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MICHAEL AFTON - a boy with a loud bark and the softest heart, all awkward limbs and too-big feelings.
he’d swagger through the hallway like he owns it—hood half-zipped, grin crooked, teasing his friends—but the second you look at him a beat too long he forgets how to walk straight. his whole aura’s fox-like: curious, restless, craving touch and noise and company.
he’s the kind who falls in love like it’s a fever.
he’ll text you way too often just to ask what you’re doing, then delete half the messages before sending because they sound “too clingy". he pretends to roll his eyes when you hug him in public, but the truth? he leans into it, face buried in your shoulder, breath hitching like he’s trying not to melt.
and when he’s alone, he hums songs that remind him of you, doodles your initials in the margins of his notebook, keeps little mementos (a gum wrapper, a scribbled note, a ticket stub) hidden in his jacket pocket like talismans.
he talks big: “i don’t need anyone, i’m fine.” (sureeee)
but the first time you don’t show up at lunch, he’s pacing, restless, scanning the halls. that’s the fox in him—alert, loyal, wired to protect the one person who makes him feel seen.
he’s hopelessly romantic in the most ridiculous ways:
giving you wilted flowers from the roadside because “they looked lonely”.
staying up late to fix your bike, even if he pretends he did it “for fun”.
calling you “idiot” with so much tenderness it sounds like i love you.
underneath every grin and sarcastic jab is this boy who just wants to be held and believed in, just once, without having to be cool or funny or loud.
he likes sneaking little things into your locker before you get there. gum wrappers with “fortune cookie” style messages scribbled on them. a bad sketch of himself wearing sunglasses. or just “lunch? meet me.” scrawled on lined paper. you do it too, sometimes slipping something nice like a note with “don’t chew with your mouth open today, idiot” written across it. he keeps those. all of them.
gets protective if anyone messes with you. he may crack jokes about you all day, but the moment someone else does? he’s squaring up, fists clenched, no hesitation.
he’ll walk you to class even if it’s nowhere near his. his friends tease him—“whipped.” he shrugs, “worth it.”
roald dahl was antisemitic and misogynistic. george orwell was openly homophobic. edgar allan poe married his 13 year old cousin. dr seuss cheated on his wife (and was racist as well as antisemitic!). hp lovecraft was racist as fuck.
anyways they’re fucking dead it’s not like you’re enabling their behaviors in the afterlife or something. then again I think they bleed into the books so uh keep an eye out for that
the difference between these old white guys and jk rowling is that the former group is all dead. jk rowling is alive and using your money to oppress trans people
summary: to your chagrin, you get partnered with an irritating DSO agent who happens to take an interest in the case you're working on.
cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, re9!leon, fbi!reader, age gap, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, spanking, choking, finger sucking, brat taming, praise kink
wc: 10k
a/n: obsession's gotten so bad i started having dreams about him <3
also on ao3!
There’s a man sitting at your desk.
You’d arrived at work a little before 9, steaming cup of coffee in hand and a stack of case files tucked under your arm haphazardly. It was only until you’d heard the curious, hushed whispers that you’d realized your desk was currently taken, occupied by an unfamiliar man clad in a leather jacket.
Were you being relocated? Promoted? Demoted?
A barrage of thoughts flits through your mind as you approach your desk slowly, mentally preparing yourself to give the man a piece of your mind. The man doesn’t even flinch when the case files drop onto your desk loudly, your coffee cup following soon after as you set it down roughly before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Can I help you?”
His head tilts towards you, shaggy hair shifting as his gaze travels over you with interest. You stare back at him blankly, brows furrowing when you take in the scruffy stubble covering his jaw and the weathered look to his skin. He had to be at least twice your age, but even you could admit the man was stupidly handsome. You’re only left with more questions than you started with as you continue to stare at him, feeling bewildered. The flex of his gloved fingers catch in your periphery, distracting you as you glance down to find him piecing together a disassembled gun with practiced ease, the parts set out neatly on your desk.
His voice is gruff when he speaks. “You’re younger than I expected.”
“You… were expecting me?” you ask, irritation seeping into your voice, patience growing thin. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s brows raise at your blunt question, fingers still moving deftly, his eyes flickering with mirth.
“You know, the FBI promised me a warm welcome,” he says, the chair swiveling as he turns to face you fully. “Can’t exactly say you’re delivering on that promise.”
“Yeah well, I didn’t make any promises,” you retort, giving him a tight smile, watching as he leans forward, sliding his newly assembled gun back into its holster. “Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.”
He sighs, leaning forward, his arm outstretched as he offers you his hand. “Leon–”
He’s interrupted by the Unit Chief calling out your name. Your eyes narrow when you see the case file in his hands, glancing back at Leon before you leave him, stepping inside the Unit Chief’s office, the door clicking shut behind you.
“We’ve got two new bodies,” he says, handing you the case file. “Unsub’s been crossing jurisdictions and the local police department is… well, concerned to say the least. Think you can handle it?”
You nod, flicking through the pages, nose scrunching when you see the images of the crime scene – each more grisly than the last. Mutilated bodies, blood smeared across the walls, messily carved symbols etched into the wooden door of the victims’ home.
“Seems ritualistic,” you murmur, reading through the reports. You glance up at him, clutching the case file to your chest protectively. “You’re letting me take this alone? I’m flattered.”
“Ah,” the Unit Chief shakes his head, nodding towards Leon. “Not exactly.”
“What?” you scoff, looking at Leon who gives you a smile and waves through the glass. You glare at him, yanking the blinds shut. “The old man?” you hiss, “he’ll only slow me down.”
The Unit Chief sighs, taking a seat in his chair. “That man is Leon Kennedy. DSO. It’s only a precaution. He’s more experienced than any team we could put together and after what happened with Agent Ashcroft, the FBI is trying to be more… mindful.”
“Ashcroft?” you echo, remembering the Rhodes Hill incident. “That’s– that’s because they sent an analyst into the field of all things. She must’ve been terrified. I’m a field agent, I can handle myself.”
“Agent Kennedy took an interest in the case,” he replies, hands clasping together. “If there’s bioterrorism involved, he’ll be useful. If there isn’t, use him as an idea board. The Unit Chief peers up at you, his expression stern. “My decision is final.”
Your jaw works irritatedly before you huff out a heavy breath, nodding reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”
Despite your sour mood and the urge to slam the door shut, you carefully close it, making your way back to Leon. You drag a spare chair towards your desk, sinking down onto it. Leon shakes his head when you offer him the case file.
“I’ve already read it.”
“Huh,” you stare at him, lips pursing while your eyes squint in recognition. “Leon Scott Kennedy,” you drawl, jabbing your finger at him, “you’re the Raccoon City cop. I’ve heard stories about you. Shouldn’t you be…” you gesture to him pointedly, “retired?”
“Ouch,” Leon says, his hand moving to press against his chest as he feigns being hurt. “You really don’t want me here, do you?”
“All I know is that you’re some big-shot DSO agent that I don’t need on my case, Leon,” you shoot back, flipping open the file to read the autopsy reports more thoroughly.
“The first case you’ve ever been in charge of,” Leon muses, his leather gloves creaking softly as he picks up a stray pen, putting it back into its place. “I’m impressed. Not everyone gets to be a lead on a case like this. Then again, you’re pretty good at this kinda thing.”
Was he buttering you up? He had to be. You don’t bother looking up as you mark a few things of interest off on the report.
“Thank you,” you murmur, scrawling a few notes down on a notepad before you pause, head turning to find him watching you carefully. “How did you know that?” you ask, a hint of suspicion in your voice, “we’ve never met before.”
Leon shifts, grunting softly as he tries to get more comfortable in your chair. “I took the liberty of reading your file,” he replies flippantly, his expression darkening as he tries to work the chair’s jammed lever. “Fuckin’ chair… how do you sit in this all day?”
“I don’t sit all day!” you snap, “and you read my file? I don’t care if you have the fucking clearance, you can’t just–”
You’re interrupted by a loud snap, teeth gritting together when you realize he’s pushed the lever too hard – or perhaps, underestimated his own strength – the lever cleanly detached and now clutched in Leon’s gloved hand.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, setting the lever down on your desk, patting it awkwardly. “I’ll buy you a new chair.”
You have half a mind to reach over and strangle him. You even consider doing it, until he grumbles under his breath and shrugs off that jacket of his, your murderous intent forgotten as soon as you catch sight of his thick biceps. With those things, Leon could probably strangle you and have no problem doing it.
The sheer size of him renders you incapable of tearing your gaze away, your stare settled firmly on his shoulders, arms and chest – every part of him unfairly thick and muscular – his skin-tight shirt leaving you barely conscious of the way your throat was beginning to dry up.
Your newly broken chair creaks once more under Leon’s weight, the sound piercing through the haze of your shameless staring. You blink uncertainly, taking another lingering peek at his biceps while he’s too busy trying to get comfortable.
“We’d better get going,” you announce, grabbing the file before standing up abruptly. “The local PD is probably waiting for us.”
“We can take my car,” Leon says as he follows you into the elevator.
“I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strange men,” you say testily, pressing a button before turning to face him.
“And I’m not in the habit of babysitting FBI agents,” Leon drawls, leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossing over his chest.
The movement makes his shirt stretch tighter if anything, the fabric clinging to his broad forearms stubbornly, his watch glinting softly in the lighting. Your head tilts, eyes narrowing with irritation when you register his insult.
“No one asked you to babysit,” you say, shaking your head. “I have a gun,” you take it out of the holster attached to your hip, pointing it at him, “and I’m smart. I’ll have this case wrapped up in a day or two, so stay the fuck outta my way.”
A smile pulls at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hands in mock-surrender. The amusement in his eyes makes him look a little younger, your heart fluttering with delight for a moment before you tamp it down violently.
When the elevator comes to a stop, Leon takes your bag before you can protest, his gloved fingers brushing yours briefly. You step after him, brows raising with begrudging respect when you see his car. Big-shot DSO agent, your mind supplies as he puts your bag into the backseat, gesturing for you to get in. You sigh heavily, opening your mouth to argue but Leon’s already disappeared inside his car, the engine rumbling to life. Muttering a curse under your breath, you get in his car, pulling the door shut firmly.
–
“What do you mean there’s only one room available?”
“What’s there to understand?” Leon asks, dangling the singular key in front of your face. “Rooms are all booked out. They’re celebrating some special harvest festival according to the receptionist.”
“Harvest festival?” you echo, peering up at him. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s like the perfect cover for our unsub.”
“I would help,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently to get you to step aside, “but you wanted me to, what was it?” you roll your eyes when he snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Ah yes, stay the fuck outta your way.”
You snatch the key hanging from Leon’s finger, ignoring his aggrieved sigh as you push past him and stomp back down the stairs to the reception, ready to demand another room. All the receptionist does is give you an apologetic smile and offer you a discount. You swallow your pride as you trudge back up the stairs, doing your best to avoid Leon’s eyes when you find him leaning beside the room’s door, his brows raising amusedly.
“I don’t want to hear it,” you mutter, slotting the key into the lock.
Leon shrugs non-committally. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The door is heavy as you push it open, Leon’s hand moving to keep it open for you as you step inside. You fumble in the darkness for the light switch at the same time Leon does, his strong, calloused fingers brushing over yours. It’s enough to have an unwanted shiver running down your spine, warmth blooming in your chest and a flush settling high on your cheeks despite your stubborn annoyance with him.
“Fuck me.”
You follow his gaze when he swears, taking in the lit room. There’s a shitty couch in one corner, a tiny area with a coffee machine and table, and… a bed.
“Okay,” you say slowly, staring at the one, pitiful bed you had been afforded. “Great! So I think you should go and chew out the receptionist.”
“I’m not doing that,” Leon scoffs, bending down to take off his boots, his gun clattering against the table as he sets it down. “I can take the couch.”
You look back at the couch, brows furrowing. “That’s really nice of you and all, Leon,” you begin, stepping further inside the small room, “but I don’t think you’re exactly going to fit.”
“You care about me or something?” he drawls, looking over at you with a smile as he opens his duffle bag to pull out a towel and a set of clothes.
“Get over yourself. I’m just worried about your…” you gesture towards him vaguely, “potentially geriatric bones.”
Leon chokes on a laugh, his brows shooting up. “Geriatric? I’m 49. My bones are in perfect working order.”
“Right, nevermind. You did break my chair.”
“I did you a favor,” he retorts, slinging the towel around the back of his neck. “It was a hunk of junk.”
“It was in perfect working condition!” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Do you always defend inanimate objects with such passion?” Leon muses, stepping closer until he’s only a few inches away, head cocking to the side.
“When they’re close to my heart, yes.”
“A chair is close to your heart?”
You decide to double down. “Yes, Leon.”
“Huh,” he nods slowly, clicking his tongue. “You got attachment issues?”
“Did my file not tell you that?” you smile up at him snarkily.
Leon grins, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I skipped over your psych eval.”
He turns, disappearing into the bathroom. You glare at the door and huff out a sigh, removing your shoes before grabbing the case file and flopping down on the bed tiredly. You flick through the pages absentmindedly, settling on the symbols carved onto the door. You hadn’t seen anything remotely like it before and the database search you’d done earlier in the car had come up empty.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glancing towards the bathroom.
You’d exhausted all your options save for one. A reluctant groan leaves you as you stand, approaching the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Leon?” you call out when you hear the spray of water come to a stop. “I… might have been a little difficult earlier,” your voice sounds strained, “but if you could maybe take another look at the file, then I would… you know, probably appreciate it or whatever.” You swallow, face twisting with discomfort. “Please?”
Leon laughs, the rich, deep sound seeping through the crevices. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says, sounding entirely too entertained by your attempt to ask him for help. “I’ll take a look for you.”
You frown at the door, jolting when it swings open suddenly. A few wisps of steam escape, and you blink owlishly, finding yourself face-to-face with his bare chest. It’s hard to keep your gaze from wandering over his exposed skin, a light dusting of hair covering his chest coupled with a few scars. A strange, gurgling noise escapes you when he shifts back to grab his towel, his broad, muscled back now visible to you. You sway, moving to grip the doorframe, knees feeling weak.
“You okay?” Leon murmurs, glancing over at you as he ruffles his damp hair, brows furrowing.
“Yes!”
Your voice is shrill, pitching up awkwardly until you clear your throat and give him an equally awkward smile.
“Perfectly fine,” you clarify, this time sounding breathless as you try and fail to not look down, inhaling sharply when you see his defined abdomen and the dark, coarse hair below his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“It’s just that you look…” you trail off, fingers itching to reach out and squeeze and touch. Hot. Attractive. Fuckable. Really fucking fuckable for a 49-year-old man. “Like shit,” you settle on, the words tumbling out of you in a strained manner as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “You– you look like shit, Leon.” You pat his shoulder jerkily. “Unfortunately.”
“Right, sure,” he says, his head tilting as he stares down at you, unconvinced. “You really know how to flatter a man.”
“I’m charming like that,” you say, hands clasping behind your back.
Leon hums, and you stare back up at him, gaze flitting away for one moment to get a glimpse of his left hand. No ring. Perfect. You pinch yourself as soon as the thought comes.
“You gonna let me out?”
“What?”
When Leon gestures towards you, you realize you’re still standing in front of him, blocking the way out. You move to the side sheepishly, pushing the case file into his chest quickly before locking yourself in the bathroom.
You let out an embarrassed groan once you’re in the shower, burying your face into your hands. What the fuck was wrong with you? There was no way that all it took was some dorky, attractive, older man to have you feeling out of sorts. A dull ache flares between your thighs at the thought of Leon, fingers sneaking past your folds to rub at your traitorously swollen clit. It doesn’t take much, just the image of his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you, mouth pressed against your ear while he grunts–
You cum with a muffled whine. Scrubbing the rest of your mortification off of your skin with soap, you dry off, slipping into a pair of sleep shorts and a hoodie. You pad out of the bathroom to find Leon sitting at the table – thankfully with a shirt on – a few containers of food littered across its surface while he’s hunched over his laptop.
“Hey,” he greets when he sees you, gaze travelling over you briefly before turning his laptop towards you. “I had a look. Your guy might be part of a cult,” Leon brings up another image, showing it to you, “they’re not the exact same, but similar enough. Might be worth looking into.”
“Cult? That’s fun,” you murmur, dropping into the chair beside him, watching as he runs his hair through his hair. “Thank you for taking a look, and the food.”
His brows raise. “Those might be the most sincere words to come out of you today.”
“Shut up,” you say, although a small smile pulls at your lips.
Dinner is quick as you both make a plan for tomorrow – visit the local PD, check out the crime scene and investigate a few related areas of interest. Leon settles down on the couch soon after, adjusting his pillow a few times before grunting as he tries to get comfortable. You were right, he doesn’t fit. He looks so awfully crammed, knees bent and back hunched at an awkward angle that even you feel bad about it.
“Leon,” you say exasperatedly, “we can both fit on the bed. That can’t be good for your back.”
“This is fine,” he replies stubbornly, shifting onto his back uncomfortably, arm hanging off the edge. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
“I can’t deal with you complaining about your back tomorrow,” you say, gesturing towards the bed. You lay down, squirming to the side to make space. “See? You can have the other side.”
“You sure your boyfriend won’t mind?”
“What?” you ask confusedly, sitting up on your elbows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Leon grunts as he gets to his feet, dropping down onto the bed without further protests. It’s a tight fit, but you both manage, a sliver of space left between your bodies. You stare up at the ceiling, lips pursing, feeling antsy.
“Did you…” you glance over at him, feeling entirely too bold for your own good, “did you ask because you were interested?”
He stares back, brows raising. “Interested in what?”
“In what?” you repeat irritably, “are you seriously playing dumb?”
Leon smiles back at you, shrugging lazily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe if you clarified what it was you wanted from me–”
“I don’t want anything from you!” you sputter, flushing hot. The bed creaks as you flop onto your side, facing away from him. “You’re old and weird and infuriating and–”
“I feel like you’re avoiding my better qualities.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, I know you want to, baby.”
It’s a miracle your neck doesn’t snap with how fast you turn to look at him.
“May I remind you that this,” you gesture between your bodies wildly, “is a professional relationship?”
“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, raising his brows, “is that why you got off in the shower? Rubbed one out to make yourself feel better ‘bout liking me?” He looks unfazed when your jaw slackens, tapping the wall behind his head. “Thin walls.”
“That is none of your business.” You lean closer, eyes narrowing in an attempt to hide your growing embarrassment. “HR is going to have a fucking field day with you.”
You flop back onto your side, trying to put some distance between you, but there’s such a little space on the bed that you end up half-dangling over the edge. Leon doesn’t say anything, the silence between you thick and stretching on uncomfortably until you sit up, turning to face him.
He stares back at you, the bed creaking softly as he shifts, folding an arm under his head. His shirt stretches tight, thick bicep flexed and the sight is enough to make you lose your last nerve.
Your hand cups his jaw, head dipping to press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be quick, fleeting, to get whatever the fuck you have bottled up inside of you. Leon doesn’t seem to agree as he returns your kiss roughly, stubble scratching against your skin, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, blocking your escape.
“Where’re you going?” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours.
“This–” you whine softly when he kisses the underside of your jaw, fingers tightening into his shirt. “This is a bad idea.”
“I happen to be full of those.”
“You’re so fucking corny,” you groan, mouth dropping open as he trails kisses along your jaw lazily.
His lips are soft, calloused fingers massaging your scalp whilst an arm slides around your waist to pull you into his side. Another whine escapes you, head tipping towards him as his hand wanders under the hem of your hoodie, hot skin drifting over your waist and higher, his thumb grazing the curve of your breast.
“And you’re a fucking brat,” Leon says, watching your expressions closely as you whine and pant, pulling him towards you for another kiss, arms wrapping around his neck tightly.
He groans into your mouth, lips slotting over yours feverishly, his hand squeezing at the back of your neck. You squirm, throwing your leg over his hip, mewling when he licks into your mouth. Leon’s a good kisser, you think dazedly as his tongue strokes against yours in a filthy motion that has heat blistering in your stomach. His hand moves, circling around the front of your throat, squeezing gently.
You blink up at him hazily when he pulls away, lips slick with spit and pupils blown out. A smile spreads across your lips as you arch into him, hands sliding up over his strong forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“You can squeeze harder,” you whisper, pressing his fingers into your skin harder, gasping when he grants your request, eyes rolling back as the pressure around your throat constricts.
“That’s a little fucked up, baby,” Leon breathes out, watching as you writhe and suck in a ragged breath, his brows furrowing.
His brows raise when you glare at him, leaning over you to let his nose nudge against yours, kissing you gently before he tightens his grip a little more, drawing out a choked noise from you. There’s a heady fog settling over your mind the more he keeps you from barely breathing, something slow and syrupy creeping into the crevices of your brain as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He’s letting go before long though, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips roughly.
“I can handle it,” you mumble hoarsely, head tipping as he massages your throat, huffing out a breath when he laughs against your cheek.
“Yeah?” Leon rasps, his gaze darkening when you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit needily, head lifting as you feign bobbing your head. “What, you want me to put you in your place or something? Is that what you need?”
The idea is appealing. You’ve been strung tight for months, between work and the never-ending cases that were stacking up on your desk, you hadn’t exactly gotten much time to yourself, to wind-down from the constant wear and tear brought about by the commitments demanded from you by the FBI.
“Maybe,” you say slowly, looking away. “I don’t know. I guess I just want some… attention or whatever.”
“From me?” Leon says, his fingers sliding over your jaw to guide your gaze back to him. “Your way of asking for attention is acting bratty?”
“I don’t know!” you sputter, pushing at his chest, feeling shy.
“Oh, that’s cute,” he coos, smiling down at you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll give you all the attention you fuckin’ need.”
You squeak when he moves suddenly, sitting up before he’s dragging you towards him, maneuvering you until you're bent over his lap. A whimper is punched out of you when he squeezes the fat of your ass through your shorts, lashes fluttering when each consecutive grope grows rougher until it stings lightly.
“Guess if you’re into choking, you should be into something like this,” Leon murmurs thoughtfully, squeezing your ass greedily. “‘s been a while since I’ve done this with someone.”
“Since you’ve– ah– groped someone?” you ask, hips wiggling when his touches disappear, ass lifting involuntarily to chase after his touch.
“Kissed, touched,” he sucks in a sharp breath, “groped… fucked.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, brows raising curiously. “Can you still get it up?”
A sharp yelp escapes you when his hand comes down on your ass, hard and punishing. It stings, the pain spreading out over your ass unforgivingly. You try and glare at him but his hand is coming down again, landing another heavy spank to your other ass cheek.
“It was just a question!” you protest, squeaking when he spanks you again and again, eyes squeezing shut as the red-hot pain spreads over your ass, the ache in your pussy beginning to burrow deeper.
“I know,” Leon murmurs, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want me to stop?”
You pout into the sheets, voice quiet. “No.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, tapping your hip. You lift them, letting him tug your shorts down, mewling softly when he squeezes your ass, his fingers dipping past your panties, stretching them before letting them snap back against your skin.
“Cute panties,” he says, his hand rubbing over your stinging ass, fingers sneaking between your thighs, brushing over the drenched, ruined fabric. “Too bad you’ve made them all messy, baby. So fucking wet for me. You like my hand on your ass?”
“Yes,” you grumble, glaring at the wall. “Stop asking stupid questions, you jerk.”
You jolt when he spanks you, letting out an agitated breath when his hand palms over ass before coming down again in several repeated motions. A whimper escapes you when pleasure bleeds through your body, teeth sinking into your lower lip when the pace of Leon’s slaps quicken. It hurts but feels so good all the same, your thighs trying to squeeze together with how uncomfortably wet your pussy is becoming.
“Don’t– fuck! Don’t stop,” you mewl, arching your back, tears prickling at your eyes. “Leon– please ah–”
“Please?” Leon echoes, “look at that, you’re back to being polite. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whine in agreement, nodding dazedly as you look back at him, unfocused eyes finding his lopsided smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You reach back for him, hand fighting his shirt, lips parting, eyes slipping shut when he leans towards you, head dropping to kiss you deeply, his fingers squeezing at your ass gently.
“You gonna stop being a brat? Hm? You wanna be my good girl, baby?” Leon rasps against your lips, stealing another soft kiss, his hands still palming at the blistering flesh of your ass, squeezing every now and again to force a pitiful whine out of you. He clicks his tongue when you slur, nose nudging against yours gently. “I asked you a question, sweetheart. Use your words for me.”
“Yes,” you manage out, pushing your ass back into his greedy, awaiting palm, a few stray tears dripping down your cheeks. “‘m gonna be– nghh– ‘m gonna be your good girl, Leon.”
“Yeah?” he breathes out, voice sounding rough as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away the tears. “My sweet, pretty girl.”
“It– it hurts,” you babble, jerking in his lap when he rains an unsuspecting slap down onto your ass, teary eyes rolling back when his fingers slip between your thighs suddenly, rubbing at your swollen, aching clit through the dampened fabric of your panties. “Leon– ah fuck!”
“I know it does,” he soothes, pressing harder against your clit until your legs kick up, “but you asked for this, baby. Remember? You came up to me all pretty and said you wanted attention.”
“Stop being mean,” you hiccup, leaning into his palm when he offers it to you, nuzzling into the warm, rough skin.
“Mean?” Leon whispers, “‘m taking care of you, sweetheart.” He hums as he wipes away the saliva beading at the corner of your mouth, spreading it over your lips before his thumb presses down more firmly, a grunt of satisfaction leaving him when your lips part obediently. “There you go,” he breathes out, “suck on my thumb while I play with this needy, little pussy, baby.”
You whine, fingers clinging to his wrist as you suck lazily, tongue swirling around his thumb. His fingers rub against your wet panties, drawing out a soft mewl from you as he pets your clothed pussy.
“You can take them off,” you mumble around his thumb, biting gently before sucking again, happy to have your mouth occupied. “Want you to touch me.”
“I kinda like ‘em on,” Leon murmurs, his fingers grabbing at your thighs before they move, slipping past the waistband. “Besides, I can touch you like this.”
Your eyes flutter shut when his fingers glide through your sticky, puffy folds, breath hitching while Leon groans when he feels your wet pussy. His fingers are thicker than yours, slipping over the soft skin before the calloused pads find your clit. Your thighs twitch, toes curling when he starts to rub your clit using slow, measured circles.
“Is this how you do it?” he asks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Did you play with your clit til you came in the shower?”
“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him, lashes fluttering. You lap at his thumb, tongue flicking against the tip playfully, letting him watch.
“Fuck,” Leon rumbles, his thumb brushing over your bottom teeth before rubbing against your tongue. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart. Look at you.”
You smile, lips wrapping back around his thumb soon after, eyes rolling back when his fingers leave your clit to play with your fluttering hole. A long whine leaves you when he circles your hole teasingly, the tip of a finger pressing in briefly before he draws them back out to rub at your clit.
“Put ‘em in,” you mewl, hips beginning to roll against his hand, one of your hands squirming underneath you to try and move his wrist. “Leon,” you grumble, pulling his thumb out of your mouth when he tries to press against your tongue again. “Put ‘em in.”
“What happened to being polite?” he muses, dipping his finger in again and then pulling it out.
“If you put ‘em in, I’ll be polite,” you reply, blinking up at him sweetly, a smug smile on your face.
Leon laughs, watching as your mouth drops open when he finally inches one finger inside of your clenching pussy, beginning to slowly fuck it in and out of you.
“Go on then,” he coaxes, “beg all pretty for me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”
“P– nghh– please fuck me with your fingers,” you whimper, fingers moving to rub at your throbbing clit. “Please, Leon? Want– fuck– want another finger.”
He doesn’t make you beg any further, sinking another finger into you. You shove your face into the sheets, hips wiggling back to meet the thrust of his fingers, your fingers quickening their pace against your clit.
“Taking me so good,” Leon murmurs, using his other hand to spread you open. You flush, feeling entirely too exposed as he stares down at your pussy stretching around his fingers. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy just sucking my fingers in.”
Your walls flutter around his fingers at that, hand reaching out for him blindly, fingers managing to curl into his shirt. You yank him down, mumbling something incoherent around his lips before dragging him down further, lips pressing against his. You moan into his mouth when he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you harder, curling them just right.
“Leon,” you pant against his mouth, biting his lower lip before tugging it. Leon groans, his fingers scissoring before you moan again, lapping at his lips. His eyes roll back when your lips find his neck, head tipping to bare more of it to you until you manage to move, crawling up onto his lap, his fingers slipping out of you momentarily.
His back hits the bed when you push at his chest, his fingers finding your pussy again, thumb rubbing at your clit while his fingers sink back inside. You shove your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in with a mewl, pawing at his firm chest as you let your hips drop, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“You gonna do that on my cock?” Leon moans, his fingers tangling in your hair when you kiss his neck feverishly, teeth scraping against his throat, the action enough to draw a hoarse growl from him. “Gonna ride my cock like you’re riding my fingers, gorgeous?”
“Yeah,” you murmur against his neck, latching onto his skin and sucking, all with the intent of leaving a mark of your own, like he had done on your ass. “Wanna– ahhh– wanna ride your cock, Leon.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, an arm clamping around your waist to hold you flush against him, his thumb pressing against your clit harder, the lewd noises of your pussy growing louder with every snap of his wrist. “You’re gonna drive me fucking insane.”
You smile against his throat, kissing the underside of his jaw when his throat bobs uncertainly.
“We haven’t even fucked yet,” you whisper, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling at the strands to make him expose his neck further, drawing out a pretty whine from his lips. “Think you can handle me?”
Your smile fades when his fingers pull out of you suddenly, a sharp yelp leaving you when he grabs your hips and manhandles you onto your stomach, the fabric of your panties tearing loudly as he rips them off of you and pulls your ass into the air.
“Those were comfy!” you protest, glaring at him. “Leon?” you jolt when he slaps your ass hard, pulling your asscheeks apart. “Leon, wait– ah fuck!”
You squeal when he buries his face between your thighs, lurching forward unsteadily on your knees, hands grabbing out for the pillows. He’s ruthless, tongue gliding through your warm folds, drinking down your slick with a rough growl, his hands squeezing at your hips, tugging you back onto his mouth when you try and squirm away. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw isn’t helping, scratching against your skin deliciously as he nips and spits onto your cunt.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps lowly, biting punishingly into your thigh when you try kicking at his chest. “Huh?”
“I didn’t–” your leg jerks when Leon bites the back of your thigh, fingers curling into the pillows tightly when he bites the fat of your ass soon after, tongue laving over the bite.
“You didn’t what?” Leon asks, thumb finding your swollen bud, his tongue drifting over the inner crease of your thigh, barely shy of your aching pussy. “You didn’t mean it, is that it, baby?” he drawls, wet fingers rubbing over your pussy.
“Yes!” you choke out, hand slapping against the pillow when he sucks your clit into his mouth lazily, his nose pressing into your pussy, rough hands massaging your ass. “I– nghhhh– I didn’t mean it, Leon.”
“Oh, I think you did,” he sighs heavily, feigning disappointment. He clicks his tongue condescendingly. “I thought you were being my sweet girl, but turns out you’ve just got one hell of a mean streak. Just can’t help being a bit bratty, can you, pretty baby?”
“I’m not a brat,” you wail, shoving your face into the pillows the same time he presses his face into your pussy.
You don’t think anyone’s touched you like this before, let alone used their mouth like this. Leon’s strong, his hands clamping down onto you to keep you in place as he flicks his tongue over your clit, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. You drool messily, whimpering and whining as he laps at your cunt, his tongue prodding against your hole.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper, glancing behind you, eyes wide to find Leon looking at you hungrily, his gaze dark and feral. You swallow nervously, thighs twitching when he kisses the curve of your ass. “Leon, Leon– oh fuck!”
A squeal escapes you when he presses his tongue into your clenching cunt, eyes squeezing shut so tightly that you feel dizzy, hips pressing back needily to meet the movements of his tongue. He fucks it into you, head tilting as he holds you against his mouth, a hand moving under your hoodie to stroke over the length of your back.
You arch, mewling, hips swaying dazedly as he caresses your pussy with his tongue. A soft, ragged moan leaves you when his mouth moves, returning to your clit, toes curling when he presses his fingers back into you.
“You sound so pretty falling apart on my tongue,” Leon murmurs, rubbing his tongue over your clit with a groan, his fingers crooking inside of you. “You gonna cum, baby? Pretty pussy’s clenching around my fingers.”
“Nghhh–” you slur into the pillows, trying and failing to keep your eyes open, your lids drooping shut when his fingers press against that spot inside of you, his fingers rubbing over it with just the right amount of pressure.
His stubble brushes against the backs of your thighs, lips soft as he trails hot kisses all over your skin. Your hips jerk when he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, the pressure in your lower stomach growing greater. When his mouth latches back onto you, you moan loudly, knees beginning to buckle.
“Fuck! ‘m gonna cum– ‘m gonna fucking cum, Leon,” you whine, hugging the pillow to your chest, a sharp breath of air leaving you.
“Cum then, sweetheart,” he whispers, “be a good girl and cum for me.”
You cry out when he sucks harder on your clit, his face pressing harder into you, nose buried into your pussy. Leon groans loudly, the vibration shooting up through you, making your pussy clench around his fingers tightly. Your body trembles, knees giving out finally when his tongue flicks at your clit, another moan tearing its way out of your throat as you cum.
“That’s it,” Leon snarls, managing to hold you up despite your arms feeling rubber. “Cum just like that. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, still twitching as he laps at your cunt gently, tongue sweeping over your folds as he slurps down your slick, his thumb rubbing against your clit to draw out the final waves of your orgasm while his fingers slow their pace inside of you before pulling out completely.
Leon’s body is hot when he hovers above you, his hands brushing away the sweaty hair clinging to your skin, head dipping to press soft kisses to your cheek, his stubble oddly soothing as it rubs along your skin.
“You okay?” he asks softly, hands drifting down over your back, squeezing your waist soothingly, hands petting at your still reddened and slightly bruised ass. “I guess I’ve been a little pent up.”
“A little?” you murmur, fingers sliding into his hair when he kisses your neck. “I think you’re more than a little pent up, Leon.”
He grunts in agreement, dropping another kiss to your neck before laying down on his back, letting out a heavy breath.
“I haven’t exactly had time to relax,” he sighs, “too many fucking responsibilities ever since Raccoon City.”
You hum, sitting up, arms still a little wobbly. Leon watches you, his eyes tracking your every movement. You smile at him, eyes twinkling, fingers hooking into the hem of your hoodie before you pull it up over your head, tossing it to the side. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your breasts, hand reaching out before he pauses mid-reach. You take his hand, pulling it toward your breast, smile growing wider when he squeezes.
“Are my tits helping you relax?” you ask innocently, hands landing on his chest as you swing a leg over his hip, straddling him.
“Guess so,” Leon says, his other hand joining the fray, squeezing your untouched breast. “Pretty fuckin’ tits, sweetheart.”
Your eyes flutter shut as you let him play with your tits, distracted momentarily by the way his fingers move – pinching and tugging, thumb sweeping over your hardened nipples. It’s when you shift on his lap that you become aware of how hard his cock is, hips rolling against the clothed length.
“To answer your question,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your breast, gently cupping one in his hand, thumb stroking over the soft flesh. “I can, in fact, still get it up.”
You snort, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of you. Leon grins back, his head tilting as he peers up at you, hands sliding down over your sides to grab your waist.
“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” you breathe out, voice laced with amusement, your hands beginning to pull at his shirt. He helps you, lifting his arms so that you’re able to pull it up over his head easily. “You do look pretty good for a 49-year-old.”
You lean forward, kissing him gently before you trail kisses down his neck and over his chest, lips brushing over his thick pecs. Leon sighs, his eyes slipping shut, a hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to lay his skin with kisses. You kiss his scars tentatively, squirming lower to kiss his abdomen, tongue darting out to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen.
“You tryna make me cum?” Leon rasps, half-lidded eyes watching you as you bite at his side playfully.
“That is a priority, yes,” you say, following the trail of coarse hair that lies under his navel and the thick bulge laying further down.
His hands in your hair tighten when you nuzzle into his sweatpants, nose brushing against the fabric. When you breathe in, you can smell him, all heady and musky and arousal is seeping into your bones once more, mouth sucking at his clothed cock.
“As much fuck– I would like that,” he grumbles, hips bucking when you mouth at him again, spit dampening his sweatpants, “I’ll cum if you put your mouth on me, baby.”
“Just one suck,” you mumble stubbornly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down.
Your eyes widen when his cock bobs heavily, struggling with its own weight. You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and the thickness and the heavy balls that sit underneath. The tip is flushed angrily, darkened and dripping with globs of pre-cum that don’t seem to stop, his cock twitching when you lean towards it slowly.
“It’s big,” you whisper, glancing up at Leon before your eyes find his cock again, pussy beginning to throb as you imagine the stretch. “Really fucking big. You’re– you’re that hard for me?”
Leon grunts, his hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a quick pump. “Yeah, just for you, sweet girl.” He pumps it again, holding his cock towards you. “You said you wanted a taste, go ‘head, pretty baby.”
You don’t need any further invitation, licking your lips hungrily, tongue lolling out. You drag your tongue along the hot length of his cock, feeling the smooth skin and saltiness of his pre-cum. Leon groans, his hips bucking again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. You lean forward just in time, catching it on your tongue before your lips wrap around his thick cock.
“Fuck– fuck, baby,” Leon moans, twitching underneath you as you bob your head, beginning to suck. “Your mouth– hah– fuckkk.”
You peer up at him, eyes glittering as you let your tongue swirl around the head before you pull off, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to the tip of his cock.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head, “don’t fucking kiss my cock like you’re fucking in love with it.”
You do it again, brows raising when his cock twitches, looking over to find his hand clenched into the sheets, knuckles nearly white.
“I think you like it,” you tease, moving to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it slowly. “And… I think your cock likes it too.”
“Fuck me,” he growls, head tipping back when you take his cock back into your mouth, sucking and slurping lewdly. He groans and grunts through it, eyes peeling open to watch you swallow around his cock, your pupils blown wide with lust.
When his head lolls to the side, you take your chance, head dipping before he can stop you to suck one of his balls into your mouth. He tastes so dizzyingly nice, spit beginning to leak from the corners of your mouth. Leon’s cock kicks and you land one last kiss to the tip before he’s pulling you up towards him, muffling your whine with a messy kiss.
“Wanna ride it,” you mumble against his lips, worming closer, breasts squishing up against his firm chest.
Leon doesn’t answer, too busy tipping your head up by your chin to kiss you again, stealing your breath. You paw at his chest, fingers finally latching onto his thick biceps. Squeezing, you moan into his mouth when his tongue strokes against yours, arms wrapping around his neck as he pulls back up onto his lap.
Your hips roll, bare pussy gliding along the length of his cock, the tip catching on your newly swollen clit, making you twitch. He refuses to let up with the kisses, groaning into your mouth when you pull at his hair, feverishly swallowing up every little noise that bleeds from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes out finally, head tipping back for a moment as he catches his breath, calloused hands squeezing at your hips. “You wanna bounce on it? Hm? This needy pussy of yours need a fat cock to keep it happy, baby?”
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, arousal blistering over your skin, lust beginning to cloud your thoughts once more. You press closer, lips brushing against his ear as though telling him a secret. “It needs your fat cock, Leon.”
“C’mere,” he mutters roughly, moving you up onto your knees, hand grasping the base of his cock to hold it steady for you. “Sink down on it, sweetheart.”
You shift, lowering yourself slowly, letting out a muffled gasp when you start to take his cock, the head of it already beginning to stretch out your pussy as it bullies its way past your entrance.
“‘s just so fucking thick,” you moan softly, peering up at him.
Leon hums, his thumb stroking over your lower lip while his other hand strokes over your hip soothingly.
“You got it, baby,” he smiles, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You took my fingers and my mouth so fucking good. Only got a few inches left, yeah?”
Your brows furrow as you bite your lip harder, gasping when you finally take all of him, pussy fluttering around his cock wildly in an attempt to adjust to his sheer size. You feel so full, so much so that you think you can feel him in your stomach.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” Leon whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans against the headboard of the bed. “Take what you need from me, sweetheart. ‘s all yours.”
“Leon,” you mewl, dragging out the syllables of his name, whimpering against his mouth when he kisses your cheek. “I… I can’t,” you say, flushing hot, “it’s too big, I don’t–”
“Good girls don’t give up,” he breathes out, hands moving to squeeze at your waist, “not to mention you were so headstrong earlier. Where’s that attitude now, baby?”
“You fucked it outta me,” you retort poutily, shoving your face into the crook of his neck.
“And to think you said I was old and weird– shit, baby–”
You relish in the loud, guttural groan he lets out when the walls of your pussy squeeze around him. Nuzzling closer, you kiss the spot under his ear before your hips move, rocking and rolling in a lazy rhythm as you get used to his size.
“I’m not giving up,” you murmur, glancing up at him as he watches you, head tipping back when his hand moves up over your breasts, slipping between them to wrap around your throat.
“Atta girl.”
Leon squeezes and you moan, grabbing his wrist as your knees dig into the bedding, hips beginning to rise and fall. He pulls you into a sloppy kiss, growling into your mouth, panting as his tongue slips over yours messily, his thumb prying your mouth open. You pant, tongue lolling out as you ride his cock, the bed creaking from your motions as you fuck yourself on his cock needily.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Leon rasps, watching you with dark eyes, his hair messy and hanging over one side of his face. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart.”
You smile at him dopily, breath slowing when his hand tightens, starting to cut off your intake of oxygen. His nose nudges against yours, breath hot as he kisses you, lips working against yours eagerly until his grip loosens, letting you suck in a breath.
“You trust me that much?” Leon asks, smiling back at you with a feral look in his eyes when your hand wraps around his throat. “You think that’s a good idea, sweetheart? You wanna choke me out while you ride my cock?”
“Oh, you can take it,” you whisper, tightening your grip. Your movements don’t slow, thighs smacking against his as you bounce on his lap, your hand landing on his shoulder for leverage as you drop yourself down on his cock harder, setting a firmer rhythm. “Heard you– ahh– kicked ass back at Rhodes Hill.”
He grins, eyes glinting, a ragged noise leaving him when you pant into his mouth, licking at his lips.
“Yeah, I still hah– got it,” Leon muses, hands squeezing at your ass.
Your brows furrow when his grip tightens, a moan punched out of you when he grips your hips starting to lift you, using you as he fucks you on his cock.
“That’s it,” he drawls, controlling the rhythm and you, his forehead pressing against yours as he jerks you up and down his thick, throbbing cock. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock, baby. Cute, little pussy’s just swallowing me up.”
You whimper, hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck, your bodies moving together as his cock carves its way through your pussy, nestling against that spot before it glides out and drives back in. His chest is pressed against yours, firm muscle pressed against your soft breasts, the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing along your clit.
“Harder,” you whisper, eyes finding his, hips starting to sway back to meet his thrusts when he plants his feet into the bed, knees bending as he fucks his cock up into you. “Want it– nghh– harder, Leon.”
“That might strain my joints, baby,” he says softly, smiling up at you when you huff out an annoyed breath. “What? You were concerned about my bones.”
“Fuck your bones,” you groan, pushing at his chest, squirming off of his lap onto your hands and knees, ass swaying up into the air. You look back at him over your shoulder, hand worming between your thighs to spread yourself open for him, wet, dripping pussy all on display for him. “‘m so empty,” you whisper, voice lilting. “Fill me up?” You bat your lashes, “please?”
Leon mutters a low curse, his chest heaving as he rises up onto his knees, using your ankle to pull you toward him, his hand stroking his cock with uneven motions, knuckles tightening when he sees the slick webbing between your puffy folds and clinging to your thighs.
You’re half-expecting some witty remark, but all Leon does is brush a rough kiss to your shoulder, grunting into your ear before he’s notching the head of his cock against your aching pussy and driving his cock into you.
“Too– fuck! Too fast!” you squeal when he starts thrusting hard and fast, the bed beginning to rock with every snap of his hips.
“But you said you were empty,” Leon rumbles into your ear, “‘m just filling up this needy, pretty fucking cunt for you, sweetheart. So stop squirming,” his hand clamps down on your hips, “and fucking take it.”
You wail into the room, thrashing under him when his hips smack into your ass, balls slapping against your throbbing clit, the lewd noises echoing through the small space. He draws moan after moan out of you, his cock pounding into your pussy unforgivingly. You think you can feel it in your throat, his fat cock sliding through your gripping, fluttering walls.
Leon’s body is draping over your back, his mouth settling right next to your ear as he grunts and groans. Your toes curl, back arching when he pushes down on the small of your back, his breathing ragged as he grinds his impossibly thick cock into you.
“Fuck,” you mewl, spying his flexed bicep near your head, drool pooling into your mouth. Your head tilts as the muscle bulges, all inhibitions lost when you follow the line of his arm to stare hazily at his veiny forearm. You lean towards his bicep, teeth sinking into the thick muscle with a moan.
Leon’s breath hitches, his hips stuttering for a moment when he realizes you’ve bit him before his thrusts start up again, his hot, heavy cock pounding back into your needy pussy. You lick his bicep, tongue laving over his warm skin, eyes rolling back when his arm moves, wrapping around your throat, his bicep pressed up against the side of your neck.
“You keep– fuck– staring at my arms, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, grinning against your cheek when you let out a choked moan, his breath cut off by a low moan of his own. “Is this what you need? A strong arm wrapped around your throat, fat cock pounding into your needy cunt and sweet, little kisses?” He punctuates his question by kissing your temple.
“I– nghhh– need you,” you whine, feeling dazed as he drops his weight onto you a little more, enough so that you can feel every inch of him against your back.
You can’t really do anything but take it, his skin slapping against yours and breath rough in your ear. When his fingers move, finding your clit to rub the swollen bud, you whimper, clutching the sheets, nails raking against the fabric as the string of pleasure draws tighter.
“‘m gonna cum,” you say hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock desperately. “Leon– Leon, Leon, Leon!”
“‘m right here, baby,” Leon whispers, kissing your cheek, “taking my cock so well. Doing so– fuck– good for me, yeah? Cum whenever you want, sweet girl, I’ve got you.”
Your body jerks when his fingers rub against your clit faster, a ragged scream erupting from you as you cum violently. Leon swears, his grip on you faltering, the arm on your throat drawing away as you twitch on his cock, grasping at the sheets, at the pillows until Leon offers you his hand.
Your fingers lace together with his and you squeeze tightly, gasping uncontrollably until his mouth finds yours, capturing your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, knees weak and thighs tired, your death-grip on his hand loosening when he soothes you with soft kisses. Your pussy clenches and Leon groans into your mouth, his hips jerking forward unevenly.
“‘m gonna cum too, pretty baby,” he grunts, fingers pushing at your ass gently, hips beginning to pull away. “Greedy, little pussy’s clenching around me too tight, I can’t–”
“Inside,” you mumble, letting your hips sway back tiredly, trying to swallow down the length of his cock. “Cum inside.”
“That’s– shittt– a bad idea, baby,” Leon groans, his head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as his hips rock into you, pace stuttering.
You can feel his cock throb and twitch, a soft mewl escaping you. “You said you were full of bad ideas.”
Leon lets out a startled laugh, his breath coming out in short, choppy bursts. “I did– hahhh– I did say that. Take my cum then, sweetheart, gonna flood this perfect fuckin’ cunt with cum.”
He grips your hips, thrusting forward with a hard drive of his cock. Leon swears under his breath, his hips jerking into your ass as he cums, cock kicking and throbbing as hot, thick cum floods your pussy.
You let out a contented noise when he moans into your ear, low and guttural, the sound making you feel warm. His softening cock slips out after a few moments and Leon pulls himself away from you, the bed protesting under the weight of you both. You curl up into his side, head dropping over his chest, eyes drooping when you feel the steady beat of his heart.
Leon’s hand settles on your head, stroking over your hair lazily as he pants, chest rising and falling.
“Do you feel relaxed?” you murmur, peering up at him with a sleepy smile.
“I feel fucked out,” Leon mutters, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, rubbing at the spot of drool that had pooled at the corner of your mouth. “You did a number on me, sweetheart.”
“I aim to please.”
He laughs, hauling you closer and you smile, kissing the underside of his jaw. “You went above and beyond, I can tell you that much.”
You snort, arms wrapping around his neck. “Am I gonna get that in writing?”
“I’ll think about it,” Leon murmurs, his fingers slipping under your chin to tip your head, lips pressing against yours. You hum into the kiss, fingers tangling in his soft hair, a quiet noise leaving you as he squeezes your ass.
When Leon pulls away, you chase after his lips, eyes fluttering shut when he returns your kiss just as eagerly, your thigh hooking over his hip, brows furrowing when you feel his cock against your thigh.
You look down, cheeks flushing when you find his spent cock beginning to harden, the fat length bobbing gently as it fills out.
“Already?” you murmur, sighing softly when he leaves stubbly kisses along your jaw.
“What can I say?” Leon whispers, his hips bucking when your hand wraps around his hardening cock. “You uh… bring out the best in me, I guess.”
You raise your brows, unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. “Your best attribute is your cock? That’s a little disappointing.”
He grins, groaning when you kiss his pec.
“You didn’t seem to think it was disappointing when I fucked you with it.”
“It is nice,” you acquiesce, head tipping back as he leans into you, trailing hot kisses down your neck, his hips beginning to rock lazily, meeting the strokes of your hand.
“I do have other nice, non-sexual attributes,” Leon says, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin gently. There’s a light flush settled on his cheeks and he clears his throat, sucking in a soft breath when you squeeze his cock. “Maybe you’d like to find out sometime?”
Your smile softens, affection beginning to creep in through the cracks of your ribs. Leaning forward, you kiss him gently.
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I feel so insane about ai. I've had face-to-face conversations with people who use it for therapy, who use it to calculate the safety of pill interactions, who use it for all their emails and grant applications and legal documents and academic papers and finance sheets and for every single question they have about the world, and if you tell them about the ecological costs they just laugh and say "I guess I've used a lot of water." and I've been in multiple gatherings of 10+ people where I'm THE ONLY PERSON who doesn't use chatgpt. it's turning me into a ranting raving pariah, because how don't you people see??? why don't you understand??????? this bullshit didn't exist five years ago, you absolutely do not need it, and it is destroying everything
I'm pretty sure my ask got eaten the last time I tried to send this I had completely forgot about it too before I saw my face reveal post my Internet was a little werid when I tried to send it though if you do have the original or your requests are closed just ignore this 😅
If it's not too much trouble I was wondering if you could write a little something for mine and Vinny's bookshop date please 💜
Here it is my love! I hope you enjoy it, I think it's super sweet!
The Dusty Shelf
Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader
2.5k words
No CWs, just fluff! Reader is described as shorter than Vincent and with brightly colored hair to match the lovely @fluffy-little-demon
There was this place.
It was a secondhand bookstore a few miles out of Ambrose, in a town small enough to be left to its own devices but big enough to have shed some of that small-town suspicion of strangers. You’d been desperate for just such a place when you found it, somewhere cozy, where time stopped for a coffee and a flip through a book of poems about cats. Ambrose was many things. Cozy was not on the list. But the Dusty Shelf was the epitome of close, quiet comfort.
You made an effort to make it out there at least once every couple of weeks. Saturday mornings had this intrinsic promise to them, the feeling of a day open for anything. You’d get a coffee from the shop down the street and lose yourself amid the shelves, almost always leaving with a book (or two, or three) you never knew you needed.
They had this delightful exchange program where you could bring in used books and trade them for ones that were new-to-you. Victor Sinclair had an extensive dusty collection of medical texts and historical novels and not one of the boys had any opposition to you putting it to good use.
At first, you shyly asked Vincent if he wanted to see what you’d brought back. It was an art book, an anthology of sculpture through the ages, and it reminded you of him. He was so enthralled that you let him keep it. You’d sort of intended it for him anyway. After that, if you didn’t come straight downstairs to show him your spoils, he’d seek you out, ask you what you found.
This time, as he thumbed through a well-worn anthology of Greek myths, you ventured an invitation.
“You could come with me next time, if you want.”
He looked up at you, brow furrowed. “I would love to,” he signed, “but…I don’t know.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not comfortable,” you said quickly. “But…there’s almost never anyone there, and Mildred - the owner - she’s basically blind. So you…you’d blend in just fine, I think.”
You watched him consider, weigh the lifelong fear of being perceived against the deep-seated desire for the normalcy of a trip to the bookstore.
“Can I…get back to you?” he signed.
“Of course you can. I would love to have you with me, but I’m also more than happy to bring back the best parts of it for you.”
You let it be through the week, until Friday night when he approached you in the kitchen. He touched you lightly on the lower back and when you turned, you found yourself looking at his bare face - half of it, anyway. The other half was covered by a waxen half-mask, the seam blended expertly across his skin.
Your eyes widened. “Vince, did you just make that?” He nodded. “That’s amazing, it looks so good!”
“The symmetry was hard,” he signed. “It looks okay?”
“Yes! You did a fantastic job, of course you did.”
He smiles his tentative ghost of a smile. “I thought it might be…easier to go out like this.”
You lit up. “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He nodded. “I’m so glad! It’ll be really fun, I promise. And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can leave right away, it’s okay. We can take it a step at a time.” You pulled him into a hug that it felt like he was hoping for, because his arms found their way around you without hesitation.
Just before bed, you found yourself alone in the living room with Bo. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stood from the couch, started towards the stairs.
“Hey,” he said in a low voice. You turned and met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable. “This is a big deal for him.”
“I know,” you said humbly.
“‘S good, I’m not denyin’ that. Great even. But I just wanna make sure you realize. ‘S been years since he’s been outta town.”
You nodded. “We’ll take it at his pace. Whatever he wants.”
“I oughta come with you, but I’m not gonna do that. He’d be pissed at me.” Bo stared at you for a while before adding, “You best take care of him, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
You nodded again, the weight of his trust making you stand a little straighter. “I will. I promise.”
Saturday morning broke with cloudy skies and an insolent wind: the perfect day to spend in a bookstore. When you met Vincent in the front hallway you realized you’d both chosen plaid button-downs open over t-shirts. Yours was red and his was black.
You laughed and he cracked a crooked smile. It was priceless to you to be able to see that smile with the new mask. “I’ll go change,” he signed.
“No, no. We match! It’s cute.”
His eye shone. “If you say so.”
On the drive, you reached across the armrest and took his hand from its place on his leg. He looked at you with a flash of unguarded vulnerability, just for a second. “You’re gonna stay close to me, okay?” you said. “If you want to leave, you just squeeze my hand.”
He gave you a thumbs-up with his free hand, squeezed your fingers with the other.
“Mildred is really nice, I think you’ll like her. There’s hardly ever anyone there, even on weekends. And even if there is, they’re probably going to be distracted by my hair and won’t even notice you.” Your hair, incapable of remaining the same color for more than a month, was currently green.
Vincent pulled his hand away to sign, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d dye mine sometime,” and then quickly laced his fingers back through yours.
“You mean it?” You beamed. “I would love to.”
As per usual, the street that was home to the Dusty Shelf was almost completely empty. The little café around the corner was the busiest establishment on the entire block. You parked the car on the curb nearby. Vincent eyed the constantly swinging door with apprehension.
“You can wait in the car if you want,” you said. “I can grab us both drinks and then we can drive up the road.”
He thought for a second. “No. Let’s both go in.”
“You sure?”
Vincent nodded.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
You rounded the hood of the car and took his hand. He was already reaching for you. You gave him a minute to gather his courage, waited for him to give you a nod, and then with your fingers woven through his, you led him up the two concrete steps into the café.
Inside was a cacophony of sensory input. Was it always such a spectacle? You’d never thought about it before. The smell of coffee was pervasive. Old country classics played on wall-mounted speakers beneath the clink of mugs and the even hum of a dozen conversations. An impossible number of people filled the small space, queuing at the register or sitting at a handful of high-top tables. You glanced up at Vincent, who bore a marked resemblance to a very large deer in the headlights.
“Okay?” you murmured loudly. He flashed you another thumbs-up without looking at you, too preoccupied with the insurmountable task of taking in everything at once. He examined the crowd, the menu, the entire space with his head lowered, peering up through his thick lashes. You gave him a minute to get his bearings, then indicated the line. He nodded and shuffled forward.
“Do you know what you want? Or do you want me to pick for you?”
He pointed at you.
“Got it.” You didn’t even bother reading the menu board; you knew what you wanted and you knew what he liked.
The line moved quickly and you were at the register in no time. You ordered the drinks and the cashier barely looked at either of you as she punched the buttons. Vincent watched the exchange like a biologist studying some exotic species. You sidestepped away from the register to wait for your order, smiling up at Vincent. He looked almost puzzled, but when you squeezed his hand just to check, he answered with a slight shake of his head.
The girl called your name, handed you both drinks.
“By the way, I love your hair.”
You flashed a polite grin. “Thank you!”
She bid you a good rest of your day with a quick, courteous glance at Vincent. Her gaze skated over his face, didn’t linger, and she was on to the next customer. With your hands full, you offered Vincent your elbow and led him out of the shop.
Outside, he breathed a visible sigh of relief.
“How was that?” you asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”
He stared at the ground thoughtfully before replying. “Yeah. I don’t think she even noticed.”
“Probably not.”
He furrowed his brow. “Nobody…even looked at me.”
A tentative smile crept onto your face. “Yeah. Everyone is always kind of…preoccupied with their own thing.”
“That’s not how I remembered it,” he said, and the hurt in his eye when he met your gaze was a knife in the gut.
“Well, let’s go make better memories then.” You handed him his drink. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah.” That phantom smile was back. “I’m okay.”
“That was the hard part.” You took hold of his hand again. “Let’s go get cozy.”
The bell over the door wasn’t a bell, it was a string attached to a set of windchimes. They tinkled overhead as you entered. A garland of multicolored scarves draped low just inside the doorway; Vincent had to duck to get through.
You watched his face as he took it all in: the colorful glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the bright green carpet, the mismatched assortment of armchairs and loveseats arranged in little groups like families. And the shelves.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves held up the walls and a maze of chest-high shelves filled the majority of the space, every one crammed to bursting with books. Heroically, the shorter shelves also bore the weight of a hundred years of antiques arranged haphazardly across their crowns. The entire place smelt of patchouli and paper, and somewhere a blues record was playing.
Vincent’s eye was wide, flitting from one thing to the next like a hummingbird in a garden of honeysuckle. His grip tightened on your hand and you frowned.
“Do you…want to leave?”
He shook his head quickly. “No! No, it’s just…amazing.”
You broke into a grin. “Yeah…I think so.”
From behind a shelf, a tiny old woman shuffled into view, dressed head-to-toe in a truly devastating mix of colors and patterns. She wore itty bitty gold-rimmed spectacles dangling with a beaded chain and was still squinting with all her might.
“Can I help you?” she said in the voice of a chainsmoking squirrel.
“Hi Mildred,” you said brightly. “It’s me.”
“Ohh, hello dear.” She peered up at Vincent. “Didja bring a friend or didja find a bear?”
You bit back a laugh and shot a glance at him. He was transfixed with her. “A friend. He doesn’t talk much, he signs.”
“Well, we could all stand to talk a lil less.” She abruptly changed course, moving just past you to the worn desk near the door that served as a checkout counter. “Make yourself at home, honey.”
“Thanks, Mildred.” You gave Vincent’s hand a gentle tug. “Let me show you my favorite spot and then we can browse, okay?”
You led him back to the back corner, to an oversized burnt orange loveseat flanked by Tiffany lamps. There was a low walnut coffee table nearly pushed up against the couch, sporting a truly impressive assortment of coasters checkerboarded over its surface like a turtle’s shell. From underneath the table, a skinny black paw stretched out towards your feet, and then another, and then a handsome tuxedo cat emerged, blinking his golden eyes.
“That’s Shep,” you said. “He’s either very friendly, or very rude.”
Vincent knelt slowly and offered his hand. Shep gave him a sniff and then a cuff of his cheek. When Vincent stood back up, the cat meowed at him and leaned against his calf.
“You’re a charmer,” you said. He smiled shyly.
You wandered together through the stacks, pointing out books with odd titles, pulling ones with pretty covers to admire them better, tucking a few under your arm to take back to the orange couch. Vincent retrieved a few that were too high for you to reach, playfully signing, “Little.”
When you’d amassed quite the collection, you returned to the corner. You sat on one side of the loveseat and Vincent sank rather stiffly onto the other. He flipped a few pages, then leaned casually back. You flipped a few pages, then crossed your leg and scooted just slightly in his direction. He pretended to read for a while before stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. You abandoned all pretense, stuck your thumb in the pages to hold your place, snuggled in against him with your leg hooked over his, and resumed reading. He let out a soft, suppressed sigh of contentment and you smiled to yourself.
The morning passed in delightful, companionable quiet. When at last the growling of Vincent’s stomach broke the silence, you proposed a quick return to the café to grab lunch. Mildred let you eat in the bookstore if you promised to be careful and brought her back a sandwich. Vincent agreed and you went to let Mildred know you’d be back.
“I know you close at two on Saturdays,” you told her. “But…he doesn’t get out much, and he really likes it here. Could I convince you to let us stay just an hour or two past closing time?”
Mildred regarded you shrewdly. “It’s gonna cost ya.”
You considered the volume of junk in the Sinclair house, in particular the gadgets in Victor’s old office. “How does an antique sex toy sound?”
“Horrendous,” she said. “I’ll take it if you throw in the rest o’ that encyclopedia set y’brought last time.”
“Done.”
You shook on it. When you turned around, Vincent was examining antiques with Shep perched on his shoulder, drinking in the new vantage point with greedy yellow eyes. Vincent turned to you and he looked…well, he looked relaxed, possibly for the first time ever.
“Do you want to stay here?” you asked. “I can grab lunch and come right back.”
He shook his head. “I want to be with you.”
You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating from you as you took his hand again. “Good. I want to be with you too.”
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Canon-typical violence perpetrated by the reader including murder and wax sculpting, brief mention of hunting, reader is traumatized, brief mention of nausea, downright excessive kissing of reader's forehead by everyone
You've decided you want to be an active participant in the creation of Ambrose, Town of Wax. You very quickly come to regret that decision, and each of the brothers help you through the aftermath. Sort of slice of life in a murder town, angst/so much comfort.
It was autumn in Ambrose the first time you killed a human being.
You volunteered for it before they ever stepped foot in town. Lester had called in a group of three, a perfect fit. You wanted to be useful, wanted to be a part of the operation. You had been an observer long enough.
“You sure, darlin’?” The look Bo gave you was skeptical, almost amused.
“I’m sure,” you said. “I want to help.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Vincent signed, frowning.
“You can post up by the library, cover that back road,” Bo said. “Hardly anyone runs that way, you probably won’t even see anythin’.”
“Bo,” Vincent signed sharply.
“What, Vin? They want to help.”
You nodded. “I’m tired of sitting back and watching. I want to be a part of it.”
“This is a bad idea,” Vin signed. “I’m not going to let you do it.”
“You ain’t the boss,” Bo snapped.
“And you are?”
“Hey, hey.” You cut in before they could start a real argument. “I’ll be fine, Vin,” you said. “I want to pull my own weight.”
“You do,” he signed. “You do plenty around here.”
“But not like this.”
“This is different. Killing is…different.”
“Don’t baby ‘em, Vin,” Bo said, walking away. “They can handle it.”
Vincent shot you a desperate look. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I know that. I can handle it.” You gave Vincent a reassuring smile. You could handle it. If it helped your boys, helped keep them safe, you could handle it.
That afternoon, Bo walked you out to the place he wanted you to stand. Lester had taught you how to shoot out in the woods and you were a decent shot for someone who hadn’t grown up around guns. The rifle was heavy, but you were comfortable with it in your hands.
“Now your job is to make sure no one sneaks out through this west side.” Bo gestured along the road. “If they head down the road, Les’ll catch ‘em. If they move up towards the house, I got ‘em. And even if they make it up there, Vince’s ready for ‘em. Understand?”
You nodded.
“No heroics,” he said. “I know you worry. We done this before, darlin’, a whole bunch. Just cover your side, we’ll be fine.” He put his hand on your shoulder, commanded your gaze. “Clean as y’can. Couple shots to the chest. Leave the head, you know how Vin is.”
You nodded again.
“I’ll be right there. You’ll do fine.” He strode away in the sun, adjusting his collar, assuming a persona before your eyes.
Your adrenaline spiked from his pep talk and then waned quickly. You waited an awful long time as Lester and Bo went through the motions with this new group, spent the afternoon leaning against a wall in the shade of the library.
The sun was setting by the time things really got underway. The gun was slick in your sweaty palms. You rubbed them dry on your pants, stood up straight, peered around the corner of the building.
You watched as Bo directed the group towards the house and then fell into step behind them. Abruptly he grabbed one around the waist and slit their throat. The other two stared in bewilderment before they took off running in opposite directions.
Bo lunged after one, caught them easily, buried his knife to the hilt in their chest. The other was sprinting in your direction. In a flash, the adrenaline was back.
You steeled yourself, flipped off the safety, eyes locked on the man running blindly down the street. You braced the butt of the rifle against your shoulder, planted your feet, lined up just like Lester taught you. Took a breath. Squeezed.
The sound was deafening as it echoed in the alleyway. The bullet hit the man in his shoulder, flung him off balance. You pulled the bolt to reload, braced yourself, shot him again. This time it was harder to line up the shot, he was moving so erratically. But you saw the impact, watched the blood begin to spurt, and as he swung to his knees, he saw you.
You couldn’t look away. Neither could he. The man crumbled slowly to the asphalt, struggling to keep himself up on his hands, finally collapsing facedown with a horrible choking sound.
You approached him warily, ready to fire again if you had to, but no. He was dead.
Bo scuffed the pavement behind you a little too loudly to be accidental. It was a good thing, too; you nearly jumped out of your skin, clutching the rifle, Lester’s admonition loud in your head to “keep it down, always down, nowhere else but down unless you’re aimin’ to kill.”
Bo sidled up beside you, touched your shoulder. “Nice shot.”
You said nothing, watched as he knelt and rolled the man over. Blood was everywhere. His eyes were empty, staring at the sky. You couldn’t feel your extremities.
“Real nice, darlin’. Y’did good.” Bo looked up at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m proud of you. That’s a hard thing you just did.”
You knew the value of those words. Knew it was rare and special for Bo Sinclair to express pride, praise. Your heart swelled even as your chest threatened to cave in.
You managed a timid smile back. “Thank you.”
He rose to his feet, fished his phone from his pocket and called Lester to bring the truck around. The whole time you stared at the victim. Your victim. You didn’t want to; you couldn’t help it.
When Lester pulled up, his eyes were on you and only you. “How’d it go, sweet pea? You remember what I taught you?”
You nodded. “Bo says it was a real nice shot.”
“It was,” Bo said as he dragged the man to the back of the truck.
“You remembered to brace with that back foot? Didn’t kick y’back too much?”
“No, no…I was okay.”
Lester gave you a smile, a soft, sad smile. “Why don’t you ride back up with me, honey? Walk that gun back to the station, Bo ‘n I can load the truck.”
You did as you were told, shuffled to the station, hung the gun on a peg in the basement. Alone in the air conditioning and fluorescent lights you waited for the tidal wave to hit. For tears, a panic attack, something. But it didn’t come. You didn’t feel hollow, you just felt…limp. Loose. Numb. Your hands were spotless. For some reason, this surprised you.
Lester and Bo were hefting the last of the bodies into the back of the truck when you rejoined them. You climbed into the passenger’s seat and waited for Lester. He sighed when he got in, started the engine, pulled away with a wave at Bo.
Neither of you spoke at first. You wanted to say something, hated the silence, but couldn’t remember any words.
Finally Lester, always with words to spare, said, “‘S okay if you’re not okay, sweet pea.” You looked over at him. “Takin’ a life’s no small thing. I ‘member the first time I shot a squirrel. I was six. Cried for days. Thought I was over it when I went on my first buck hunt. Cried then too. So then I knew what to expect the first time I…the first time I had to step in.”
You had heard that story before. Lester had saved Vincent’s life, back in the day before they had a set pattern of operation. “Bo ‘n Vince never wanted me to have to do that,” he said. “Y’know, stupid big brother shit. They’re a bit much sometimes.” He shrugged. “The way I see it, death is a part of life. Comes to us all one way or another. You ‘member what I told you ‘bout huntin’?”
He had told you a lot of things. You couldn’t pick one out that was particularly applicable right now. Quietly you shook your head.
“‘S okay,” he said patiently, his tone kind, “I’ll just tell y’again. My daddy was never much for huntin’ or fishin’. But our neighbor, Mr. Addison, he made sure us boys knew our way around a gun. And he told me, over and over, if you’re gonna take so much away from a creature, you best be sure you use every bit of it.
“And that’s what we’ll do, sweet pea. You know we will. That doesn’t hardly make it easier, but maybe it’ll keep you from feelin’ so bad. You’re just a link in the chain. We all are.”
He reached over and squeezed your knee. “Y’know you never have to do that again if y’don’t want to. I won’t think any less o’ you for it. Neither will Vince. Neither will Bo. This ain’t your game, honey.”
“I know, Les. But I...want to be part of it.” You lay your hand on top of his and he turns his over, weaves his fingers through yours. “Thank you. Thank you for teaching me how to shoot, and…and thank you for…talking with me.”
He parked the truck around the back of the House of Wax. “Y’know it’s…it’s okay to cry, too, if y’feel like it. It’s good, even. And if you wanna talk about it some more, or not talk about it and just sit…you lemme know.”
You nodded. His face was full of concern, of genuine affection for you. He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the back of your fingers. “That was a damn good shot, sweet pea. I gotta give you that.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “I had a damn good teacher.”
A shape loomed outside the cab of the truck, sent your heart racing. It was only Vincent. You and Lester hopped out of the truck at the same time.
“How did it go?” Vincent signed in the headlights.
“Fine,” Lester said carefully. “This one’s got some beginner’s luck goin’.”
Vincent’s piercing gaze settled on you. “You shot someone?”
You nodded. “Twice. I killed him.” The words were a pinch on your tongue.
Vincent’s hands hung at his sides. He regarded you for a long time before turning to Lester. “Where’s Bo?”
“He was walkin’ up behind us.”
“You talkin’ about me?” Bo called, materializing from the dusk like a specter. “Speak o’ the devil and he will appear.”
You tried to ignore the look Vincent shot at Bo and the one he threw back. You did not want to be caught in the middle of one of their spats. “Let’s pull them out and check for phones and ID,” Vincent signed. “Will you get the door open?” he directed at you.
You moved to the far end of the pool of illumination cast by Lester’s headlights and hauled open the cellar door set in the ground. You squinted in the light when you looked back toward the truck, could barely make out the shape of the boys pulling corpses from the bed.
You could go help them, but you knew Lester and Vincent were trying to keep you from having to see or touch any more tonight, and frankly, you were grateful. You hung back, waited to be told what to do.
Vincent cast a massive shadow as he strode over to you a minute later. In his big hands he held three cell phones, two wallets, and one loose ID card. You took everything from him so he could talk, juggling it in your much smaller grip.
“Lester’s gonna take you back up to the house while Bo and I move them downstairs. Come meet me in the workshop.”
In the dark, with the mask, it was impossible to parse his expression. His words were sharp but not unkind. You could feel the tension radiating off of him.
“Do you want me to take these things to the warehouse?”
“No. I don’t want you to be alone right now.”
“I’m okay, Vin. Really.”
“Just meet me in the workshop, please? We need to talk about this.”
That sounded terrible. It was the last thing you wanted to do. “Can I…go to bed, actually? I don’t…really want to talk about it tonight.”
He looked at you for a long time. In the dark, the holes in his mask were deep black pits, but you could envision the distress in his gaze.
“Okay,” he signed at last. You bit back your sigh of relief. “But I could use your help in the workshop tomorrow. Would that be alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah that would be fine.”
Vincent snaked one arm around you, pulled you into his chest and held you there for several heartbeats. You felt your throat tighten, but no tears came to your eyes. He smelled like wax, like wood shavings, like the warmth of home, and you took a few precious deep breaths before he let you go.
“I have to get them all waxed tonight,” he signed apologetically. “But Les or Bo could stay with you.”
“It’s okay. I just want to go to sleep. I’ll be out like a light so fast.”
His chest expanded in a sigh. “If you need anything,” he signed emphatically, “you know I won’t be sleeping.”
This drew out a crooked smile from you. “I know. Thanks, Vinny.” You handed him back the victims’ personal belongings.
The headlights felt like a spotlight as you walked back to the truck. You felt all eyes on you, gritted your teeth, walked so normally to the passenger’s side.
Bo stood there, an inscrutable expression on his face. Those baby blues were steely in the darkness. You flashed him a grin, the only one you had left in you.
“I think I’m off to bed. Pulling that trigger wore me out.”
“It’ll do that.” He kissed your cheek. “Sleep well, darlin’. You know where I am if you need me.”
You climbed in beside Lester, couldn’t keep from glancing in the side view mirror as the truck bumped away. The three bodies on the ground were indistinct in the darkness.
The house was bright and warm, familiar, alien. Vincent had left all the lights on. Jonesy stalked out from wherever she had been sleeping to greet you, bleary-eyed. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. As you pulled off your shoes on the well-worn carpet, exhaustion hit you like a freight train.
“Lemme lay with you a while, sweet pea,” Lester said. “I know you want your space. Just until you fall asleep.”
“I’m fine, Les, really, you don’t have to do that.”
“You ain’t talkin’ me out of it. Pretend it ain’t for you.”
You scoffed, but knew you couldn’t argue with him, and didn’t have the fight for it even if you could. You stripped off your clothes, brushed your teeth, collapsed into bed like a tree without roots. You wore a t-shirt, a man’s shirt, someone’s shirt. It had probably belonged to all three of them at some point. It was faded and had holes in it. It smelled like the house, simultaneously clean and musty. It felt like having all three of them with you.
They could handle it. You could handle it.
Lester rapped on the door and walked in at the same time. He always did that. It was like he didn’t understand the purpose of the gesture, or maybe he didn’t care. He slipped beneath the sheets and turned off the light, sought you out in the dark, wrapped you in his arms.
You were so worried he was going to ask you again if you were alright. But he didn’t. He kissed your brow and murmured, “Goodnight, love. If you wake up and I ain’t here, I’m right down the hall.”
“I know. Goodnight, Les.”
You settled in, closed your eyes, immediately saw the blood, saw his face, his hands on the asphalt, and your eyes snapped back open.
You laid in the darkness and stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, modulating your breathing, in and out. When Lester shifted carefully to peer at your face, you closed your eyes and did your best to feign sleep. It must’ve worked, because he extricated himself and slipped silently out of the room.
You did not sleep a wink. You marked time in visits from your boys. At midnight, your door eased open and Bo peeked in. He stood there for a long time before retreating into the hall and closing the door softly. At three in the morning, Vincent checked on you. You knew he knew you weren’t sleeping. But he said nothing, did nothing, and left after a minute or two.
When Lester rose bright and early for work, he came in to give you his customary kiss goodbye. At this point you weren’t even trying to pretend, sitting back against your pillows, scrolling your phone.
“Y’get any rest at all, sweet pea?”
“Not really.”
He thumbed your chin. “Take it easy today. I’ll be home this evenin’.”
You wandered downstairs earlier than usual, sick of your bed. Your shoulder was sore from the recoil of the rifle and you rubbed it, relishing the ache.
To your surprise, Bo was up and making breakfast. “Mornin’, sunshine, you look like hell,” he said.
“...thanks.”
“Eat somethin’, you’ll feel better.” He made you a plate. “Take some down to Vin when you’re done.”
You nodded. Bo sat in the chair across the table from you, ducked his head to catch your gaze. “Hey. Look at me. Y’okay?”
Your smile was thin. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“You’re a shit liar.”
You laughed weakly. “I just…didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
“Hmm.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded you coolly. “That’s all, huh?”
You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders. “That’s all.”
“You sure you’re not just playactin’ for my benefit?”
You chewed your lip. You so wanted him to be proud of you. You cared about them all so much, wanted to contribute to the vision of Ambrose not because it was your vision, but because it meant the world to them.
“I’m fine, Bo. Promise. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
He cocked a brow. “If you say so, darlin’.” He rose from the table and took his coffee mug with him. “I’ll be movin’ vehicles this mornin’. Come find me if you need anythin’.” He kissed the crown of your head on his way out of the kitchen.
You were dreading facing Vincent. You had little appetite but ate every last bite, chewing and swallowing with care, because it wasn’t stalling if you were eating.
Finally you couldn’t stall any longer. You descended into the basement one step at a time, rehearsing what you were going to say. He had music playing – it was one of your favorite songs. Something tightened in your chest.
“Hey Vince,” you said as brightly as possible as you rounded the corner, “I brought you breakfast. Bo made it, so…you’ve been warned.”
Vincent got up from his stool and came over to take the plate from you. He was maskless now that the likelihood of being seen by strangers had passed. He had woven his hair into a loose braid, tendrils falling out around his jaw.
“Have a seat,” he signed, gesturing to his cot.
You obeyed, your eyes locked on the human figure seated in the chair. “…is that him?”
Vincent nodded.
He was almost unrecognizable beneath the many layers of wax. Vincent had posed him with his ankles crossed and one hand raised and open in front of him. “Is he…reading a book?” Vincent nodded again. You wanted to get up and take a closer look. You also wanted to run out of the basement. The compromise was staying exactly where you were.
Vincent sat next to you, put down the plate. “You’re going to help me work on him today,” he signed.
Breakfast had been a terrible idea. Your gut was suddenly full of writhing snakes. “I…okay, um…I don’t want to do that.”
“You wanted to help, right?”
“Yeah, but….”
“Killing is the easy part,” he signed. “Takes seconds. Preserving them, honoring them, that’s the hard thing. The important thing.”
You felt like throwing up. You stared at the uneven wax melded to itself and the victim’s skin. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch it, there was no way.
Vincent turned your head toward him with his fingertips delicate beneath your chin. “Listen, beloved. You need to do this. It will be hard, but I’m going to help you.”
You were breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, but not crying. Why weren’t you crying? “Vincent, I don’t think I can do it.”
“You can.”
“…do I have to?”
He nodded. “This isn’t a punishment, my love, but it is penance. It will make you feel better.”
You laughed in disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”
“It will.” He squeezed your hand, stood up and pulled you with him. “Come on. Let’s gather our tools.”
You followed him numbly around the workshop as he selected various well-worn ribbon tools, sponges, and other instruments. He picked up two of each. He handed you a pottery apron that was his size but not yours, helped you tie it in the back.
“Vincent…what if I mess it up?”
“You won’t.”
“What if I do?”
“I’ll fix it.”
He dragged a second stool over, had you sit while he disengaged the various splints and supports that kept the victim in place while the wax set. At last he sat down, handed you a large ribbon tool.
“First, we’ll trim the excess wax,” he signed around the tool in his hand. “We want an even layer head to toe to start with. We’ll go back in with smaller tools to bring out the details on the face and hands, but for now, just focus on evening out the surface. Watch me.”
He used the tool to shave off the outermost layer of wax on a shoulder, working in strokes of only a few inches at a time. “It’s better to take off too little rather than too much. If you go too deep, we can patch it.” He looked at you. “Your turn.”
Your hands were shaking. They hadn’t shaken this much when you were holding the gun. Somehow the little tool in your hand was so much heavier. You stared at Vincent, didn’t move.
The expression on his face was gentle, but firm. He wrapped his long fingers around your hand, lifted it to the victim’s upper arm. Reluctantly you made your first stroke. The wax was dry, crumbled off in large flakes that settled on your thighs. You brushed them off absently.
“Good,” Vincent signed. “Now do it again.”
He watched you for a few minutes, made some adjustments to your technique, and then started on the right side. You were hesitant to touch the victim with your bare hand, but it was much easier to work when you could brace yourself. The wax was simultaneously smooth and bumpy, became soft under the heat of your fingers. Vincent showed you how to move your grip around to keep from softening the wax too much in one place.
It was horrible at first, but every stroke became easier in such a quiet, subtle way that you didn’t even realize you had fallen into a rhythm until you reached the man’s wrist. “Vin,” you said, “what do I do now?”
He got up and came around to inspect your efforts. His fingers ran over your clumsy first attempts, uneven in depth and length, and then trailed down to the forearm where your quality of work had improved.
“Great job,” he signed. A cool, gentle relief washed over you, eased the snakes just a little bit. “Knew you’d get the hang of it. For the hand, I use a smaller tool. Let me show you.”
He coached you through the entire hand, each finger, all the bumps and grooves. Your appreciation for his skill, his eye for detail, grew by leaps and bounds. Your apprehension transformed into determination to copy his technique to the letter. Your reluctant touch became a careful, sturdy grip. The incredible proximity felt like a sort of intimacy, forced you to engage with the reality that you were part of the reason this man was here now. You faced your guilt and transmuted it into dedication, veneration, appreciation for the mortal remains of this stranger.
Naturally, Vincent worked much faster than you, and in a few hours’ time you had completed this first step of the process. Together you stood back and appraised your work.
“Well done, my love.” Vincent put his arm around you, hugged you to his side. “How do you feel?”
You let out a deep sigh. The numbness was gone. So were the snakes. “Better, I think.”
“This is all for today. Tomorrow we’ll smooth out the surface and make some more adjustments.” He looked down at you, treated you to a rare smile. “Proud of you.”
You felt your heart soar. “Really? You’re not…mad at me?”
His smile softened and he shook his head, kissed your brow. “Why would I be mad? You wanted to help. You’re helping.”
“Are you mad at Bo?”
Vincent sighed. “I’m always mad at Bo.” You laughed. He took your hand and squeezed it. “I don’t think you were ready for this. Bo disagrees. But that’s between me and him.”
You regarded the victim, slightly more recognizable now. His expression was peaceful. You weren’t sure how Vincent had managed that. “I don’t think I was ready either.”
Together you cleaned up the tools, hung up your aprons, tried to scrub the wax from the lines in your palms. You wandered up to the kitchen together for a snack. When Vincent returned downstairs, you took a mug of tea to the front steps and sat with Jonesy, surveying the structures of Ambrose.
November in Louisiana was cool, but not cold. The sky today was cloudless, a casual breeze ruffling the trees. It was beautiful. Jonesy grunted as she rolled onto her side, her back pressed against your hip. You flopped her ears, turned back to the view, and your gaze settled on the library.
You remembered the bang of the rifle. The way you could almost hear the bullet piercing skin and muscle. The way he collapsed. The way he looked at you. The way he would look now, forever, at a book he couldn’t see.
It was like the sky fell upon you all at once. The tears welled up and spilled over so fast it left you breathless. You gripped the mug hard in both trembling hands. Ambrose became a wet, colorful blur. The air hiked in your lungs, wouldn’t settle, left you gasping.
A dark shape sauntered out of the blur. You furiously rubbed the heel of your hand across your eyes, blinked up at Bo.
“Scootch,” he said. You did. He sat next to you, put his arm around you, pulled you into his chest. “You ain’t fine,” he said.
You unraveled into sobs. He took the mug from your hand and you wrapped your arms tightly around his waist. He held you close, set his chin on your head, rocked you ever so slightly back and forth. “‘S okay, darlin’. It’ll be okay.”
When you forgot how to breathe, choking on your tears, he splayed his hand on your sternum and pushed firmly, bracing your back against his arm. The pressure pulled you back to earth, reminded your lungs to contract.
He held you there until your breathing evened out, then he turned to recline against the wall and guided you into his chest again. He smelled like cigarettes and sweat.
“I…I’m sorry,” you stammered.
“What d’you got to be sorry for?”
You swallowed hard. “F-For disappointing you.”
You’d never seen his expression shatter like that. “You could never,” he said in a low voice. His grip on your arm was tight, too tight. “Never, darlin’, you could never disappoint me.”
“I-I wasn’t ready. I thought I was ready. I wasn’t.”
“That ain’t your fault, it’s mine.” He pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I shouldn’t’ve let you do it. It’s on me.”
The last thing you wanted was for him to blame himself. He did plenty of that already. “No, Bo, I asked for it. I wanted to do it.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t know what you were askin’ for. I knew it all too well. I was bein’ selfish.” You looked up at him, brow furrowed. He gave you a tired, joyless smile. “You wanted to get involved in things. I liked the thought of that. Felt like it’d make you part of the family all the way.” He looked out at Ambrose. “Sometimes I forget this ain’t a family anyone should be a part of.”
You pressed your cheek into the fabric of his shirt, damp with your tears. “That’s not true.”
He rubbed your arm with a calloused hand. “It is. But it’s alright. You belong with us either way. Shouldn’t have to spill blood for that to be the case.”
You curled your hands beneath your chin and pressed into him. You were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. It was the most wonderful, painful thing you’d ever heard.
“You know I’m not one for apologies…but I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry if I…pushed you into it.”
“Bo.”
“I know what I’m like.”
“Stop.”
“Y’don’t ever have to worry what I think of you, angel. I think the world of you.”
“I’ll be ready next time,” you said.
Bo scoffed. “There ain’t gonna be a next time.”
“Yes there will. I said I wanted to help and I meant it.”
He looked at you, his brow lowered. “There are other ways to help. You can help Vin in the workshop, or take care of the cars ‘n such.”
“I want to help you. I want to hunt.”
“Why?”
“Because it sucks. And it’s dangerous. And I don’t want you to have to do it alone.”
He shook his head. “We ain’t all pure like you, darlin’. Some of us don’t mind the killin’.”
“That’s fine. You shouldn’t have to do it by yourself.”
His arms tightened around you and he said nothing. Together you gazed out over the town you called home, the empty streets and faded siding.
Bo murmured against your temple, “How’d a thing like you end up in this little corner of hell?”
You sniffled. “Some jackass took my spark plugs.”
That earned you a real laugh, and you smiled a real smile. “Luckiest spark plugs I ever stole.”
“Nicest jackass I’ve ever met.”
“You’re just sayin’ that.”
“I think the world of you too, you know.”
He took your chin in his hand, turned your face up to him. “If you ever lie to me again, tellin’ me you’re fine when you ain’t, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Understood.”
Bo laid a kiss between your eyes. “Get off me. I gotta go tell Vin I made nice with you so he doesn’t hamstring me.”
“Is he gonna believe you?”
“Nope.”
You climbed to your feet, took his hands and pulled him up. “I’ll vouch for you.”
He smiled, laid an arm across your shoulders and walked you inside. “Knew I could count on you, darlin’.”
Surprise, one day two posts! Louisiana has some remarkable thunderstorms, and the Sinclairs have a family tradition. Consider this the cosmic balance to the angst I posted earlier, some delicious cozy fluff.
1.3k words
No content warnings, just poly Sinclair cuddles. If you'd like your very own Louisiana thunderstorm to play while you read this, here is the one I listened to while I wrote it.
You were awakened by the loudest booming sound you’d ever heard.
It shook the house. It sent vibrations through the marrow in your bones. It startled you so thoroughly awake that you nearly pissed yourself, heart rate skyrocketing, fight-or-flight response on a hair trigger. And it continued, diminishing to a growl but not dissipating, hanging in the air like a threat.
The dark of your room was disorienting and the fact that the sound persisted had every hair on your body standing on end.
“Bo!” you called, fighting panic. “Hey, Bo!”
He burst through your door exactly three seconds later, wielding a baseball bat. “Who’s gonna die? What’s wrong, darlin’?”
You were wide-eyed. “Do you hear that sound?” Your room lit up in a blinding violet-white flash. The booming crescendoed again, and it hadn’t been a product of your sleep-addled mind: the very frame of the house trembled.
It was a thunderstorm, obviously, but in spite of yourself, you tensed up into a ball, pulling the covers up to your chin.
Bo let the bat drop. “What’s the matter, you never heard thunder before?”
“Not like that!”
“Huh.” He grinned as the lighting flashed again. “Welcome to Louisiana, darlin’.”
You looked up at the roof. “Is the house going to be okay?”
“House’ll be fine. I can’t believe this is your first thunderstorm with us.”
“It’s so damn loud.”
“Sure is.” He mussed his hair. “C’mon. Let’s go sit on the porch.”
“Are you insane?”
“What, you gonna sleep?” He had a point. “C’mon. Bring your blanket. Betcha Les and Jonesy are already down there.”
You slid out of bed, wrapping your favorite blanket around yourself, shoulders still tucked up to your ears. Bo stood in the doorway and waited for you. You put an arm around his back, wrapping him in the blanket along with you, and he led you down the hall.
When he flicked the switch for the light above the stairs, nothing happened. “Power’s out,” he said. “Usually goes out in storms, ‘specially big ones. We got a backup genny if we need it. Watch your step.” You let him get a few steps ahead of you, then put your hand on his shoulder to guide yourself down the stairs.
The kitchen and living room were aglow with candles. Vincent stepped out of the kitchen, no mask, hair loose and wavy in the humidity, wearing pajama pants and a victim’s college sweatshirt. “Hey Vince,” you mumbled.
“Someone's a thunderstorm virgin,” Bo said.
You rolled your eyes. “I’ve seen a thunderstorm before, I’m just – ” The thunder clapped again and you flinched like you’d been struck. “This is insane!”
Vincent cracked a smile. “I think it’s nice.”
“I’m happy for you.” You pulled your blanket over your head like a cloak.
Bo put his arm around you. “Let’s go watch. Vince, you makin’ hot chocolate?” His twin nodded. “Perfect.” He coaxed you to the front door. A blast of warm, wet air made you squint when he pulled it open.
“Bo….”
“G’on.” He took hold of your blanket and tugged you outside onto the porch. Sure enough, Lester was curled up on the porch swing wrapped in a quilt, with Jonesy at his feet and a dim lantern beside her. The dog lifted her head off her paws as you approached.
“Hey, sweet pea,” Lester said. “Did y’see the storm?”
“Yeah, it’s literally impossible to miss.” You crossed the porch to sit next to him, cringing prematurely when the lightning strobed.
“What’sa matter?”
“I don’t – ” The thunder rumbled over you. You pursed your lips in irritation. “I don’t know about this!”
Lester inched to his left to make room for Bo on your other side. “What’s there to know about it? It’s a big storm, we sit ‘n watch it.”
“Watch it do what, tear the town apart?”
“Sometimes,” Lester said, right as Bo said, “Not usually.”
“I’m getting mixed signals.”
“Sometimes we get a little floodin’ from the river down in town,” Lester said.
“But not up here,” Bo added. “We’re high up, darlin’, plenty safe.” He put his arm around you and Lester leaned his head against yours.
Remarkably, the porch stayed dry. It was situated on the leeward side of the house, sheltered from the wind. Even so, the windchimes hanging in the corner were jangling out of control.
“That’s gotta stop or I’m gonna lose it,” Bo muttered. He stood up and walked over, unhooked the chimes and set them down against the house.
“Bo, you’re not wearing pants. Aren’t you cold?”
“Nah, feels good.” He came back and sat down. “You can sit in my lap if you’re so worried about it.” You elbowed him through your blanket.
Each flicker of lightning lit Ambrose up in shades of black and pale. Between flashes, the sky glowed faintly with a sourceless purple light. The trees were just barely darker in silhouette against it. The thunder truly never ceased, merely rose and fell like the snoring of some immense beast. The rain pounded in waves on the roof and it created a curtain of sound above and around you. Sandwiched safe and warm between the eldest and youngest Sinclair, you had to admit, it was a sight to behold.
Vincent stepped onto the porch holding two mismatched mugs, one patterned with a variety of fish and the other shaped like a mushroom.
“Oh my god, Vincent, I’m so sorry, do you need help?” You leaned forward. He shook his head and handed you and Lester each a mug.
“I want the mushroom,” Lester said. You traded him.
Vincent disappeared back inside and returned with two more mugs of hot chocolate. He handed Bo the one with a chipmunk holding a wrench and wearing a shirt that said “I love nuts” and kept the hot pink “#girlboss” for himself.
“Here,” you said, standing up unsteadily in your blanket cocoon. “Take my spot.”
“Where are you gonna sit?” Les asked.
“On Vincent’s lap.”
“Fuckin’ rude,” Bo said into his mug.
Vincent sat in the middle and opened his arms for you. You carefully positioned yourself in his lap and wormed your feet under Bo’s thigh to keep them warm.
With your head leaned against Vincent’s chest, you sipped your cocoa and watched the gutter overflow in pretty patterns. Bo pushed the swing gently back and forth with his foot on the ground. The thunder was much less overwhelming when you were tucked so comfortably among family.
Gradually the worst of the storm moved past the house, the lightning nearly ceasing altogether, the thunder reduced in volume to a gentle growl. The rain continued with abandon as you sat in the darkness.
The low, constant hum, the steady rocking, the warmth in your belly all conspired against you and before you knew it, you were nodding off in Vincent’s arms. He took your mug, passed it to Bo, who set it on the ground.
When the storm at last had all but faded, Vincent woke you with a string of kisses across your brow. Sleepy, you stood and let him guide you inside.
Someone had dragged the biggest mattress in the house to the middle of the living room floor and piled it with bedding. Lester was dead asleep on the far side of the mattress, snoring, nothing but his hair peeking out from his blanket. Bo sprawled beside him, staring at the ceiling with his arms behind his head.
“We always used to sleep together during storms when we were kids,” he murmured. “Figured you should get the full experience.”
You sank onto the mattress and curled into his side. “’S good,” you mumbled. You felt Vincent’s weight behind you. “I like storms.”
“Hear that, Vin? We got a convert.”
You heard the puff of Vincent blowing out the last remaining candle, and with that, you slipped back into a warm and peaceful sleep.
Thinking about them falling asleep helps me fall asleep.
Lester
Lester sleeps in plaid pajama pants always, and rotates through a selection of band tees, bar tees, and tank tops. No socks unless he’s sleeping at his little cabin in the woods, then sometimes he likes the extra warmth.
Sleeps curled up like a little creature in a den. Head is covered by the blankets or even sometimes by his pillow. Never gets too hot or freaks out about only breathing that warm air. Snores, but like a cute sleepy snore.
Normal person body temperature when he sleeps. If it’s cold out, he’s cold. If it’s hot, he’s hot.
Has to have some kind of white noise to sleep. When he’s out in nature, this is provided by the insects and night sounds. When he’s at the house, he’ll leave his window open or sleep with a fan on for the noise.
Absolutely adores sleeping under the stars. Has been known to take a pillow and blanket out on the roof on clear summer nights. Sometimes sleeps in a hammock in the yard or sets up camp in the back of Bo’s truck. His cabin has skylights above the bed so even when it’s not comfortable to actually sleep outside he can still see the sky.
Pretty solid sleeper. Mumbles nonsense in his sleep. Will not remember a lick of it in the morning. Not super prone to nightmares. His brothers helped create happy memories in the midst of a traumatic childhood and he has a lot of time to think out on the road by himself. He’s made a lot of peace with himself, his parents, and his past, more so than the twins have.
When sharing his bed with you, the two of you are tangled up like vines, burrowed in like bunnies. All cuddle positions are created equal. Will happily sleep this way too, no squirming away in the middle of the night.
Vincent
It gets hot in the basement despite it being underground. There’s a lot of machinery running during the day and Vinny keeps the heat up so the wax is more malleable. In the Louisiana climate it takes a while for things to cool back down so Vincent sleeps shirtless, wearing sweatpants or maybe even just his underwear depending on the season. No socks. Never socks. Death before dishonor.
Looks like a literal angel when he sleeps. Often on his back with his arms above his head, more often on his stomach with his head turned in profile on the pillow.
Always too hot. Another reason for sleeping shirtless. The covers on his cot downstairs consist of a single thin blanket. Upstairs in his bedroom he usually sleeps with a single blanket or sheet only.
Sometimes his hair is up, sometimes it’s down. If it’s a particularly muggy day he gets annoyed with it sticking to his neck and he’ll tie it up before bed. His mask is always off for sleeping and he cleanses, tones, and moisturizes his skin every night without fail.
Has to sleep with a light on. It’s not that he’s afraid of the dark, it’s that he gets up a lot in the night and would prefer to be able to see. Before meeting you, he would leave a candle burning all night, because everything the Sinclair family touches is a fire hazard. You have insisted he instead use a fake candle or one of those salt lamps. The fake candle is an affront to his sensibilities but he agrees you have a point.
Sleeps for two hours at a time tops. Constantly getting up to get a drink, take a piss, pace around his workshop. If he’s sleeping upstairs he’ll get up and eat a bowl of cereal at 2 AM. Doesn’t have a lot of nightmares but has semi-regular night terrors that are absolutely bloodcurdling. It sort of helps if he doesn’t sleep for long stretches, but also, he’s just a restless mind. Sometimes you’ll stir in the middle of the night and find him sitting and watching you, sketching or just watching, nursing a cup of tea.
Sleeps in the basement when he’s in a creative period, which is usually the case. If he’s between projects, or suffering from artist’s block, or just finally ready to see some scenery outside of the basement, he’ll wander upstairs for bed.
Will snuggle with you until you’re asleep, and then he will carefully extricate himself so he doesn’t disturb you when he gets up. Favorite position is big spoon, or you with your head on his chest and his arm around you.
Bo
Sleeps in a tee, often a thin white cotton one, and his boxers. Wears SOCKS about half the time like a MADMAN. And they’re those stereotypical calf-length ones too with the red stripe around the cuff.
Takes up the entire bed. Sprawls on his back with arms and legs akimbo. Snores so loud he wakes himself up sometimes. Also rolls like a log in his sleep, somehow remains unconscious despite thrashing around like a fish.
Bo runs hot, always. That plus the constant motion means he often sleeps with little more than a sheet whether or not there were other blankets there to begin with.
Has to have a glass of water by his bed at all times. Refills it every night before bed because who likes the taste of stale water? (Nobody.)
Does a complete sweep of the house every night before he turns in. Checks to make sure all the doors are locked and the windows are shut. Doesn’t make a big deal out of it at all, but by god, even if he’s wasted, he will stumble around the house and make sure his family is secure.
Sleeps like the dead. Cannot be woken up for love nor money. The only exception is this: if you try to sneak in, out, or past him, he is immediately awake and alert. If someone were to try the doorknob on the front door he would know about it. Call his name, shake his shoulder, slap his face? No luck. Whisper that you think you might’ve heard something? He heard it too and he’s already downstairs with a shotgun.
Has pretty frequent nightmares and jolts awake soaked in sweat. If he is sleeping alone, he will often stay awake for a while until the fear has faded. If you are there, he will attach himself to you like a creeper vine and fall back asleep much quicker.
This man was literally born a little spoon and that has never changed. Enjoys cuddling with you in all positions but when it’s time for sleeping, he will roll over and scootch that ass back against you and falls asleep well before you detach yourself to prevent overheating since he is the temperature of the sun.
Bonus: Jonesy!!!
This girl has many beds. She has a dog bed in the living room. She has a doghouse in the backyard. She has a bed in Vinny’s workshop. She has a special blanket in Bo’s room. She has Lester.
During the day she often forgoes all of these places in favor of a nice sunny patch where she can sprawl.
At night she chooses her favorite sleeping companion based on a mysterious set of factors. You and Lester are the only ones that let her sleep on the bed. Bo would rather die, and frankly, Jonesy does not enjoy being kicked accidentally by a sleeping menace. Vincent lets her on his cot when he’s not using it, but it is not super comfy for both of them to sleep on at the same time.
When Lester is home, Lester is the favorite, no questions asked. When Vincent gets up in the middle of the night and goes to the kitchen to forage, Jonesy will meet him there, squinting in the fluorescents, making sure he’s okay. She seems to have a knack for predicting Bo’s nightmares and will either settle down in his room or will get up from wherever she’s sleeping to go sit by his bed. Does this occasionally scare the shit out of him? Yes. But she’s doing her best and he knows it.
Vincent cannot cook for shit. Not only that, but he puts milk in his bowl before he pours in the cereal. Unforgivable. Vinny does like to bake, but his success rate is wildly variable. Sometimes his cookies are weapons.
Vinny gets so wrapped up in his work he forgets to eat for hours. Bo will sometimes call him from the station to tell him to go upstairs and eat something. He genuinely likes fruits and vegetables, but he’s not picky and will munch just about anything.
Bo is a survivalist cook. He spent some time parenting his brothers, particularly Lester, and Trudy liked to withhold food as punishment, so he became adept at throwing together something quick.
Processed food is this man’s fuel. Boxed mac & cheese, canned soup, frozen dinners. Can toast a waffle. Can grill a cheese. Can make a pretty damn good sandwich. Has been known to eat the pieces of a thing rather than assembling the thing.
Lester is the chef! You can hand this man a dead skunk, like really dead, and he will present you with the most decadent burgoo you’ve ever had. Also quite the connoisseur of wine. He makes his own and it’s damn good.
Lester has a garbage disposal stomach and appetite. He’s never heard of food poisoning. He’s never met a food he doesn’t like. He’s a particular fan of gas station fare though, stopping on his route for chips, beef jerky, pork rinds, you name it.
Spice tolerance? Vin is the master. Lester is Cajun through-and-through. Bo will insist he is fine even though his face is red and he is pouring sweat. To be fair, he’s got a tolerance above average, but he’s nothing compared to his little brothers.
CLEANING
Lester, it’s Lester.
The man doesn’t mind a little grime. We’ve all seen his truck and his self. But that’s work. He’s got too much to do to worry about a little blood, especially when it spills as fast as he can clean it. When it comes to his living space, having things neat and orderly is like a mental separation for him between work and home.
Makes his bed every goddamn day (when he sleeps in a bed, that is).
Lester takes showers until the hot water runs out and revels in that squeaky clean, guts-less feeling. If you catch him outside the workweek, mans smells delicious, kind of tobacco-y and leathery and woodsy. He does love him some chew, but he’s not gross about it.
Unfortunately for him, his brothers are disasters.
Vinny is the most single-minded person in the state of Louisiana. The project in front of him is all he can see or think about. He leaves tools everywhere. He sets candles down, forgets about them, leaves them burning until someone blows them out before they light something on fire. He genuinely does not see the mess (same tbh).
His workshop looks like a bomb went off, but it all makes perfect sense to him. He can find you anything in two seconds. If you put it “where it goes,” he will never find it again.
Vincent has wax lodged permanently beneath his fingernails and there’s always a microscopic film of it on his skin. His hands are very soft from it though. Sometimes he goes for a while without showering because art. He also has a solid skincare routine pressed upon him by Mother Trudy. Wax does not breathe, so he has to keep his face clean and moisturized.
The other thing he is meticulous about is his hair. We never see it in the movie, but I like to think he keeps it pulled back a lot of the time while working. He doesn’t mind it in his face, but getting wax out of it is a nightmare. Lester isn’t often around to help him, and Bo told him if he ever made him do it again he’d shave his head. Vinny smells generally like art supplies, kind of sweet and woody, but his hair smells like nice shampoo.
Bo is the opposite of Lester. He is neat at work and a slob at home. His garage is always swept, every little screw and gear organized and accounted for, his truck washed once a week like clockwork. At the house though, man’s leaving dishes in the same place for weeks, crumbs galore, dirty and clean laundry all over the floor.
Every so often, the mess gets to him and he goes on a cleaning tirade. It gets the work done, but he’s a nightmare to deal with if you get in his way.
Bo himself is pretty well-kept. He wears clean underwear every day goddammit. Despite being a mechanic, he hates having dirty nails, so he will give himself a manicure on Sundays. Don’t you fucking dare look at him like that. Smells like motor oil, leather, cigarettes, and that good sweat. Only wears cologne on special occasions, like funerals.
HOME LIFE, ESP. WEEKENDS
Bo is the one who makes runs into town for supplies. Vincent would rather die than leave Ambrose, and Lester attracts too much attention between the smell, the slight lack of social skills, and his tendency to describe the innards of animals at the slightest provocation. Bo attracts his own kind of attention, but he’s adept at deflecting it.
Lester doesn’t often sleep at the house. He has a bedroom, but he also has a neat little shack in the woods, and that’s where he spends most of the week. It’s not that he doesn’t love his brothers; it’s that he likes his space, his freedom.
He comes home on the weekends, sometimes early on Fridays. This is when most of the housekeeping gets done, but he doesn’t mind a bit.
Friday night is boys’ night. Isn’t every night boys’ night? Yes. Does this matter? No.
All three of them are wicked good at pool. Like, stupid good. Games between the brothers are either over fast, or last an hour. There’s also a fair bit of poker. The currency at stake takes the form of small bones (animal, human, whatever), nuts from the garage, matches, or loser shots.
Speaking of which, the Sinclairs can hold their booze. In addition to his wine endeavors, Lester makes some facefucking moonshine and rotgut whisky. The night usually starts with cheap beer and ends with Bo talking REALLY LOUD, LIKE SO LOUD. HE’S NOT YELLING, HE’S JUST LIKE THIS.
Vincent gets everyone water and stops drinking hours before the other two because he’s smart, although he can absolutely drink you under the table if given the chance. Lester gets loopy and ends up falling asleep in uncomfortable positions.
Bo doesn’t typically get belligerent, but it is a possibility. He usually gets uncharacteristically sentimental. He smiles a lot more. Sometimes he gets real quiet. When this happens, his brothers put on music or start telling stories about happy memories to keep him out of the dark places in his head.
Saturday mornings are often bleak and silent affairs.
In a longtime tradition, Saturdays are spent on yardwork. There are a lot of yards in Ambrose, lots of planter boxes, and they all need to be kept presentable. Picture all three Sinclairs mowing lawns with or without white t-shirts. Yeah.
Sunday is for putting the house back into a reasonable state of affairs. The amount of laundry these men generate is abominable. No one likes dusting, hence all the cobwebs.
Attendance at Sunday dinners is non-negotiable. Shirts tucked in, all three of them. Bo and Vincent will often help Lester cook. This is not, in fact, helpful. None of the brothers are particularly religious anymore, but they alternate saying grace before they eat.
When Monday morning comes, Bo always has coffee made before Lester leaves at the ass crack of dawn. It happens to be decent. Lester takes a thermos for the road, Bo has a cup before he leaves the house, and he brings Vinny an insulated cup in his workshop, so that even when he forgets it’s there, it’s warm for him when he remembers.
My classes start tomorrow (ahh 17 credit hours bc I’m a fool) and it’s kick starting my college!Vincent brainrot. Just getting out of Ambrose for a little while, fine arts major, very late 80’s/90’s goth with his long dark hair and heartbreak music. GOD I want to hang out with him so badly
oh my god what a vibe (also, 17 credit hours, you're a goddamn champion)
You always see him in a corner of the library on the fourth floor where people don't usually go because it's all the philosophy texts. There are a few little workstations tucked back on the east side and there's a big, pretty window back there. He's a big man, but he's almost always hunched in on himself, bent over a text or a sketchbook, contorted in the weirdest positions like his physical form takes a backseat to whatever his mind is engaged in.
You'd actually kill for hair like his. Usually he's so absorbed in what he's doing he doesn't look up when people pass. Sometimes he does, though, and you catch a glimpse of a piercing, crystalline blue eye through the veil of his dark locks. It does something to you.
He's got style, too, all black, boots he could probably crush your skull with, a whole slew of chains around his neck, a long black duster as the temperature starts to drop. Of particular note are the rings on his long fingers.
You become friends, of a sort, because you're the only other person who ever camps out in this section of the library. At first he is wary of you, shooting you uneasy glances, leaving soon after you arrive. Then he ignores you once he realizes you have no intention of bothering him. You spend hours ten feet apart, you trying to make a flashcard for every word you've ever learned, him pouring his soul onto paper. You smile at him when one of you leaves. He never smiles back.
He always has a cup of coffee from the little cafe downstairs. He also always seems to run out well before it's time to pack up. So one day, you bring two cups up to the fourth floor and set one on the desk beside his empty first one.
"Here," you say. That blue eye looks up through the curtain. "It's midterms soon. I thought you might need it."
You can feel his eyes on you as you retreat to your spot and sit down, unzipping your bag, trying so hard to act casual. When you finally muster the courage to look at him again, he touches his hand to his chin and brings it forward.
"Thank you."
You don't think he's deaf, but maybe he's mute. You know a little bit of ASL from high school, so you sign back, "You're welcome. Anytime."
He bends back over his sketchbook and you start setting up your flashcards. You hear a ripping sound, a soft cough, and look up. He reaches one long arm over, proffers you a piece of paper. You lean over and take it.
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Hi hellooooo!!😭😭😭💖💖💖 You absolutely do NOT have to write this but uhhh some Bo comfort please? Y/N has been working a LOT and is either at their workplace or in their room, music blasting and functioning through life but is not... THERE with the Sinclairs, if you get me. Tensions and worries rise but then one night Y/N is found in Bo's doorway, looking Out Of It - exhausted, upset - and essentially uses him as a gigantic teddy bear? Lies on top and squeeeeeezes him 'til he grunts. It's the most interaction they've had for weeks💔
If you have anything you want then please please send it in😭😭😭😭
Erika thank you for requesting this, it did me so much good to write it. 💚 We all need some Bo lovin', that's just facts.
Workaholic
Bo Sinclair x GN!Reader
1.3k words
No CWs, just fluff and comfort. Reader does eat at Bo's behest, if that counts as a warning.
It was funny, how you somehow missed the signs every time.
Overworking yourself was a bad habit you fell into again and again. It wasn't hard to do; you liked your job even though it wasn't perfect, and the exhaustion never seemed to set in until you were on your way back to Ambrose. And it was so easy to scavenge through the fridge, curl up in bed, disengage entirely.
Your boys checked on you, of course they did. You'd pull off your headphones and smile at them, tell them about your day in vague detail. But it took such effort to relive it all. It was easier to shrug and characterize it all as "fine."
You sensed their concern. Lester tried to convince you to take a drive with him after work. Vincent wanted you to sit and model for him. Even Bo tried to coax you downstairs to watch trash TV together. You politely declined every time. You were tired. You just wanted to stay home. Maybe next time. Maybe tomorrow.
The days ran together and your sense of time dissolved. Friday night found you curled around a pillow, blasting metal, staring into the middle distance until your phone died abruptly.
It was like breaking out of a trance. You hadn't even realized your battery was low. With a sigh, you plugged in your phone, sat in silence for a minute.
It was very silent, as a matter of fact. What time was it? You couldn't check your phone.
You crept into the hallway. The house was dark. Everyone had apparently gone to bed but you.
Well, almost everyone.
There was a dim light coming from under Bo's door. Sometimes he was up late reading. It hit you, suddenly, that you didn't know what book he'd been into lately. As a matter of fact, you weren't sure what any of them had been up to. You felt guilty for being so checked out. If he was up, maybe it wouldn't hurt to peek in and talk with him for a minute.
You knocked lightly on the door. "Come in," he called softly. "'S that you, darlin'?"
"It's me." You pushed open the door, leaned against the frame.
Sure enough, he was propped up on two pillows with a paperback in hand. "What are you doin' up?"
"I was just…in my room. What time is it?"
"Almost 2:30. You weren't sleepin'?"
You shook your head.
Bo furrowed his brow. He was rough on books and flipped the paperback rather forcefully facedown on the bed beside him to save his place. He laced his fingers together on his chest. "No offense, but you look like hell."
You heaved a sigh. "Bo…I feel like hell."
"You been workin' too much."
"I don't know, I don't feel like it's been that much…."
"Honey, I ain't seen you in days."
You laughed once in disbelief. "How can that be, we live in the same house."
"You tell me. Every time I talk to you it's like talkin' to a reflection of you. Lester asked me if I thought you were sick, said you didn't even want to go out to the lake with him 'n Jonesy yesterday."
You felt heavy and hollow at the same time. "I…I mean, it's not that I didn't want to go, I just…." You swallowed hard. "...I don't know."
Bo looked concerned. "You ain't been yourself for a bit. Got us all worried."
"I'm sorry…I don't mean to worry you…I-I guess I just…I've just been…." Your throat tightened and you looked at him desperately, begging him to understand.
He unlaced his fingers and opened his arms. "C'mere, darlin'."
You shuffled over, climbed on top of him, buried your face in his chest. His arms were warm and solid around you, his hands familiar. He was sturdy and safe, your Bo.
"I-I don't know what's wrong," you whimpered.
"You don't gotta say anythin', sugar. It's okay." He pressed his lips to the crown of your head. "I missed you."
You wormed your arms underneath and around him, squeezed him tightly, tighter, until he huffed out a low grunt and tapped the small of your back. "Easy, killer," he wheezed. "What y'crushin' me for?"
"I just need you close," you mumbled. He squeezed you back. "Closer."
Bo kicked the blanket off his feet and wrapped his legs around yours. "How's that?"
"Can you just absorb me?"
"Lemme see." He flipped you to the side and rolled on top of you, went limp to press his full weight against you until you slapped at his chest. "What's the matter, I thought this is want y'wanted."
"Bo!"
"'S my name."
"Bo!"
"Sorry darlin', this is what happens when you starve me of attention. Just can't help myself."
"You're gonna kill me!" you gasped.
"Nah, I ain't never killed nobody."
Your fingertips found the edge of his book and you flung it off the bed. His jaw dropped.
"Well, now I gotta kill ya."
You giggled and he buried his face in your neck, blew a raspberry, held you down as you tried to squirm away. He was ticklish in a particular spot on his ribs and you dug in mercilessly. Bo's whole body jerked and he grabbed onto you for balance.
"Now don't you start with me."
"I'm paying attention to you!"
"You're gonna be payin' for somethin' here in a minute." You tried desperately to poke at him and he pinned your arms to your sides with almost no effort. "I don't remember you bein' so weak."
"Hey!"
"When's the last time you ate, darlin'?"
"I had some crackers not too long ago."
He gave you one of his trademark withering stares. "What are you, a bird?"
You rolled your eyes. "Bo."
"Don't 'Bo' me, c'mon. Let's get some food in you."
He rolled off the bed and led you down to the kitchen. "What d'you want for an appetizer?"
"An appetizer?"
"Yeah, I'm cookin' you a four-course meal real quick."
"It's three in the morning."
"Do I look like I care?"
"I'm not even hungry."
"Look, I know you ain't from around here, so I'll cut you some slack, but we don't say those words in Louisiana." He was already pulling out dishes. "You best tell me somethin' or I'm gonna start throwin' stuff in this pot with no rhyme or reason and it ain't gonna taste good and you still gotta eat it."
"How about those potatoes you made one time? The really good ones?"
"Mmm. I can do that."
"Can I help?"
"Sure, only if you tell me 'bout work." He shot you a look. "I mean really tell me, none o' this 'it's fine, it's fine' bullshit." His imitation of your voice was high-pitched and whiny and he smirked when you glared at him. "Y'sound just like that when you're blowin' me off, darlin'."
You rolled your eyes and slowly started recounting the details of your last few shifts as you chopped potatoes. Despite all assumptions to the contrary, Bo was an excellent listener, and it was cathartic to empty your head of all the stress and bustle of your job.
Once the potatoes were fried and ready to eat Bo divided them between two plates and you sat next to him on the couch, one leg hitched over his.
"You're callin' in sick tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly.
"I don't know if - "
"I do know. We need you. They can last without you for a day."
You sighed. "Alright. You're right."
"Usually am."
"These potatoes are delicious. You're a good cook."
"Go on, tell me more nice things about myself."
"If I squint like this your head doesn't look so big."
He laughed and elbowed you. "'S good to have you back, darlin'."
You smiled at him, hair disheveled, sprawled on the couch in his pajamas, taking care of you like he always did. God, you loved him.
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