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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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A Girl Like You

Summary: Somebody flirts with you, Vincent gets upset.

Pairing: Vincent Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: Smut, rough-fucking, slightest breeding kink, Vincent does talk in this fic but it's only a few words!

Word Count: 2,131

Vincent could feel the flush rising to his cheeks and he was sure if he wasn’t wearing his mask everybody would be able to see the red pallor to his skin.

It wasn’t your fault, it never was, but you were too nice for your own good. You were always smiling, always laughing with the tourists, always making them feel comfortable while Bo fixed up their cars. You saw the good in everything, in everyone, you were everything Vincent wished he could be. When a tall, handsome man leaned over the counter and smiled at you, you assumed he was just being friendly, trying to get to know you. But Vincent assumed- knew- that when the strangers eyes flicked down to your chest, he was being anything but friendly.

The man was everything Vincent wasn’t. He had a tan color to his skin, his hair was light and styled in a way that made him seem effortlessly handsome, he was charismatic and friendly, and it sure seemed like the two of you were getting along great. In his heart Vincent felt- knew- you deserved better; you were a ray of sunshine in the otherwise cloudy Ambrose. He wouldn’t be surprised if this mysterious stranger managed to sweep you off your feet, sweep that pretty sunshine right out of Ambrose like a terrible storm.

“You should get out of here sometime,” The stranger said, teeth shining pearly white as he smiled at you. “Me and my friends are road tripping it right now, coast to coast, if you wanted to come,”

“That’s so sweet of you,” You were flashing him an equally radiant smile, one that made your eyes twinkle and your cheeks flush. “But I’ve actually got a partner here. I help him and his brother with the cars, the wax museum, stuff like that,”

Immediately the man’s smile falls, his gimmick crumbling for just a moment. As quickly as it fell, he manages to recover, rebuild.

“That’s alright,” He smiles once more as he begins to scribble on a piece of paper. “If you ever change your mind, here’s my number,” And of course you smile, thank him, nod and tuck the paper away in your pocket, because that’s who you are. You didn’t have a mean bone in your body and most days Vincent envied you but today he wanted to pull his hair out, chastise you for being too nice, even if it wasn’t your fault.

Then, the minute the man’s back is turned you throw the piece of paper away, huffing a quiet sigh as you do. You were kind, but even kind people had their limits.

“I think Bo should be done looking at your car, let me run to the back and check for you guys,” You gave the group an enthusiastic nod before departing, heaving another soft sigh as you marched towards Bo and Vincent, who were both elbows deep in the Toyota Tacoma the group had been driving in.

“I’m going to head back to the house,” You announced with a soft smile. This one was more genuine, more gentle, it tugged at the corners of your lips a little less harshly than your fake smiles did. “I’m exhausted, I might try to take a nap,” Vincent could hear Bo mumbling something along the lines of, ‘oh, you’re tired are you?’ and ‘’m the one workin’ on the damn car, ‘m tired,’ To which (Y/N) playfully kicked at his boot.

“I’ll have dinner ready for you boys by the time you get back, don’t take too long or it won’t be hot,” And with that you departed, leaving Bo grumbling in your wake; something like ‘don’t even know why we keep her around’ and ‘damn woman, gettin’ on my nerves’.

By the time Vincent and Bo finished up the sun had set, the temperature had dropped a few degrees, and the city of Ambrose was quiet once more; waiting on the kitchen table were two plates, both full of food, and both still hot. Vincent was hungry, starving, but he had more important matters to deal with.

“Hey-” Bo called as Vincent made a beeline for the basement. “Are ya gonna eat dinner or not?” When Vincent ignored him Bo called once more. “If ya don’t eat it ‘m goin’ to!” Bo’s words fell on deaf ears as Vincent slammed the door to the basement, and although Vincent couldn’t hear Bo he was sure his brother was grumbling something about how ‘ungrateful, wasteful’ he was being.

Vincent’s steps weren’t light as he trudged down the stairs, each boot hitting the wood with such force that it echoed through the basement. His blood ran hot in his veins and his jaw ached from clenching it so hard. It wasn’t your fault, he kept reminding himself, it wasn’t your fault you were so damn nice, it wasn’t your fault attractive young men liked to flirt with the prettiest thing in Ambrose.

Vincent found you in the workshop, hair pulled up high as you lounged on the cot in the corner. You were wearing a pair of shorts and one of his sweaters and you gave him the sweetest smile when he got to the bottom of the stairs, finally within your eyesight.

“Hey,” You said quietly, almost reverently, a tone you saved only for him. “Was the food still warm?” Vincent paid no mind to your words as he kicked off his boots and began shedding his many layers of clothes. “Long day?” You asked as he peeled off his mask, the last layer he needed to shed before he clambered on top of the cot. With ease he captured your ankle in his hand, pulling you down the cot and towards his warm body. Any squeal or complaint you had about being manhandled died the minute Vincent pressed his lips to yours, kiss sloppy and needy, all tongue and teeth.

Usually Vincent was tender, only soft touches and reverence for you, but this was different, this was harsh and mean, feral and animalistic. His hands made quick work of the shorts, nearly tearing them off your legs in an effort to get the offending clothing away from you. A growl, gruff and low in his chest, rumbled through his throat when he noticed that you had opted not to wear panties under those tiny shorts and if he were to take a lucky guess, he’d bet you didn’t have anything on under his sweater.

“Vincent-” He couldn’t tell if you were scolding him, or pleading with him to continue, perhaps it was both. Big, always warm, hands push up the sweater, revealing that in fact you were not wearing anything underneath. A groan, positively sinful falls from Vincent’s parted lips as he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips. His mouth is warm, almost as warm as the heat emanating from the basement, and his other hand quickly cups your other breast, squeezing, giving it almost the same treatment as the one in his mouth.

You thread your fingers through his hair, cupping the back of his head, keeping him pressed close, not that Vincent would pull away, he could spend hours like this, lips wrapped around your nub, sucking until your chest ached and your legs were covered in your own slick. Any other night he would do just that, bury his face in your chest until you pushed him away, told him that you couldn’t handle anymore, but tonight he wanted- needed something else. Tonight he wanted to pound that pretty pussy until your legs shaked, until tears ran down your cheeks and your belly ached with how deep he fucked you.

Plagued by desire, of visions of you wrapped around his cock, stretching and whining as you try to take him, Vincent finds his patience running thin. Wordlessly, effortlessly, Vincent flips you over, belly pressed into the rough canvas of the cot. You want to whine, tell him this is uncomfortable, that your belly is going to be red and covered in a rash after this, but suddenly his hand is in your hair, pulling your head back as he nibbles on your earlobe. He pulls just a little harder, making you lean your head back as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“Vincent,” Your whine is softer this time, a hint of worry gnawing at your throat. “Vincent- I need some time, some prep-” But he doesn’t listen, and in one fluid motion his cock is buried to the hilt, hips snug against your ass as he presses biting kisses along your neck. Tears sting at your eyes and you claw at the canvas below you, trying to grip something, anything to distract yourself. And the minute you begin to feel you’re adjusting, the minute the ache between your legs becomes less throbbing, Vincent gives a violent thrust. Your mouth hangs open in a silent cry- words, noise- unable to make it past the column of your throat. And then he does it again, and again, until he has a steady rhythm, hips snapping against your ass as his cock fills you completely.

“Vincent,” You’re crying now, tears streaming down your cheeks as he fucks you, fucks you so hard your belly and tits rub against the canvas of the cot, fucks you so hard that the sound of your coupling echoes through the basement. You don’t know what you’re begging for, for more, for less, for him to stop, for him to continue, for him to fuck you like he hates you, for him to fuck you like he loves you.

He doesn’t bother playing with your clit, doesn’t bother groping at your chest, not like he usually does, tonight he’s determined to breed you, mark you as his, fuck you so good that you forget all about that man at the shop, prove to you that he’s worth it, prove to you that you don’t need anyone else.

His thrusts never falter, never once slow down, even when he feels his own release creeping up his spine, warm and tingling, threatening to take him over. He doesn’t stop even though you’ve cum, once, twice, god knows how many times. Your pussy is positively wet, almost dripping with arousal as he snaps his hips against you, deep and methodical, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. You’re close again, cheeks red and wet with tears, voice babbling as you call out to him with each thrust of his hips.

He wraps your hair around his hand once again, pulling it taught, making your head snap back as he leans down to press his lips against your ear. “Mine,” He growls, voice hoarse and quiet, so quiet that if he wasn’t pressed against you, you wouldn’t have heard it. His chest rumbles against your back, somewhere between a growl and a purr as he says it again, “Mine”.

“Yes!” You cry, voice wrecked, absolutely hysterical. “Yes Vincent, I’m all yours, just yours!” You’re clawing at the canvas again, desire spiked by the possessiveness in Vincent’s words. “Please-” You beg, sob, “Please say it again,”

“Mine,” He punctuates his words with another harsh thrust. “All mine,” And you’re cumming again, walls clenching almost painfully, as you wail and shake and cry. You’re acutely aware of the feeling of Vincent inside of you, warm and wet as he thrusts through his orgasm. You’re so fucked out you beg him for it, beg him to paint your insides white, to breed you like the good little housewife you are. It isn’t until he pulls out, pulls you close, tucks your head against his chest, that you begin to feel sanity seep back into your bones. Your chest and belly ache, rubbed raw from the harsh canvas. Your legs shake and quiver, your throat hurts from crying and your pussy aches from the memory of his feral thrusts.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent writes on your back, slender fingers tracing letters into your skin. “I got carried away, I’m sorry,” You know him well enough to know he’s panicking, thinking he fucked up, he did something wrong.

“Don’t be sorry,” You mumble, voice hoarse from the tears. “I’m only a little upset about the rash covering my front side,” You’re teasing him, even with half lidded eyes and swollen lips. And then you’re smiling, that same reverent smile you have only for him. “Vincent, I’m yours, only yours,” He nods, desperate, hungry for that validation. You know there’s a reason behind his actions, something that made him so wild, so desperate to claim you the way he did, but you’re tired and Vincent’s hands are warm and rubbing up and down your back soothingly.

There will be some other time to discuss this.

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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#words can't describe how creative and amazing this is

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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Otis B. Driftwood x fem reader: Heaven help the fool who falls in love

Title: Heaven help the fool who falls in love

Pairing: Otis B. Driftwood x fem reader. Reader is not American and has long, straight hair.

Summary: On one particular night, Otis finds himself irritated at the usual way of things, and even more so at his sister. She seems to have it so easy, adoration is waiting for her at every corner. What does Otis get, though? Is there anyone who would want him as he is? Perhaps there is, he discovers as he goes to a bar to get away. That meeting gives him hope - and a boner.

Warnings: mentions of sex, 18 +, canon-typical mentions of stuff.

Wordcount: 1051

Hope you enjoy this sweet and spicy insight into a night of Otis' life! If you did, please reblog or leave a comment so I know you liked it <3 It would mean a lot to me.

Dividers by @/firefly-graphics

The house was chaos once again. Screams, crying, thumping and laughter from Baby’s room. That day, it annoyed Otis. The usual joy of it was gone. He reflected on how the chase was, earlier. How Baby lured the group to the house with such ease. She just bat her eyes at any man coming by and they’d come with her without a grain of suspicion in their pea-sized brains. Worst of all, Baby liked it, the attention, the way they worshipped her before the evils made themselves known. It must be nice, knowing that affection and adoration waits just around the corner. What does Otis get, then? They call him a weirdo, a freak. Not that he minds any of that. But the curled up lips, the stares, the subtle rejections… it’s a world of difference. He needed to get away from the house.

“Hey handsome,” was the waitress’ greeting as Otis entered the bar. One of his favourite country songs played, something with a bit of blues mixed in. “I’ll be right with you,” she added, before pushing open the doors to the kitchen and walking out of sight.

Pushing himself up on a bar stool, Otis looked around at the patrons. Quite busy at this hour. It was a lot easier to disappear for a little while when Baby wasn’t with him. Otis knew he wasn’t much of a looker, and he was content with that. No one cared to look twice. Besides, he wasn’t the ugliest one at the bar by far, he thought, as his eyes drifted over one of the patrons in the corner. Shrugging, he turned to the waitress again as he heard her enter, the door slamming shut behind her.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” she asked. There she went again with the flattery. He ordered his beer, and sipped in silence.

“You new here?” he asked, taking her in, taking his time staring her down in a way he knew creeped many out. She continued unloading the dishwasher as if she didn’t notice. She had a bit of an accent, unplaceable but certainly foreign.

“Somewhat, yeah. You a regular?” As she leaned down to gather the plates, her hair fell out of its updo and showed how long it was. Longer than Baby’s. Straighter too. He could wrap it around her neck and choke her with it. At that thought, he suppressed a smile.

“Only when I need to get away,” he answered to her question.

“You’re certainly not alone in that,” she said, giving him a wink as she pushed her hair up and tried her best to comb through the tangles and redo how she had it before. A bearded guy moved next to Otis, and tapped the counter with his car keys to get her attention.

“What’ll it be, sir?” she said, hands still fussing with her hair, only lowering them when the scrunchie snapped into place. As she poured the beers for the bearded man and his pals, she kept glancing over at Otis in a way he didn’t much like.

Or rather, it was the way that those stolen glances made him feel which he didn’t much like.

Once he was home, in bed, with his clothes still on, having a cigarette and watching the smoke rise to the ceiling, he thought of her. There were questions in his mind – and: ‘better luck next time’ rang through his head in what sounded like Baby’s voice. His thoughts turned sour again. It was a joy hunting with her, but when-

“Fuckin’ hell,” Otis muttered, sitting up and pressing the cigarette onto the plate on his nightstand. In the room next to his, separated by just a thin wall, was Baby and her entertainment for the night. Normally he’d leave her be and look forward to getting to cut apart the poor fellow later – not that night though. Banging his fist against the wall, Otis yelled at them to be quiet, which was just met with giggles and faster thumping. Fuck, sometimes he hated his sister.

Regardless, the noises from beside him and the girl on his mind prevented him from getting to sleep. His ratty t-shirt was the first to hit the floor. How would it be? A regular girl – not a victim, still smiling, whispering how handsome he is, leaving lipstick marks on his neck and by his ear. When he got to the button of his jeans, it wasn’t a surprise he was half-hard already. Cursing softly under his breath, he stared up, imagining her on top of him. Would she be shy? Experienced? Not that it mattered, he’d guide her through it. Teach her how to please him. His grip was tight, almost too much so, but even he had trouble showing himself kindness. But she’d feel good. Warm. Soft. He bared his neck at nothing, but it almost felt like her teeth scraped over the skin when he closed his eyes.

A particular irregular thump from beside him shook him from his bliss, and he shouted something cruel, hands too occupied to hit the wall a second time. He hoped his girl didn’t giggle like Baby did. His girl… The ease with which those words hooked themselves in him was lost on him as he squeezed his cock. Precum slicked up his hand, making his strokes more pleasurable. A low groan from the back of his throat lingered in the air. She’d moan so beautifully for him, he was sure. The pace of his hand increased as he imagined her on top of him. Her breasts bouncing as he’d fuck up into her, tugging at her nipples, or his hand around her throat to keep her put. Her blissful expression, not too dissimilar to how he looked then, eyes closed, lips parted, sweat on his brow. Or; pulling her down to him by the hair, to kiss him, keeping her close. Another guttural moan left his throat, and a gasp, as he spilled over his hand and his abdomen. He fell back into his pillow, chest heaving. Too lazy to get up and clean himself, he dangled his arm over the bed, finding his discarded t-shirt and wiped the cum off with it. Better luck next time, he told himself, and hoped he’d dream of her.

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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Your like my only Otis content 🥺

That sounds so sad, omg. I will try to get back into writing for him and post something soon, but no promises 😭

#lebenspurpur talks

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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why do you hate women

I really don't, and I hope my posts don't insinuate that.

#i really hope i don't give off that vibe #so if any of my posts appear misogynistic please let me know #ill delete them immediately

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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injury

AN: this was supposed to be Vincent x reader, but I guess you can read it as all brothers x reader. also i apologize if this isn't good, i'm currently trying to write a real fic, and it's kind of difficult. i'm praying to the writing-gods though.

Warnings: description of an injury, mention of needles and syringes

The front door flies open with an audible 'bang' as the long-haired artist carries you inside the residence. Behind him trail his brothers, in your peripheral you see Bo’s tense jaw as he tucks his gun away.

Vincent’s boots loudly trudge through the living room. Shortly after he sets you down on the billiard table. Thinking he’s going to leave, you weakly extend a hand, trying to find stability, but he stays. One arm keeps tightly securing your torso, the other sweeps old newspaper off the dusty surface. His movements are fast, he’s hurrying, you think.

Soon, you're laying on your back on the green cloth, the frame of the table pressed painfully into the muscles of your neck. Then he leaves anyway. His heavy boots stomp down the hallway before you can protest. His brothers stay, though.

Bo looks tense, you notice as he appears in your vision and Lester’s forehead is wrinkled in worry.

“Sorry for bleeding all over the table-”, you cringe at your own, faint voice.

“Don’t worry about that now.”, Lester tries to give you a reassuring smile, but the crease in his forehead doesn’t fade and neither does the shake in his voice, “Vincent’ll patch you up.”

Speaking of the devil, his steps come closer again, faster this time. Then he’s next to you, carrying the first aid box from the bathroom. It’s all banged up ever since Bo punched it off the wall during one of his meltdowns. The memory makes you want to laugh, but even breathing hurts now.

Subconsciously, you can hear Bo’s belt buckle click open. You raise an eyebrow in confusion, but before you can attempt to ask anything, there’s the sensation of something leathery against your lips.

“Open up.”, Bo sounds sterner than you’d like, but you comply, biting down on the leather as hard as you can. You know what happens now.

A syringe appears in Vincent’s hand and suddenly cold fear fills your heart. The belt falls out of your lips as your mouth opens.

Memories flood your brain, pictures of helpless victims, twitching as Vincent injected his own little poison into their blood, rendering them helpless.

You don’t think he’s trying to poison you but the idea of a syringe in his hands is enough to make your breath shorten in panic. Meekly, you try to get away from its iron tip and raise your hand to push him away.

“Please, Vincent-”, even to yourself your voice sounds strained and near silent. “Without.”, you manage to croak out, finding his eye behind the waxen mask, pleading.

It takes a rough second of silent praying but, finally, he nods, and puts it to the side. In the meanwhile, Lester pushes the piece of leather back in between your teeth and Bo grabs your arms, pinning them to the table.

“This is gonna hurt, sweetheart, you know that.”, ‘is that warmth in Bo’s eyes?’, you think, “Try to keep still, I know you can do it.”

A weak nod is all you can muster up as a reply, questioning if Bo's faith in you is justified.

You feel Vincent’s hand pulling your leg towards him, and then there’s something cold touching your ankle. You nearly jerk back out of reflex, but his grip is strong.

Sharp blades cut the fabric away from your leg, inch for inch until he reaches the tear in your flesh, oozing crimson. You sense he’s trying to hurry without hurting you, and you wish you could tell him that the pain is already fading into a numb, hot throbbing.

In your confused, half-conscious state, you barely register the cap of a bottle opening before you feel it. Scorching hot liquid, burning into your flesh.

Tears dwell in your eyes as your muffled scream echoes through the room. Your head lifts off the edge of the billiard table, trying to get away, but then Lester’s beside you, gently pressing it back down.

“Already halfway done,”, he whispers, voice laced with shared agony, “You’re doing so well.”

Whimpering, you try to focus on the warmth of his hand on your forehead as Vincent dabs the disinfectant and already-crusted blood away. His other hand squeezes your thigh lovingly as if to comfort you.

His hands are gone for a quick moment, and you mentally prepare for the needle. This isn’t the first time Vincent has stitched you up, but this is the first really life-threatening wound you’ve acquired in all your time in Ambrose. You take a hazy mental note to buy disinfectant without alcohol if you survive this.

Vincent's hands return to your thighs. You bite down on the leather as the needle pierces your skin, pulling the thread through the hole. Grunts turn into weak sobs as he continues swiftly, leaving you with no time to process the pain flaring in your leg.

“Shh…”, Bo’s voice is surprisingly tender, “It’s over soon, darling, I promise.”

His thumb rubs circles into the inside of your arms, but the pain is far too intense for you to notice his soft touches.

It feels like an eternity until Vincent sets the needle down, and you nearly start sobbing all over again when he finally does. This time out of relief.

The ceiling moves as Bo lets go of your arms, and you suddenly feel unsupported, like you’re going to fall over any second. Someone takes the belt out of your mouth, it clatters as it hits the tiles somewhere behind you. A wet sensation hits your freshly stitched-up skin.

Vincent is more careful with the bandaging, testing its tightness before he ties the ends together, so it won’t bother you. You’re scared he'll leave, but fortunately, your concerns stay unverified.

Soft hands find your shoulders again as he’s done with his work, carefully raising your torso off the bloody table. Legs still supported on the edge of the furniture, he adjusts your head, leaning it against his chest, before he lifts you for good, trying to be as gentle as possible. Even in your current situation, his consideration for you warms your heart.

You attempt to catch a glimpse of the table before he walks away but all you pick up is a mess of red, blotched over the remains of your jeans as Lester puts Vincent’s utensils away.

Then the artist turns around and all you register anymore is his heartbeat next to your ear as he carries you away.

#this feels kind of weird to me #like the atmosphere is off #but im going to post it anyway #because even a bad piece is better than a good one if that one's only in your mind #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #slasher x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax 2005 #slasher fandom #hurt/comfort

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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House Of Wax Twitter AU Part Four masterlist

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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House of Wax Twitter AU Part Five masterlist

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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Do ya'll see it

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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VIRGOS

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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If the slashers had dating profiles:

Slashers included: Jason Voorhees, Brahms Heelshire, All 3 Sinclair brothers, Bubba Sawyer. Micheal Meyers, Billy Lenz, Leslie Vernon

X Reader format. Gender neutral. Slight nsfw

Jason Voorhees:

The profile has several burry pictures of trees and what you think is some kind of shambly looking cabin. There’s picture of a bee on a weirdly gnarled looking hand with an offputting blueish green color to his skin. You figure that it must be the lighting and there’s nothing to be alarmed with. His profile description is wordless save for a bunch of emojis, trees and flowers and a campfire.

His height is listed as 7’0 so… you swipe right immediately.

Brahms Heelshire:

Theres several pictures of a dapper little doll doing things. Sitting in a chair, playing with blocks… You swipe through them intrigued by the strange little doll and lastly theres mirror selfie of a man holding the doll, the camera flash conceals his face but you’re able to get a nice eyeful of a tempting hairy chest. The doll is creepy but… if that’s his owner, he cant be too bad. Everyone has hobbies!

His height is listed and he’s a respectable 6’4. Under “Hobbies:” he’s written “Dolls.”, and added an emoji of a violin. You’ve always had a weakness for artsy guys. You figure he’s just some hipster. He’s selected various tags to mention he’s a homebody, and he’s looking for a long term relationship, and he’s a homeowner??? You’re sold.

Bo Sinclair:

Pictures of a dirty truck. Several memes about mechanics. You would’ve immediately swiped No, but he’s uploaded quite a few pictures to go through. Amongst the unfunny memegenerator images and past the ones showcasing a dirty old truck, there are several selfies to go through and the guy is just drop dead gorgeous. His jawline could cut butter. He’s got sparkly blue eyes and god damn does he know how to take a proper thirst trap.

There are a number of red flags unfortunately, his description is extremely long and it says nothing about himself besides what you can infer from his LONG list of what he’s looking for in a partner. He wants obedience, a good listener, someone who’s not afraid to get dirty, someone to cook and clean and do his laundry. It all makes your eyes roll. The weirdest part of his profile is that he’s selected that he’s looking for short term things, and that he’s not wanting to be tied down…? Yet he seems to be looking for someone who will just about chew his food for him.

To you, he seems like an overgrown manchild with a pretty face. But… if he’s only looking for fun, you could really do worse when it came to a no strings attached dick appointments. His page says he’s from Louisiana and you wonder what his voice sounds like… As you’re debating whether or not to swipe right, your phone buzzes with a notification that Bo’s superliked your profile.

Vincent Sinclair:

The first image of his profile is purely black and you think that it must be a blank profile. On a whim you read the tags he’s selected, and his interests include several different art mediums. You swipe past the black header image to see several examples of his work, he’s skilled in everything he does and wax figures are a pretty interesting medium. It’s not everyday that you find someone who specializes in working with wax.

His description is blank and he’s not selected anything in terms of what he’s looking for. Even so, you swipe right in hopes you’ll match so you can ask him a load of questions. Mysterious as the profile is, you have to admit that the guy is talented.

Lester Sinclair:

The photos in his profile are a little yikes. Though he’s not holding fish like every other embarrassing profile on this website, there are a number of photos involving dead animals. In one of the photos, the guy is squatting near a bloated gator, pointing and grinning. In another photo, a grimy hand holds a flattened rodent of undeterminable classification.

In the photos with his face, he’s grinning in every one of them. His clothes are kind of grimy and you can assume that he must be some kind of roadkill guy, hopefully as a job rather than as an enthusiast. He’s got such a sunshiney smile and you think he’s cute besides the grime.

The description attached to his profile is just adorable. Everything that he’s selected displays that he’s on this site genuinely because he’s looking for someone to love. Long term or short term, but nothing casual. He’s written that he doesnt have much but he’ll make up for it by ‘Lovin’ ya.” and its just so sweet that youre hitting that superlike button to send him a message immediately.

Micheal Meyers:

Blank profile. No description. No pictures besides a plain black image.

You accidentally swipe right rather than left with a catastrophic finger fumble and you’re surprised that your phone chimes with an immediate match. A moment later, you recieve a message and it’s just one emoji. A knife. Yikes! Blocked!

Despite the block. Your phone chimes with another message and you’re met with a photo. Its blurred for your safety, just in case its an unwanted dick pic. You have to click on the photo and what you’re met with is so, so much worse than the scummiest dick pic. The photo looks like a photo of the outside of your house.

Billy Lenz:

His photos are almost incomprehensibly strange. Everything’s blurry. One of the photos was a blur of movement of which you could vaguely make out a human shaped thing and a single eye. Everything is offputting and strange. The only non blurry picture is (1) single photo of a fluffy white cat.

In his description, theres a very strange paragraph about someone named Agnes, accompanied with baby emojis and then several cat emojis.

At the very end of his paragraph, you see that he’s selected several tags to imply he’s looking for something quick and dirty. The only coherent part of his entire profile is a single, long winded sentence about his apparent desperation to eat pussy.

Bubba Sawyer

Several photos of a chicken. He’s used one of those filter apps to put hearts and other things around the chicken.

Besides chicken pics, there’s a picture what looks to be a windchime made of bones. It’s hung up on a porch, looking out toward a green field with the sun making everything look warm and tinted orange. It’s a nice photo, Bubba seems to have a good attention to detail.

He’s selected no tags to help you determine what he’s looking for. But he’s listed his height and weight. He’s a big… big guy. You swipe right in hopes that you can beg the guy for a face reveal.

Leslie Vernon:

Finally! a guy who shows his face! His profile seems almost meticulously curated. He’s got all the things that would show up if you were to google “How to have the best dating profile.” Theres a photo of him with a dog, a photo of him covered in flour, a photo of him laughing and eating a salad. All the photos seem incredibly staged, which is…. strange.

His description is all about himself. He seems as if he’s been looking for an opportunity to talk about himself and he decided to use a dating website to do it. He mentions that he loves horror movies and that he’s in the “business.” You’re not sure what to make of that. Does he… make…?? horror movies? Does he run a blog or something?

At the end of his very, very long monologue that includes his favorite color and his all time favorite top five movies and music and everything under the sun— he closes his description by saying that he’s looking for his final girl. It’s cheeky and adorably stupid.

Strangeness aside, you love horror movies too, so you’re at least open for a fun discussion about them over drinks or something. He’s pretty much the only guy on this website that seems to know how to use it anyway.

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