at all.

CROSSBONES (BROCK RUMLOW)

- Brock does not love gently. His love is bruises, rough hands, the sharp edge of a knife pressed against your throat—not to hurt, never to hurt, only to remind you that he could. He is danger made flesh, violence wrapped in a smirk and a scarred mouth that kisses you too hard, too possessively, like he is afraid you will disappear if he does not leave his mark.

- He is a man of war, and you are his greatest prize. Not a woman. Not a lover. A thing he has taken, claimed, wrapped in his arms and his rage. “You’re mine,” he growls, lips against your skin, voice thick with something darker than devotion. And you know he means it. In the way that means no one else ever can have you.

- He does not understand softness. Not really. But he tries. You see it in the way he pulls you close in the dead of night, in the way he buys you gifts—things he does not know how to give properly, shoved into your hands with a scowl. “Take it,” he mutters, looking away, as if the act of giving is something he is ashamed of.

- He is jealous in a way that leaves scars. Not on you. Never on you. But you have seen what he does to the ones who look too long, who think they can touch what is his. “You don’t need to know,” he tells you, when you ask what happened to them. And maybe you don’t.

- And yet, you love him. Love the way he makes you feel untouchable, love the way he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. But love is not enough to save a man like Brock Rumlow. And you do not know if it will be enough to save you.

ZEMO (HELMUT ZEMO)

- Helmut Zemo loves like a king loves his queen. Regal. Absolute. The kind of love that does not ask, does not plead—it commands. He does not need to raise his voice, does not need to threaten, does not need to demand. He simply looks at you, and you know. You are his. You always will be.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He does not hurt you, but he does not comfort you either. If you cry, he does not hold you. If you are afraid, he does not reassure you. “Do not be weak,” he tells you, voice cold. “You are better than that.” And so you learn not to be weak. You learn to be strong. Because that is what he wants.

- He does not trust easily, but he trusts you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all. Because to be trusted by Zemo is to be owned by him, to be a part of his world in a way that cannot be undone. “You are the only one who sees me,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your jaw. And you wonder if that is a gift or a curse.

- He is possessive in a way that does not need words. There are no threats, no punishments, no rules spoken aloud. But you know, without question, that you are his. And if you ever forgot—well, Zemo has a way of making sure you remember.

- And you love him. Because how could you not? How could you not love a man who holds the world in his hands and still chooses to hold you?

MUSE (UNKNOWN NAME)

- Loving Muse is like loving madness itself. He does not speak often, does not whisper sweet nothings, does not fill the silence with promises. He only watches, eyes dark and empty, head tilted in quiet fascination. You do not know if he loves you, or if he simply finds you… interesting.

- He paints you. Again and again. In blood, in ink, in shadows cast against moonlit walls. Sometimes, you wake to find your face scrawled across canvases you do not remember posing for, your likeness stretched and twisted into something almost inhuman. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers stained red, gazing at his work as though it is the only thing that exists. As though you are the only thing that exists.

- You are never afraid. Or perhaps, you have simply learned not to be. You have learned that fear does not matter. That love, to Muse, is not about touch or words—it is about obsession. About the way his hands shake when you are not near. About the way he does not kill when you tell him not to, even though you know he wants to.

- He is not jealous. But he is possessive. He does not threaten those who look at you. He does not hurt them. He simply… removes them. And when you ask, when you demand to know why, he only blinks. “They did not belong,” he says. And somehow, that is enough.

- And you wonder—if one day, you will not belong either.

[izzymarksthespot]

Ya know, between his whimpering, reciting poetry and wet cat man behaviour I sometimes tend to forget Arthur can be like that.

Questioning a friar about his true god and saying outright he himself believes in none. Picking up a fight with a man who could snap him like a twig just so he can - successfully! - manipulate the situation to his advantage.

That freakin' steel under his skin peeking out. That razor sharp wit that I am aware of yet I'm impressed every time seeing it work at work.

THAT.

Arthur Lester the man you are istg

[artromanthur-lester]

Funny man hugging his left hand (the hand is hugging back)

[id: a digital drawing of arthur lester from malevolent. he is sitting on the ground, slightly turned back, with his hands tightly wrapped around him. He is a white man with short brown hair and a moustache. He is wearing a slightly stained white shirt, brown trousers and dark shoes. His left pinky is wooden and on his face and neck there are a couple of star shaped scars. He is laughing joyfully with his eyes closed. the background is a yellow square with some abstract white sharp shapes. end id]

[darkromanceenthusiast]

hi, darling! id like to request fem!reader giving bo a blowjob. hope youre doing well, take care of yourself!! <3

Pairing: Bo Sinclair x reader

Smut blurb

Contains: oral (m receiving), cock worship, praise, surprisingly fluffy, I hope this is good I just saw the request and started writing.

“What’re you doin’ down there?” Bo asks, his eyes glinting in the light as you settled between his legs on the carpet. He had a beer in his right hand and had been watching some rerun of something you didn't care about on the tv. Vincent was down in his basement and Lester was off probably doing god knows what to that pit of his, so you had Bo to yourself for the moment.

“Just thought since we had a moment alone, maybe I could show you some appreciation.” you mumbled as your fingers moved to the button of his jeans, he smirked widely and instantly sat his beer to the side, moving to help you. He was already starting to get hard from the thought of your pretty lips around his dick, those pretty eyes of yours staring up at him as he makes you gag on it.

“Fuckin’ hell, babe, you already got my mind wanderin’” he groans out as he lifts his hips and helps you slip his jeans down, his hand instinctively comes to stroke his length, staring you down as he did.

“You gonna beg me like the slut you are?” that shit-eating grin on his face tells you he’s more than just enjoying it.

“Please, Bo, let me suck your dick?” you try and he shakes his head, cocking a brow.

“Pretty, pretty, please Bo? I really, really wanna suck you off… make you feel good… please?” you try and he tilts his head as if considering it.

“I reckon you're far too clothed to deserve it.” he says, his eyes trained on the swell of your breasts under your shirt, you feel your face flush with heat and you hook your fingers under the hem, tugging it over your head, freeing your breasts.

“Please?” you whisper and he nods leaning forward, his hand comes out and grips the hair at the base of your neck, pulling your head back as he presses a passionate kiss against your lips.

“Go on, Baby… you've earned it.” he says, pressing another chaste peck to your lips before sitting back, his arms come to rest on the back of the couch, his legs spread, and dick standing proudly erect. Its a fucking erotic sight. He looks so effortlessly, so simply attractive.

You lean forward on your knees and press soft kisses up his length, admiring the way it twitches and pulses from your attention, before you take him in your mouth causing him to let out a small hiss.

You swirled your tongue around the swollen tip of his dick, before you bob your head to take more of him with your tongue flat against the prominent vein on the underside. His hand finds your hair, tangling in it as his head falls back against the couch, his hat falling off and landing on the floor behind the couch.

“Fuck, you're so good at that.” he groans out, his hand gently gripping your hair and attempting to guide you at a slightly faster pace, you allow your jaw to go slack and focus on breathing through your nose as you allow him to use your mouth, you occasionally wiggle your tongue around him or hum.

After a while you can feel his thighs tensing and you bring a hand up to gently fondle his balls, to which he lets out deep groan.

“Keep that up and I'm gonna cum in this pretty mouth of yours.” Bo practically whines, your eyes meet his and he sucks a sharp breath through his teeth and closes his eyes.

“You look too pretty like that, fuck, I can't look at you or I’ll bust.” he says, you push yourself further up and try to relax your throat, you carefully bob your head a few more times before youre able to deep throat him.

“Jesus, I’m cumming.” he moans, pressing your head down, your nose touches his happy trail and you feel the salty, thick liquid coat your tongue. You pull back coughing and gagging and he sits dazed for a moment. When you're both finally composed he smirks at you.

“I’m gonna eat you out so good tonight, princess.” he says, leaning forward and pulling you into another kiss.

[marigold-solis-harp-player]

*Casually in the Middle of a High Stakes/Dangerous Situation*

Meg: How do you eat pickles?

Leo: What do you mean?

Meg: I mean, there's a whole process. It's not like you can grab them from the jar with your hand, because it's cold and the juice burns if you have a cut, plus, it's pretty unsanitary. And you can't use a spoon because you'll have to scoop it out, and it'll be way too difficult to grab more than three or four without taking 10 minutes along with half the brine in the jar, even if it's one with holes.

Leo: Yeah, that's why you use a fork.

Meg: Okay, sure, but what if you don't have one of the big ones clean? It's weird to use a small one. But there is always one of those smaller sharp knives clean.

Leo: But the straight edge doesn't really fit the cylindrical shape, and you have to make sure you don' t break it, it's too much work.

Meg: It makes me feel like I deserve the pickles though. Like, "Yeah, I did it. That's right. Good job me." It's empowering. But even after that, it's not like you can use a bowl.

Leo: I get that, it's not ascetically pleasing.

Meg: Exactly! And it looks weird if you don't entirely fill the bowl, but you also can't eat that many. My solution: Use a mug.

Leo: *Nods in agreement*

Lester: That is all very interesting, BUT WE'RE TRYING NOT TO DIE RIGHT NOW! USE YOUR LIMITED ATTENTION SPANS AND FOCUS!

Leo: Jeez, okay.

Meg: Quit yelling at us already.

[mystics7up]

Slashers! HC S/O nearly killed by a victim

Slashers!Sinclair brothers x gn!reader

Includes Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair

Requested? Yes

Warnings: max angst, lots of self deprecating thoughts from the slashers, blood, mentions of gore, lots of violence, happy ending (you survive!)

Bo Sinclair

You weren’t supposed to be at the house, Bo was sure you were out getting groceries, you told him you were

You placed the several brown bags you could carry from the pickup onto the kitchen counter, used to the silence that filled the dimly lit home

Turning to make your way back outside, you froze in your spot when merely a few yards away stood a man, face twisted in agony, blood covering the lower portion of his body, it looked like he’d been stabbed by Vincent’s sheers, so why was he upstairs?

“You’re one of them”

The man seemed to only grow in size from the sheer mass of his clear anger, chest puffing to reveal a stutter in his breath, as if he was using borrowed time

You weren’t sure if saying anything would help, you were bringing in groceries, of course you were one of them, there was no way to free yourself from this situation

Glancing over at the knife block, wide eyes switched back to the man who had seen the subtle movement, brows furrowing, and then he charged

“They killed my girlfriend!”

The stranger snarled as he gained on you, hands reaching out to grab your arm, your neck, whenever he could reach in his rage fueled attack

Slipping on your heel to get to the knives, the recently mopped floor proved to be a disadvantage, only giving the man a better angle to grab the collar of the back of your shirt, pulling it back, before slamming you into one of the counters

The impact against your stomach wasn’t pleasant, you could feel the bruise already forming as you were dragged back, grabbing anything you could as pitiful noises left your lips

Throwing the salt and pepper shakers, a clean plate, anything at him you could get your hands on, nothing seemed to faze him as you threw you against the adjacent cabinets

Forehead slamming into the sharp edge of wood, red filled your already blurring vision, your weak yelp for anyone nearby that could help fell deaf on the empty corridors of the house, where the hell were the guys?

“You sick bitch, you’re all sick”

The man spat in your face, spit hitting your cheek as he did so, then he was once again lifting you from where he’d tossed you like a rag doll, this time letting your body fall rather limply to the tiled floor

“You’ll get what’s coming to you, if it’s the last thing I do”

You could hear the slight motion of the man reaching over your body, plucking a knife from the block a few feet away and kneeling over your aching body

His legs were at either side of your hips, arms raised high as he didn’t think twice before lowering the weapon

A shout echoed from the near distance, heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, in a last ditch effort with all the remaining strength to could muster, you lifted a knee to the mans crotch, resulting in a deep howl of pain, and a burning sensation as the knife landed deep in your shoulder

Then the man was off of you, ripped from your body by someone far stronger, the shouting picked up again, the enraged, bellowing noises bouncing off the walls as you figured the escaped victim was being rightfully dealt with

Right as the man’s shadow was gone, another more broad figure appeared over you, this time at the side of your injured body.

“Oh baby, oh fuck,” It was Bo’s voice, his tones drawl making your heart flutter, or was that the stab wound? It felt as if the room was spinning in its axis, turned upside down and steeping your body in darkness, “Shit, I thought ya were outta the house.”

Vincent was hovering in the distance, gauging the wound from the distance he stood before rushing off the gather the proper items to best help you. Bo was at a loss, wanting to lean down while also warning himself that his touch would only cause more pain. Why were you home? Why didn’t he check the house first? Why did he just assume you would be out for hours? This was his fault, he left you vulnerable and alone, in a place he knew could bs unsafe when they brought, “guests”, home. Your weak whine of his name drove his stomach to lurch forward, bile trying to climb him throat, body hot to the touch with panic and his eyes swam with guilt.

“I’ve got ya now, nothin’ll hurt ya anymore,” Bo fell on his ass to get closer to you, lifting your upper body carefully before laying it steadily in his lap. Your pained wince at being moved to any extent shot right through the man’s heart, his body folding over yours slightly, almost as if trying to protect what was left of you from the outside world. Your delicate cries as blood seeped through your clothes only drew the man further from rationally, mind racing at what he would do to the dead body mere feet away when he was done tending to you, “Vincent! Get yur ass in here!”

“I’m here baby, don’t ya worry, I’ve got ya.”

Vincent Sinclair

You were never involved with the victims, as much as Vincent trusted you, he didn’t trust any stranger within a mile of Ambrose, the thought of someone full of fear or anger anywhere in your vicinity made his skin crawl beneath his usual wool sweaters

Luckily for the town over, there weren’t three deranged brothers causing havoc, in fact it was odd being in a populated area where no one even knew of Ambrose’s happenings, or the men beneath it

So when a van full of curious, college aged boys came strolling through the, “abandoned”, streets, you had made the choice to go out for the day, visit that nearby town where Vincent knew you would be safe for the most part

Which lead to the present, where you were calmly walking back to Ambrose along the two lane, quiet, wooded backroad, wicker basket in hand with various items you deemed interesting enough to take back

Although the snap of a branch caught your ear, a man no older than you stumbling along the path, if the splatters of blood along his body weren’t an indicator of where he’d left, the thick globs of wax painting his left arm did

“Miss? Fuck, help me!”

The man called to you, clearly desperate in his current predicament, there wasn’t much you could do, you didn’t have a cellphone, you’d already been walking for a half mile, what could you possibly be able to help him with?

“There’s these crazy guys that tried to kill me! We need to get away from here!”

Before you could even summon a response, the staggering stranger that had since gotten closer paused, face pursing, lips tight as a look of realization crossed his face

“Your face, there were drawings of your face in that basement”

“I don’t know what you mean, here, let’s-“

You didn’t get much of a sentence out before the man was pushing you to the ground, intentions clear as he kneeled above you, planting your lower body to the gravel side of the road before punching aimlessly at your face

“Please-“

“You’re with those sick bastards aren’t you? You must be fucked in the head too, after all the bodies I saw!”

The punches kept landing, your nose surely broken by the onslaught, blood draining down your jaw, by your ears, into your mouth

The heavy smell of iron palette-able as another swift hit was served to your mouth, bottom lip busting open with thick, red spilling out

The man just kept screaming in your face, spit flying as he did so, it was as if his rage fueled attack would never cease, maybe he hadn’t gotten hurt all that much and his adrenaline was through the roof

Either way it was as if the beating was only getting worse as the minutes ticked by, you felt lucky he didn’t have an actual weapon on his person

As if some kind of saving grace had heard you, the rumbling of what sounded like a familiar old pickup roared in the distance, getting louder by the second

Right as the shriek of tires echoed across the otherwise silent road, your tired eyelids fluttered shut, allowing the all consuming haze to take its place in your body

Some time later

“How the hell should I know when she’s gon’ wake up?” That voice was familiar, the low timbre of an accent you knew all too well. It was buzzing through your head, and although you were thankful to even be here to listen to it, there was one thing you wished was present as well.

“Hey, her eyes are opening,” And that’s when you heard the shuffling, heavy boots on a concrete floor, when Bo’s agitated voice once again striking your growing headache, “alright, alright! I’m goin’.”

An all too warm, fuzzy feeling filled your chest when Vincent’s head popped into view, hair tied back loosely with little bits of wax here and there. Although lumbering over you, his movements were cautious, slow and steady as you could make out his eyes scanning your form meticulously. It felt as though you were one of his pieces of artwork, carefully watched over to make sure you wouldn’t melt.

“Vince, are you okay?” Your whisper of a question caused the man’s head to drop into the crook of your neck, whether overwhelmed or still worried it just seemed he needed a moment to process all that had happened. It was only minutes ago you were still out cold, laying on one of his work tables as Bo stood with a disapproving look. Art supplies strewn, chairs overturned, even the most delicate wax sculptures he’d done were crumbled on the floor. The man hadn’t been able to contain the absolute ice that ran through his veins upon seeing Lester carrying your lifeless form into the house, especially considering he didn’t even know if you were still alive.

Large, rough hands shaking like a kitten, the man leaned back to run his fingers over the side of your injured face, the touch gentle, barely there. The soft tilt of his head told you he was fine, seemingly still stressing about your current state. As you became more aware of your surroundings, you realized one of Vincent’s wood sweaters covered a portion of your upper body, like a makeshift blanket. Fingers weakly knocking into his elbow, the masked man took notice and immediately intertwined them with his, palm warm against yours. His free hand reached up to caress your jaw, without words but as if to say,

‘You’re safe now.’

Lester Sinclair

Lester wasn’t ever particularly involved in the murders, in fact he felt his best work was cleaning up the eventual aftermath

That being said, you were usually by his side at all hours, both day and night, keeping him and Jonsey company

“Be right back darlin’”

Lester flashed a toothy grin in your direction, sitting on the hood of the trunk while he hoisted a large, dead dead over his shoulder

This had been majority of the day so far, you enjoying the shady sun while he hauled carcasses of roadkill over to the designated dump sight

“I’ll stay right here!”

You chuckle, watching the red dusting over his ears fade as he continued to walk further down the slope

Glancing down to where Jonsey was laying, you did a double take when the little lady had somewhere vanished, head whipping side to side, yes she was an independent dog but that doesn’t mean you didn’t worry sometimes

Barking in the distance cut through your immediate panic, somewhere off to the left in the densely wooded forest

“Jonsey?”

You called as you hopped off the cars hood, jogging towards the sounds origin as it only continued

It didn’t sound like her normal bark though, it was vicious, angry, maybe she’d run into a squirrel or other wild animal of some kind that had gotten her all up in action

“There you are girl!”

You exclaimed as your turn around the tree revealed the dog, facing away from you, as your eyes left the furry creature it landed on a man not much older than you, standing before you and Jonsey with a knife in hand

“Sorry about my dog, she can be overly cautious”

You tried to reason, deflecting from the chance he may know more than you hoped, and unfortunately his fist only clenched further around the blades handle, face pulled in a snarl

“Yeah, the same dog I saw in that auto shop, with that guy who killed my girlfriend”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re here to do-“

Before you could even finish your statement he was already on you, knocking you back with a heavy hand before slashing towards your stomach

Thankfully you were able to dodge the first swing, although he wasn’t stopping anytime soon, in fact your fear only seemed to spur him on as he swung again, and again

Unfortunately he had backed you into a tree, another aim at your body immediately ripping through your (Lester’s) shirt, blood leaking from ripped skin, another across your forehead, red spilling into your waterline as your thunderous scream of Lester’s name left your quivering lips

“I didn’t kill your girlfriend”

“But you’re chummy with the bastard that did”

His final strike ended with him aiming down and up, the smooth surface of the knife gliding into your skin like butter, the sob it ripped from you was pitiful, as was the way you fell to your knees

Then a gunshot rang out

“Darlin’?” There stood Lester, rusty, old shotgun in hand that was still aimed at the now fallen body, lowering it too glance over at you in panic. His rushed footfall crunched leaves, his quick footing hit a root and nearly tripping him if his objective wasn’t so focused on. Dropping to your level, the man held his hands to where you were gripping your wrist.

“Show me, how bad is it?” The concern and fear tainting his voice was almost painful to hear, pulling your palms away to reveal a river of crimson. Hissing as he lifted the edge of the shirt you had stolen from him this morning, to reveal a bloody but shallow wound. It looked as if the guy had missed, only slicing at your side, not your gut as he most likely planned.

“Hurts,” you mumble as your body begins to try and lose consciousness, the adrenaline now leaving your system. Lester caught on, leaning you into him before lifting you against his slim body, careful to not press into any of your injuries, “Lester”.

“I know honey, I’ll get ya all patched up, don’t ya worry.” The man shouldered your weight, holding a tough facade despite the way his heart was slowly crumbling inside his chest cavity. If he made it one second later, you could’ve been gone forever. The thought felt like ice water poured over his head, sinking into his veins. Next time he would have to watch over you better, keep you safer. No, there wouldn’t be a next time, he would make sure no one could even attempt to get near you.

“Ain’t ever gonna let that happen again”

If y’all would like to see other parts of this either others slashers list their names in the comments or in my inbox!

As always requests are always open!