#louisiana wildflowers

[abloomaday]

Happy Wild Louisiana Irises

#flower photography #wild iris #irises #purple #louisiana wildflowers #original photographer #photographer on tumblr

[thekimdelacreme]

#flower #iris #louisiana iris #amaryllis #gladiolus #buttercup #bluebonnet #wildflower #showy primrose

[kels0thefl0wer]

#nature #flowerchild #flowerpower #flowers #wildflowers #wildflora #sunset #skyporn #louisiana #cottage vibes #cottagecore

[screechingfestdreamland]

#country #fields #meadows #wildflowers #louisiana #beautiful

[sunkendreams]

uhh asking for a request of bo and just anything that involves with duct tape 😭😭 gagging or bounding im happy either way

Also love ur work! 🩷💖

souvenir.

➾ pairing ; bo sinclair x fem!reader.

in which bo decides that he’ll take you as his souvenir — a pretty hiker lost in ambrose.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 5.3K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), DUBCON, drugging, kidnapping, bondage (tape and chains), restraints, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, groping, knifeplay, rough sex, p in v sex, different positions, spitting, choking, bruising, hair-pulling, scratching, marking, use of pet names (good girl, sweetheart, etc.), dom/sub dynamics, begging, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, bo is definitely not nice in this fic

author’s note: this is definitely more of a darker fic, but I actually loved writing it ,,, nothing like gross and horny sex with bo sinclair to get the blood flowing! I hope you all enjoy! Still working on requests, I’m hoping to post a few things this week since I’ve been so busy!

Warm, glittering rays of a vibrant Louisiana sun cut through the thick canopy of trees and marshland, bathing your face in a haze of heat. It was midday — hot and sticky, accompanied by a stifling humidity that was prevalent in the South, not terribly far from a saltwater coastline.

Beneath you was the grass — clutches of wildflowers blossomed amongst strands of emerald, a temporary refuge for you to rest as you savored the outdoors. A town sat in the near-distance, baking away underneath the sun, as evidenced by the paint wearing thin and the asphalt looking gray instead of black.

You’d been hiking by yourself — that was your first mistake. Too brazen and bold enough to be without the company of your friends, and now, subject to the ire of Ambrose’s hidden devils.

It was akin to ringing the dinner bell when Lester had caught wind of your presence through the scope of a well-used Barrett. Once he’d informed Bo over a very colorful phone call, your fate was sealed, doomed to become another pretty fixture in the House of Wax.

There was no getting out of Ambrose — you just didn’t know it yet.

As the glaring sun began to slip behind the verdant canopy above you, you took it as a sign to relocate, trekking the short distance toward the quaint town. You could hear the general buzz and chatter of townsfolk, but there wasn’t a soul in-sight — the ones that were, confined to their eternal tombs.

“Nobody’s home.” You murmured, thumbing the thick straps of your backpack as you sauntered down the middle of the road, glancing at some of the vehicles lining the road. Some appeared brand-new, others showing signs of weathering.

You passed the gas station and row of various houses, making your way toward the church. The distant hum of an organ guided your path, leading you to the steps and to the devil himself.

Bo Sinclair stood in front of a set of white doors, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, a bead of sweat glistening upon his brow. He wore his Sunday best to look the part, gaze flickering toward your pretty, doe-eyed countenance when you’d stopped a few feet away.

A cloud of billowing smoke drifted into the air, a thin gray wisp that dissipated into the staggering heat. He appraised you in an unusual silence, drinking you in, shamelessly admiring the way your jeans clung to your body. Bo’s own fascination was nearly palpable — he still wondered what possessed a girl to go hiking alone.

Maybe you were stupid — he didn’t think so.

“Sermon getting to you?” You hadn’t intended to come off as simpering or awkward, gesturing toward the cigarette in the stranger’s mouth. A chattering ambiance and piano music emanated from inside of the church, and you felt severely underdressed in the presence of this man — the only one you’d seen in the town so far.

A huff escaped him as he ashed his cigarette, granules of charcoal floating towards the steps. “Might need another cigarette if that’s the case,” Bo chortled, taking another long drag. He ogled you again, jaw tensing as he sized you up, unbeknownst to you. “You lost?”

You would do perfectly — prettiest thing he’d seen in ages, that much was for certain.

Bo’s mind worked differently than yours, sinister and callous when compared to your innocuous demeanor. Whilst you stood along the picket-fence, contemplating about finding a good drink of water, Bo was picturing you strapped down to his bed, clothes cut away.

“A little bit,” It was painful for you to confess to being lost, considering how many times you’d traversed the backwoods of Louisiana. The sound of your voice was enough to momentarily sever Bo’s salacious train of thought, watching as you picked at the fading paint along the fence. “Do you know if there’s a convenience store around here or anything?”

He shook his head, motioning down the street. “Closed for th’day, I’m afraid. Lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” Bo asked, attempting to lay the foundation for you, building a rapport that was surely to break once he got his hands on you. It was all about the building.

You shrugged, withering away beneath the oppressive heat of the midday sun. You wondered how this man was so unusually comfortable within an all-black suit and tie. Nonetheless, you decided to be truthful. “I’m just looking for a quick drink before I hike back to the main road. I’m a little low on water.”

“If you’re willin’ to make the trek, I can take you up to my place. Won’t take long, ten minutes or so.” Bo offered, attempting to sweeten the deal. It was akin to a predator skillfully drawing their prey inward, making it difficult to resist. He took another lengthy drag of his cigarette before smashing it against the concrete with the toe of his boot.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother,” Admittedly, you felt intrusive — a meddlesome presence amidst a quiet, peaceful town. You felt even worse interrupting a church service, but Bo didn’t seem phased whatsoever. “I don’t want to distract you from church, either.”

Bo scoffed, lips twitching into something sardonic, one hand perched atop his hip. “Don’t think th’good Lord really cares a whole lot for me these days,” He mused, and you couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “Let me take you up there.” He motioned for you to follow him.

Leaving the white chapel behind, you walked alongside him, somewhat smitten by his Southern drawl and charismatic charm. Beads of sweat glistened along his brow, and he promptly loosened his tie as the two of you made it toward a stretch of beaten-up road.

“Name’s Bo, by th’way. Forgot my manners.” Bo mused, making sure to really lay on the flirtation and appeal. It wasn’t hard for him to tell how flustered you were already — and he fully intended on manipulating such a fact.

“Nice to meet you, Bo.” You smiled, cordial and polite as you sauntered alongside him. “How long have you lived here in Ambrose? It seems so far from the rest of civilization.” It was out of reach, away from the rest of the world, a world that was impervious to the sinister deeds of the Sinclairs.

Unfortunately, you were now in their territory, subject to their rules and ire.

Bo chuckled, shamelessly stealing glances at you whenever possible. You were gorgeous — a looker with a sweet demeanor. He wanted to lick that sweetness right off of you, drain it all, keep it for himself. “Lived here for most of my life. Town’s real quiet, jus’ known for the House of Wax.”

Intrigue glistened upon your features, and you recalled the sign that you’d spotted during your hike — Trudy’s infamous House of Wax. The building itself sat in the distance, nestled amongst a cluster of hills. Even that seemed relatively dormant.

“It’s nice here, really peaceful. You must get used to the silence.” You replied, stepping up the incline as Bo gently steadied you with one arm. You murmured a soft ‘thank you’ as a house came into view, rustic yet large. This must’ve been Bo’s home. “Is this it?”

He motioned toward the house, wrapping his tie around his hand as he loosened up his collar. “Yeah, this is it. We’ll go on inside, you can sit an’ I’ll get you fixed up with somethin’ for the road.” Bo chimed, making his way to the front door.

Bo let you inside, gesturing toward the couch and recliner that sat in the living room. It was a very well lived-in home, but you didn’t seem to mind. You moved toward the couch, finally able to sit somewhere comfortable and relax, placing your backpack beside you.

“Thank you for doing this, Bo. I appreciate it.” You piped up, watching as he moved toward the kitchen. The interior of the home felt warm and inviting, littered with plenty of things to look at. There was ample opportunity for Bo to take matters into his own hands.

One of the cupboards in the kitchen had what he needed, a syringe filled with some strange concoction, a thicker liquid. His dark gaze darted toward you, distracted by your surroundings. Bo took the syringe, discreetly keeping it by his side as he stepped behind you, offering you a water bottle.

“‘Course. Heat’s pretty bad in these parts.” He replied, and you immediately unscrewed the lid, greedily drinking several gulps of icy water. Bo was close, hovering above you with a manic look in his eyes.

Before you had time to properly react, his hand closed around the underside of your jaw, squeezing tight to hold you steady. The intrusive, cold prick of a needle digging into your neck made you scream, but Bo had you in a rather uncomfortable chokehold.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, stroking at your hair. Everything felt numb, and you could no longer feel anything in your arms and legs, reduced to simple tingling sensations. Your cries were in vain, throaty and hoarse as you sank into the couch, limp and lifeless. “Jus’ relax. All that strugglin’ is gonna make it worse.”

Your eyes felt heavy, beginning to close with a weight to them — the last thing you remembered was the glimpse of Bo’s insidious smirk and dark hues before you’d been rendered unconscious.

———————————————————————————

The scratch of duct-tape reverberated around the concrete cellar, obnoxiously close to your ear, causing you to involuntarily wince. The haze of unconsciousness was lifting, but that sound — it made you groan, unpleasant and invasive. You attempted to move as the heaviness wore away in your limbs, but you had no such luck.

You were in the underbelly of some cold, dingy cellar, cement walls lined in grainy polaroids, tools, and obscene amounts of sex toys. An icy, uncomfortable sensation began to pool within the pit of your stomach, and you tried to jerk against the tape around your wrists.

A strange, unsettling chill fluttered about your body, causing you to shudder. Your hiking boots were nowhere to be found, flannel stolen too, leaving you in your shorts and tank top. Something felt intrusive, as if there was an outside presence bearing down on you, crawling beneath your flesh.

Bo was standing at the foot of a strange chair, stained with months-old cruor, dressed differently than before. A pair of mechanic’s coveralls were stained with grease and oil, dark enough to conceal bloodstains. He bit at the strip of duct-tape, clutching it between his teeth as he bound you, keeping you restrained.

“W—Wait,” You babbled, and suddenly, the heightened sensation of fear and startlement blistered through you, visceral and volatile. “Please don’t do this.” Your whimpers fell on deaf ears as Bo continued his mission, sweat layered in a thin sheen along his temples.

Death in a town that wasn’t on the map was a fate worse than any other — you would rot into the ground with no one to find you, only the animals and trees would know; bear witness. You would cease to exist and become a memory, a painful one, eternally trapped within Ambrose.

“You can make this real easy on yourself,” Bo’s husky, dark drawl emerged from the bitter chill of the cellar, roughened hands sliding along your legs. “All you gotta do is behave for me, yeah?” He stood above you, a twisted version of the man you’d met at the church — or perhaps, the real him.

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling vulnerable and exposed in your current position. Your hands were bound on either side of you with many rings of duct-tape, legs chained to the floor, yet there was some room for you to walk — if that were even possible. You shivered, mostly from the oppressive cold of the basement coupled with fear.

“Please,” Your chest felt tight, fear unfurling from your ribcage as it spread across your body. A shudder rolled down your spine when Bo grabbed your chin, thumb stroking along your lower lip. “Please don’t kill me.”

Something about this place told you that he’d killed before — they’d been in the very same spot that you were now. A sinister, lascivious gleam glimmered within his dark eyes as they raked over your body, lips curling into a smirk.

“Didn’t say anything about killin’ you, beautiful.” Bo corrected, digits beginning to squeeze your chin, putting pressure on your jaw. “But I might change my mind if y’make this hard for me.” His other hand moved toward your shorts, unbuttoning the front as he ripped the zipper down in one swift movement.

You began to squirm, mortified and flustered as you fought against the tape wrapped around your wrists — but it wasn’t any use. “Don’t.” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper as he gave you a pointed look.

Bo scoffed, head cocking to one side. “Be a shame if I gotta shut that pretty mouth of yours, too.” It wasn’t a warning, but a threat, a promise — one that he intended to make good on if you weren’t careful. “Gonna open up for me?” He crooned.

There was something hideous about him touching you — and even more so was the disgusting fact that you wanted to let him do it. He was handsome at the church, all a facade of Southern charm and debonair wit, but this was something else entirely.

With a defeated, pitiful expression, you began to part your legs, and that was akin to victory for Bo. His dark chuckle made you shiver, feeling his hand brusquely tug and wrestle with your shorts, inching them down your legs. “You’re real pretty,” He uttered, looking you in the eyes. “Prettiest thing I’ve seen in ages.”

Heat pooled within the pit of your stomach, and you clenched your hands into fists, nearly whimpering when he ghosted his fingers across your clothed cunt. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction — this was wrong, depraved on so many levels, but you found yourself submitting instead of retaliating.

A strangled whimper escaped you as he rounded the chair, standing right in front of you as he planted a kiss against your forehead. “Bet you’re all wet from this, huh?” He husked, voice kept to a low growl as he slipped his fingers into your panties.

Arousal had collected there, slick and warm upon his digits. Part of you wanted to melt into the chair and disappear, muscles tense and taut as you worked to suppress your whining.

“Fuck, look at that,” Bo sneered, greedily sucking your nectar right from his fingers, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. “Guess I was right.” His hand returned to your aching cunt, the other wrangling your panties aside, movements harsh and rough.

You hated that it felt good, offered you a sliver of relief — you wanted to scratch at your restraints, thighs beginning to quiver. A string of incoherent babbling escaped you, mumbled pleas for him to stop. It was quite the juxtaposition to your hips, which happened to lurch forward into his hand.

Bo bullied his way in between your legs, spreading you apart as he lowered himself to his knees — unexpected, but you still felt embarrassed. “Gonna have to have a taste of this pretty cunt,” With a gravelly hum, he grabbed your thighs, unceremoniously spitting a wad of saliva onto your throbbing cunt. “Don’t move.”

“Bo,” It was almost involuntary, moaning his name as you jolted forward, mouth agape. Bo’s grin felt like a hot brand against your inner thigh as he clamped his hands down into your legs, hard enough to cause bruises. “P—Please.” You sputtered.

Part of you felt terribly embarrassed for enjoying yourself at the hands of this man who’d kidnapped you, your innocence being taken advantage of. His calloused, rough hands spread you apart, broad tongue licking a stripe along the length of your slit.

Bo was eating you out like a man starved, breath hot and heavy as he savored you with his lips, tongue swirling across your cunt. His hands groped into your haunches, against the swell of your pliant flesh, practically forcing your hips to tilt into his face as he buried his head between your legs.

With a wanton moan, you slouched back into the rigid frame of the chair, listening to it creak and groan as you writhed around. The manacles that shackled you to the concrete rustled with your movements, fingers curling into your palms. His tongue was deliberate and slow, teasing you with every stroke.

You tried to smother your noises, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but he was ten steps ahead of you. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” Bo stopped, ceasing any further contact until you submitted to him. “Gonna have to beg for it, I s’pose.” His sigh was theatrical and badgering, forcing you to whimper.

A simpering, choked-up noise escaped from the back of your throat, desperation beginning to mount as you jerked and jolted forward. Bo simply sat still, attempting to smother that smarmy, devilish grin of his as you shook your head back and forth. “Please keep going, please!” You cried.

Bo clicked his tongue, seemingly unimpressed and dismissive, reaching for the knife that sat in his back pocket. “Ain’t ever met a girl this ungrateful. You rather I stop an’ get this all over with?” His voice was vitriolic, full of a manipulative venom that only served to drag you deeper into his pit.

The sharp, icy blade suddenly traced over your legs, goosebumps erupting in its wake as you shook your head. You didn’t want Bo to hurt you — the idea of being harmed, of being so helpless — it frightened you. Bo enjoyed seeing that little pang of fear within your doe eyes as he prodded the tip of razor-sharp silver into your flesh.

“I’m sorry,” You gasped, stumbling over your words and babbling, restless within the chair. “Bo, please! I — I’ll be loud, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.” It was a gushing string of pleas and begging that didn’t go unnoticed this time.

With soft shushing, Bo sighed, kissing along your inner thigh as he dug his nails into your flesh. It was rough enough to make you feel the burning sting of pain, chest heaving with labored breaths as he nudged his lips against your cunt again. “I think I’m gonna keep you for m’self, how’s that sound?” He uttered.

“Good, good,” You nodded. “I — I want you, please keep going.” Whatever bite and edge you had before had diminished completely, shadowed by his dark, domineering nature. It was hard for anything to break through that barrier of his. He retracted the knife, then and there.

A cajoling chuckle escaped him, one filled with mockery and a duplicitous edge as he lapped at your cunt once more. His tongue was like hot coals, raking across your slit with a wanton need, fingers grabbing and groping at the meat of your thighs.

His cock twitched within his jeans, desperate to be inside of you, make you scream. You wanted to grab at his tousled tresses or grip onto his shoulders, but the duct-tape prevented you from going anywhere, digging into your wrists.

Bo savored you as if you were some delectable meal, licking his lips before toying with your clit. His mouth was feather-light and teasing that bundle of nerves, enough to make you contort within the chair. A strangled moan left you, noisy and desperate, wrought with desire.

“Please, Bo, please,” You breathed, and when your thighs threatened to squeeze his face, he roughly pushed you apart, gazing at you from between your legs. The duct-tape chafed at your flesh, uncomfortably tight around your wrists as you writhed, hips bucking forward. “Please!” You were nearly sobbing.

All inhibitions had been abandoned — you were his now, reduced to his pretty plaything, all spread out on a silver platter. Molten heat surged through you when he lapped at your cunt, hand slipping down as he teased your entrance, giving you no warning as two digits sank into you.

A blissful whine left you, head rolling back against the chair as he nudged your clit, just enough to keep you chasing after that sensation. Bo was undeniably cruel, grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud, causing you to squirm and shiver, all sound escaping you.

“Sing pretty for me,” Bo’s husky, Southern purr emerged from between your thighs, teeth nicking your thigh before he finally began to suck on your clit. His thick digits pistoned in and out of your weeping cunt, providing you with an overwhelming barrage of pleasure. “That’s it.” He huffed, lurching forward.

The rattling of chains couldn’t rip you from the moment as liquid heat coalesced between your legs, with Bo’s chin steeped in your arousal. You moaned again, flexing against your restraints, stomach churning with an anticipation that made you want to melt.

Bo grunted, greedily lapping at your sweet cunt, fingers beginning to curl into that sweet spot, prompting you to choke on any sound that bubbled within your throat. He was like a predator, with you in his clutches, a rabbit trapped within the jaws of a wolf.

With another barrage of practiced licks, he continued his onslaught against your clit, eliciting a myriad of sinful, inhuman sounds from you. Bo — it was the only word that fell from your lips like some chant, and he didn’t stop, feeling your knees buckle and shake around him.

His digits buried themselves into your tight cunt, sluggishly rocking in and out as he sucked on your clit. It sent you careening over the edge, lost to a white-hot explosion of ecstasy as you came, moaning and shivering, a complete and utter mess.

He was the devil — pearlescent teeth glinting in the low, buzzing light of the cellar. The shadows moved in a way that made him seem sinister. You were surprised that he didn’t have horns and a forked tongue, but it was likely a trick of the eyes. You huffed, fading away into your post-orgasm haze, but Bo was far from finished.

“We ain’t done just yet,” He uttered, licking his lips as he moved up from between your legs, hand gripping your chin as he dragged you forward. Bo made you open your mouth, head tilted backward as he leaned in, countenance contorting into a sneer. “Got a little gift for you, for bein’ good.”

A wad of his saliva landed upon your tongue, and you nearly choked, feeling filthy and vulnerable. His eyes glistened with an insidious shade, shadowed and bemused as he closed your mouth, forcing you to swallow his spit.

Bo was expectant, waiting for you to say something — but when nothing emerged, he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Where’s your manners?” He reminded you, patting your jaw like he would a beloved dog.

“Thank you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, somewhat shrewd as Bo grinned, seemingly satisfied with your answer. You squirmed again when Bo began to unzip the front of his pants, breathing noticeably heavier and wrought with unrestrained excitement.

“Now,” Bo hummed, fishing his cock from the confines of his jeans. His erection was thick and heavy within his calloused palm, oozing with pearls of precum. With a step in your direction, he pressed the head of his cock against your cunt. “M’gonna fuck you right.”

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, letting out another moan as he teased your entrance, hooking his hands around your hips. Bo was rough and callous, dragging you forward as he sank his cock into you, grunting at the tightness and warmth.

Another wanton moan escaped you, back beginning to arch as he thrust forward, chest rippling with grunts and subtle growls. Lewd, crass noises reverberated throughout the cellar, the only ambiance that you could really focus on. His shadow eclipsed the stark glare of the light, gaze fixated on you.

Bo’s eyes were shadowed, brewing with something dark yet indecipherable. He began to adopt a very brutal pace, cock pounding away at your poor cunt. You hadn’t done this in so long, to the point where it felt borderline unfamiliar. You sputtered and moaned, feeling one of his hands abandon your leg.

That rough, calloused hand of his found its way to your slender neck, digits squeezing at your throat. It wasn’t particularly gentle, but not enough to completely rob you of air. You whined, unable to keep from watching the way his cock disappeared again and again into your sweet, oozing cunt.

You wanted to grab onto him, onto his arm, chest, anything — instead, you were met with harsh resistance from the duct-tape. “Bo,” You moaned, hips rolling in-tandem with his movements. Bo hunched closer, hand tight around your throat as his thumb pressed into your jugular, causing you to wince. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Bo’s voice dropped to a lower octave, cock rutting away into you with a rough, unyielding amount of force. If he went any harder, he might’ve threatened to split you in half. “Fuck, you’re nice n’tight. Can’t believe you’re gettin’ off to this. You like bein’ tied down an’ fucked by a stranger?” He uttered, and you began to stammer.

A wave of liquid heat burned bright within the pit of your stomach, a flame that only grew in intensity as he kept up with his brutal ministrations. Your cunt clenched pathetically around his cock at his words, causing you to shiver again. “I—I …” You didn’t know what to say, embarrassed and ashamed.

Bo scoffed, voice tapering off into a grunt as he continued to rut forward, cock buried inside of you until he could go no further. “Got you so fucked you can’t even speak,” He sneered, grip tightening on your throat. It was bound to leave some sort of mark, but you knew he didn’t care. “You gonna behave?”

Your head bobbed up and down several times over, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.” You squeaked, watching with blown-out pupils as he reached for the knife, cutting you loose from the duct-tape. Though, once your hands were free, you were being dragged onto the cold concrete on your stomach.

The steely, sharp bite of the knife sliced through your tank top like butter, leaving you completely exposed to Bo, who remained entirely clothed. Goosebumps coalesced along your spine from the icy temperature of the ground, feeling his hand close into your hair as he fucked you from behind.

His cock battered away at your cunt, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. It was harsh and intrusive, digits tugging on your hair, wrangling you like you were molded from obsidian. Bo savored the sensation of you rocking back into him, thighs quivering like a leaf.

Your eyes flickered toward the muted brick wall on your left, met with a garish display of polaroids — other girls, girls like you. You had a feeling that none of them had lived to tell the tale.

A pang of dread consumed you, followed by fear — you hoped that you wouldn’t end up on that wall too, immortalized in some sick photograph. Instead, you wanted to increase your chances of survival, moaning and whimpering his name, forehead snug against the concrete.

“You wanna cum?” Bo asked nonchalantly, spoken through labored breathing as his thrusts became quick and sporadic. He was close, cock throbbing inside of you as his other hand clawed bruises and marks into the swell of your hips.

“Yes,” You didn’t hesitate, moaning again when he dug his nails into your flesh, causing you to squirm from discomfort. “Please, Bo! I want you to let me cum!” Desperation was laced within your voice, high-pitched and simpering as he let go of your hip.

“Good girl,” Bo grunted, somewhat perplexed by you. “Finally usin’ your manners.” He reached between your thighs, slathered in your slick and his precum, thumb rubbing circles into your clit. Your back began to arch, pushing back into him as he fucked you like a wild animal, chains clanking against the floor.

Pleasure rippled through you in blistering waves, coupled with the faint sting of pain that radiated from your hip. Bo grunted, breath hot and strenuous as he fucked you senseless, pounding away at your cunt with little regard for your comfort. His thumb toyed with your clit, causing you to writhe and moan.

With another harsh rut of his hips, Bo grunted, pushing his hips forward as he came inside of you, ropes of white-hot seed flooding your cunt. His brow glistened with perspiration as he pulled his cock free, leaving you with the mess of it all, haphazardly smeared between your legs.

Bo, in all his cruelty, tore his hand away from your clit, leaving you a throbbing mess, edged to the brink. You wanted to beg for him to continue, but you were spent, hot flesh soothed by the cold temperature of the floor.

“W—Wait,” Your protests were weak, but still strung-out with desperation. “Aren’t you going to keep going?” There was a little sliver of hope within your voice, but he relented, lips curling into a bemused smirk as he gave your ass a light smack.

“Changed my mind.”

You hated him.

For a moment, you saw red, frustrated without any semblance of relief, but also in misery over your current situation. You didn’t know what to do or say — and the last thing you wanted was for him to become angry with you. You didn’t want to become a permanent fixture on his wall of past trophies.

He stood up, hovering above you as you sheepishly rolled onto your back. Bo’s unsteady, dangerous leer sent shivers down your spine, watching as he stared at you for several moments. “Guessin’ you’ll last longer than the rest have,” He crooned, swiping his tongue across his lower lip. “Go on.”

His head jerked toward the chair, signaling you to climb back in. Your legs quivered in the aftermath of being fucked stupid, and you awkwardly reached for your panties and shorts, but Bo intercepted you. Wordlessly, you sat down in the leather seat, naked and entirely vulnerable.

“Keep you like that for when I come back.” Bo’s Southern purr made you shudder as you trembled, both from fear and from the cold. He couldn’t help but take a little bit of pity on you, tossing you a blanket from the old mattress that sat several feet away from you.

Something about being left entirely alone, naked and used in this basement, made you more terrified than anything else. You didn’t want to be left alone with just your thoughts. Even if Bo had kidnapped you, he was more tolerable than solitude. “You’ll come back?” You asked.

Bo huffed, retrieving his baseball cap. “Maybe,” He could see the hint of fear that had glossed over your eyes. “Maybe I’ll leave you down here an’ let you rot.” His voice was somewhat vitriolic, but undecided — part of you knew that he couldn’t leave you alone after this.

You would take the physicality over being isolated.

Silence drifted between the both of you as your legs shifted, the sound of clanking manacles providing the only bit of ambiance. Bo made for the iron-wrought door, standing in the doorway to give you one last look. Even in your disheveled state, you were beautiful — and now?

You belonged to him.

Before Bo shut the door, his lips twitched into the ghost of a devilish smirk. “Guess I’ll see you soon.”

#slasher x reader #slasher x you #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #house of wax #house of wax smut #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfic #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #slasher fandom #slasher x y/n #house of wax fanfic #house of wax 2005

[small-sinclair]

In My Arms

Vincent Sinclair x Reader

Contains: passionate kiss, cuddles

Enjoy

At the end of the day, the skies fade to a deep purple and a burning orange light. Vincent normally doesn't see sunsets, but he managed to snag the sight as you dragged him outside to the gentle green and yellow field of wildflowers. You carried a blanket and a picnic basket that you found from a tourist and packed it full with two sub sandwiches, a small container of brownies, and sodas.

"I know you've been working so hard lately," you said as you unfolded the blanket and placed it down. He took off his shoes as you had him sit next to you. "So, I decided to make you some dinner! I know it's not much but..." your voice trailed and paused as Vincent placed a hand over yours. You could fell his smile under his mask.

'It's okay. This is nice, too.' His hands signed. He knows you're still learning how to speak with him, and it'll take time before you and understand him fully. 'It's a nice spot you picked. Why here?'

You take out the paper plates and some napkins, setting them up for you and him. "There's a meteor shower tonight," you said with a smile. "I asked Bo it he could have the lights off in town, so we could get a perfect view." The last remaining sunlight lit a halo in your hair. "Also, it's getting a bit stuffy downstairs. You need some fresh air." You gave him his sub and placed yours in front of you, offering a smile. "And I thought you would need some inspiration from the shower! A little bit of space themes here and there would so some good, I think."

You looked forward and started eating your sub. Next to you, you saw the wax face sitting between you and him. It has been months before Vincent took his mask off around you. When you first saw his face, you thought he was the most prettiest human alive, perfect in every way. When he did have his mask off while you two shared a bed, you'd kiss his scars gently, making sure he knew how much he meant to you. the love for this man was beyond anyone's understanding. Bo would give you shit about it, but he knew that this was one of the best things that's happened to his twin. The kindness you give and the tender lover you two bloomed was just want the artist needed.

His raven hair hung on the other side of his face, and he was facing his "better" side. His bright blue eye sparkled in the dying sunset as his shoulders relaxed to the food. He loves it whenever you cook for him, either if it's just a sub sandwich or soup. He closed his eye and smiled to himself. It's been a while since he's eaten something, but he'll never tell you. Goodness, he's lucky to have him by his side. You'll never know how many drawings of you he has all over his workshop. The photo of you smiling tucked in a locket around his neck hidden under his shirt and a drawing of you sleeping in bed hidden under scraps of papers... he'll keep it hidden from you as long as he can.

"You okay, Vincent?" Your words interrupted his thoughts. "You've been chewing the same bite for a while now."

He swallows hard, blushing in embarrassment.

You put the last two bites of your sub down and slid next to him, putting the mask on the other side of you with care. "What's going on in that mind of yours, darling? Something wrong?"

He shakes his head as he put his sub down. 'Just thinking about things. That's all. I promise.'

You lifted a brow as you playfully nudged his side. "Was I one of those things?"

He lifts his shoulders, laughing silently to himself. You rested your head on his shoulder as you looked at the purple and blue sky. The hum of bullfrogs and crickets started their song, singing for Louisiana herself. You hand intertwines in Vincent's, his other hand holding the sub. The comfortable silence between you two was filled with the sounds of the marsh and bright firefly lights. They circled you two, lighting Vincent's eye in flames and gentle glows. It almost felt as if a part of heaven has dropped on you two.

He finished his sandwich, wiped his hands, and, shifting slightly, he lifted you up to place you on his lap. You let out a giggle as he buried his head into your neck, leaving small kisses down your skin. He held you close as he looks up to the sky. His scars burned without any light as the other half looked up as the stars started to show. He looks breathless in the firefly light.

You blushed as you raised a hand, resting on his smooth skin. He jolts at your touch slightly, but he leans into your hand as a large hand held it there. He turned his head and placed a kiss on your palm. He looks back at you and grins as you blushed.

"Oh, Vincent," you whispered as you felt him pulling you closer and tighter. "You're so beautiful."

He rested his head against yours, his chest rising and falling ever so gently. When he looked into your eyes, he smiled. Fuck the stars in the sky and curse every planet and galaxy. You were his everything, and he could get lost in your gaze forever.

He leaned down and places a hesitant kiss against your lips before placing another, deepening it as he pulled you in. He wanted more of you, more, more, more, and deeper and deeper did the pit in is stomach grow. Vincent thought if he could have you close to him, he would be whole. he thought you completed him from every light and darkness, every daydream and nightmare. You calmed his heart and his mind when thoughts of blood and death plagued him, and he wanted to hold you close and never let go. His arms brought you closer, an arm holding your back to keep you upright and supported, his hans getting tangled in your hair. Your hands clung to his shirt, pulling gently as the grip tightened around the fabric.

When you pulled away, both of you were breathless. You rested against his head as you felt his warm breath down your skin. He lifted your head by the chin. He pushed your hair back and smiled warmly down at you. In his arms, you were here, you were real, you were his.

His lips parted as a raspy voice struggled out, "I love-love you, y/n."

Your eyes grew wide; you never heard him before. But your eyes returned to love as he stole a kiss. You smiled against his lips, your hands pushing his raven hair behind his ears.

"I love you more, Vincent," you said with your smile still showing. "I love you so much."

'All the stars in the world could never compare to you, my muse,' his signed against your skin. He met every word, and he'll repeat it over and over until your heart believes. He takes a deep breath and whispers, "I love you, y/n."

You rested your head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Your eyes looked up to watch the meteor shower, but his eye never left you. Never once did they looked up. He had everything right here in his arms.

#vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x y/n #vincent sinclair #house of wax fanfic #house of wax 2005 #house of wax (2005) #house of wax fanfiction #house of wax #house of wax x reader #vincent sinclair fanfic #vincent sinclair house of wax #house of wax x y/n

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 2

Bruh. My back is HURTING from being hunched over my laptop lol. For some reason I've managed to shit out this next chapter at the speed of light, but I'm back at uni and deadlines are picking up so I can't guarantee another one for a couple weeks. ANYWAY - ALASTOR HAS FINALLY MADE AN APPEARANCE. Not in person yet, but he's here (in spirit). I also apologise to anyone not from Yorkshire, I've used some of our slang from there and it may not make sense, but MC's embracing her Northener crave for violence.

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 6800

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Descriptions of murder and dismemberment. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

PART 1: Chapter 2

Another box for my trinkets it's trinketville.

Meraki (Definition): To put something of yourself into your work. (Noun)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Thursday, 7th November, 1929.

The first four months of your new apprenticeship had you thriving more than ever before since arriving in the US. The last time you had felt this joyous and satisfied you were nearly eighteen, the tickle of the long grass on your cheeks as you laid in the meadow at the height of spring, holding the bunch of wildflowers against the kaleidoscopic swirls of the evening tones of the sky above you, admiring the way the lowering sun hit the petals and the small bugs that floated around with its golden highlights. It was one of the few times you had managed to bring your racing mind to a stand-still; no voices; no random lines of songs in your head playing on replay; no worries about the chores you were procrastinating or the book your friend had recommended weeks ago that you were yet to touch. You remembered the feeling of the summer dress you wore, the texture of the leather messenger bag beside you gifted by the old woman who lived further down the lane of the village. She used to babysit you when your parents would travel to York days at a time for work or personal errands. You loved to skip down that lane, with your hand running along the rough stones of the ancient stone walls that lined the lanes of your little village you had spent your whole life in – also lining your mind with the cuts it gave you as you tried to climb over them with the twins over the years.

The routine of working at the repair shop had brought the blissful feeling of stability back, the hectic frenzy of travelling from hotel room to hotel room, checking your tickets a thousand times to make sure you were on the correct train platform, then checking again. You no longer had to worry about travel dates that would leave you feeling paralysed from doing anything else.

Mr LeBlanc had been an excellent teacher and manager, drilling skills into your mind since you stepped into the shop for your starter shift. It was certainly an experience: opening the double doors to a vintage collector’s dream, an antique emporium filled from floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling). Ralph had brought you behind the counter, to a room in the back that he gleefully revealed to be concealed by a door disguised as a bookshelf. The workshop hidden behind was every antique restorer’s sanctuary, and it was certainly yours. Drawers lining the walls filled with every tool that could file, chip away, or apply anything you could find. In the centre was a large wooden table – thick, sturdy planks covered in chips and splatters of paint and adhesives used over the years. This table would be the place you would spend the next four months, your hair tied back by a patterned silk bandana, Ralph showing you how to work with materials from wood to porcelain, metal to textiles. You would pour over books you had pulled from Mr LeBlanc’s bookshelves until late into the evening, until he sent you home with them in your bag, and you protected them with your life as you returned on the trams (or ‘streetcars’, as Americans called them) in the evening light.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he taught you everything he could, and you absorbed it all at the speed of light, your mind soaking up every piece of information like a dry sponge. By month three you had been given the go ahead to work on your first object from a customer – a small, spindly regency era chamber table belonging to a local gentleman. All it needed was some chips to be filled and repolishing, allowing Ralph to be confident enough in your abilities to complete it correctly. Your results came out on top, both Ralph and the customer being satisfied with your work, and you received the praise gleefully, along with the hefty tip the gentleman handed you over the counter. To you, everything was going fine and dandy.

Until October hit.

Apparently there were plenty of warning signs, according to most. They knew this was coming, your aunt knew this was coming. It was what she had said when you sat with her on the steps of the front porch.

“Shops are going to start disappearing.” She said, keeping her gaze ahead as she watched the cars sputter by. “With the rate this is going, I’m going to have to pull the boys out of school and get them working – I can’t keep the walls of this house up by myself.”

It had sent chills down your spine when you had picked up a newspaper, the words ‘Wall Street’ and ‘Stock Market Crash’ staining the pages for weeks. You put your mind and body into helping Mr LeBlanc, desperate for him to keep his business up and running. Unfortunately, as prices dropped, less people wanted to splurge the extra cash on something nice and antique, so you both lowered prices where you could, even going to lengths to hammer fliers to every street-post that advertised restoration jobs for any household item, promising customers that they would save money on repairs instead of buying it new.

It worked more than you thought, and it brought in enough income for Ralph to scratch by. He was also grateful you hadn’t asked for a raise to cope with the financial crisis, flat-out refusing when he had tried to hand you some tips he had received.

It was just the beginning of December when Ralph had called the house phone as you were getting ready for work. Ollie had yelled up the stairs to tell you and you scrambled down in your work trousers with your nightgown still on. Grabbing the phone, you listened to a raspy Mr LeBlanc as he told you he had falling ill with the usual winter flu. Unfortunately, being 63 meant that he was more susceptible to the illness, and was unsure if he would recover. If he did, it would still take a while, so he had asked you that morning if you were capable of running the shop solo. You had instantly said yes, refusing to let any sidetrack be his business’s downfall, so, with your head held high, you walked to his house, picking up any essential documents that he said you would need, and kept the shop up and running to the best of your abilities.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Friday, 6th December, 1929.

It was the Friday of the first week of December when you were an hour away from closing. You had been lucky that it had been pretty quiet the last few days, allowing you to settle into working your first ever Monday to Friday and getting to know the everyday things that were essential to keep the doors open. You had brought an armchair behind the counter – the gap between the counter and the wall was spacey enough for you to fit the chair and a small side table.

After not seeing any customers for over an hour, you had wandered off to the small side kitchen hidden by a Persian rug hung over the doorway to fetch yourself a warm cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake that Agnes had slipped into your lunch bag that day. Returning to the front, you placed the food and beverage on the side table, and sank into the chair, propping your feet up and delving into the book you had bought a few months ago.

Your eyes were drooping by the time you finished the tea and cake, and you rested your head on the back of the cushion, lowering your eyelids shut but remaining awake, knowing you had to get up soon in order to close in a half hour. Though the sudden sound of the shop’s bell chiming had you shooting out of your seat like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Scrambling to your feet, you scooted over to plop yourself on the counter stool, fixing yourself to look as presentable as possible as you faced the person entering. It was the mailman, stomping his boots to rid of the snow from the mild blizzard outside on the shoe rug by the door whilst holding a semi-large parcel under his arm. You recognised him from his rounds of the area, normally dropping off the odd parcel here and there for Ralph. Making sure the curls you had pressed into your hair overnight weren’t flattened at the back, you straightened out the silk scarf tied round the front of your head, flicking a curl out of your eye, and faced the man with a warm smile, to which he returned. He was a tall, young looking lad, older than you, but youth still shone in his eager eyes as he approached you.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he greeted, tipping his snow patterned hat. “I apologise for the snow on the floor, m’fraid the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

You waved him off, assuring that you were going to be cleaning up soon anyway. He inquired about Mr LeBlanc’s whereabouts, and you explained that his illness wasn’t letting up any time soon.

“Shame,” he said. “I know you’re probably not getting overrun, but it still must be complicated being a young woman running someone else’s business – especially near Christmas, having to trek home in the cold and wet by yourself.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” You laughed with a shake of your head, trying to not let your frustration show at the thought of him doubting your skills because of your gender. “He’s given me everything I need, and I can deal with the weather just fine. Wet and cold is the norm where I’m from.” Changing the subject, you gestured to the half-damp parcel still under his arm. “Is that addressed to Ralph or the shop?”

As if suddenly remembering the reason he was here, he quickly hauled the parcel from under his arm and slid it onto the counter.

“It’s for the shop.” He explained, gesturing a gloved hand to it. “S’pose it’s a last minute repair for a Christmas gift or somethin’.”

Placing your hands on either side, you slid the large square box towards you. Standing up from the stool, you peered at the top. Brushing off the half-melted snow, you read the handwriting that ornately spelled out the address - this was probably another repair.

The parcel itself was probably the neatest you had ever seen anything wrapped. The parcel paper was thick and expensive, the water and snow running off without leaving any trace behind except for a slight sheen, and the edges were folded so crisp and perfectly shaped and flat you wondered if whoever had wrapped it was human. Tied round like a present was a thick twine, looping into a bow directly in the middle of the top. You admired the dedication of whoever had put in the time to wrap this, running your fingers over the corners only to jerk them back slightly as the folds were so sharp they felt like they were slicing at your skin.

Looking back at the mailman, you thanked him for the delivery, and hoped him safe travels back home. Tipping his hat at you, he turned away with a farewell, and the bell chimed again when he opened the door, dipping his head against the wind as he faded into the white wall outside.

When the howling wind finally allowed the door to shut, you began the closing routine, knowing that there wouldn’t be anyone else today with the severity of the weather outside. After locking the exits and pulling the shutters closed and the blinds down, you kept the shops lanterns on as you lifted the hefty parcel with a grunt and shuffled through the hidden doorway into the workshop.

Sliding it onto the table, you got to work opening it up, pulling the twine bow free and taking some small hand-held shears to slice open the glued down folds to reveal a cardboard box.

Pulling the thick brown paper and twine out from underneath, you chucked them onto the other workbench pushed against the wall to the right. Placing the shears down, you pushed your fingernails between the gap of the serrated cardboard and swung the flaps open. Inside was a lot of loose cotton wool, and you reached in, removing the protective layer and chucking it onto the table whilst simultaneously thanking whoever had spent their time padding the box out. This uncovered a semi-large shape swaddled in a maroon-coloured knitted blanket, and you reached your arms in deep to wrap around the object and haul it out.

Laying it on the table, you pushed the box and wool out of the way, and gently began unwrapping the blanket, mindful that some repair jobs may start out with several shattered pieces that you certainly didn’t want to accidentally drop an lose amongst everything. Coming to the final layer, your nails slotted through some of the holes of the knitting and clacked against what sounded like solid wood, and slipping the material off, you had your first look at your new potential project.

It was an old radio. Well, not that old, considering radios had only been in circulation for a decade or so, but it was one of the earlier models, the features you recognised from when you visited the county Mayor’s house when you were in your early teens. It was shaped with a resemblance to a cathedral arch, the wood panelling around the edge looking like pillars that began swirling and spiralling into gothic patterns the closer you got to the top. These patterns decorating the fine grated material that covered the speaker, and a few dials were situated on the bottom half, and you immediately noticed one was missing.

Pulling a stool over, you sat down to get a closer look, and you noted down the damages that came to light. It had obviously been looked after over the years, but, as always, people are prone to accidents, and this radio seemed to have gone through a few. Apart from the dial that was missing, there was a large split down one side, between two of the panels, and scratches and slight dents from where it had obviously been dropped. Grabbing your notebook, you jotted down your initial observations, before diving your hands into the left over cotton in the box to search for anything that could assist you.

To your luck, you found a small linen bag about the size of your palm, that you untied to reveal the missing dial and a few pieces of wood that had come off in some areas. Returning to your notes, you were just about to start a proposal form for treatment when something caught your eye. Looking over to the blanket you had put to the side, your eyes landed on a fancy looking envelope.

Reaching over, your fingers clasped around the paper, the material just as thick and expensive feeling as the parcel wrap, and you brought it towards you, careful not to elbow anything in the process, because if they could afford fancy radios and paper during this crisis, then they certainly were expecting you to repair this with equally expensive standards. Holding the paper up you read the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope:

To  the Owner.

Turning it over, you pried the even fancier wax seal apart as gently as you could as to not ruin the paper, and opening the flap, you reached in to slide out a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, you began to read the matching, loopy words.

---

December 4 th, 1929

Dear Owner,

I do hope this package finds you well. I am delivering this fine radio to be repaired at your establishment, as it belongs to my dear Mother and I would be overjoyed to have it completed in time for Christmas. Unfortunately, it has suffered its fair share of drops and bumps, but from what I have heard from others in our beloved city, you should be able to do an excellent job. The outside is obvious with what needs to be done, but there are areas within the interior mechanics that require some repairs. Now, I would take it to the radio shop, but the man who owns it is oh-so unpleasant, and would take weeks to be returned.

I am sure you would be happy to take on this challenge, for my mother’s sake, and that you will do a splendid job.

Regards,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

You blinked. Then furrowing your brows, you read it again. And again. Did this guy want you to not only fix up the look of his mum’s radio, but magically know the ins and outs of radio technology? You shook your head, then did a quick once-over of the words scrawled onto the page. Yep, he wanted you to do a Frankenstein and completely resurrect the old thing.

Placing you elbow on the table, you rested your chin on your palm as you stared at the wall covered in tool across the room. There was no way you could do this, not without Mr LeBlanc still ill – though even if he was here, you didn’t know if he had any knowledge on radios. Sighing, you rubbed at your face tiredly, not caring if you smudged the mascara on your lashes, it wasn’t like anyone was going to walk in on you with panda eyes anyway. Letting out a prolonged groan, you came to the final decision of what to do.

Trudging back into the shop, you quickly made yourself another cup of tea, before snatching some of the letter paper and an envelope from under the counter. Slumping back onto the stool in the workshop, you placed the paper in front of you whilst reaching into one of the drawers attached to the table to grab a pen, then, taking a moment to think of what you were going to say, you began writing.

---

December 6 th, 1929

Dear Mr Boudreaux,

Thank you for your enquiry. As much asI would love to fulfil your request, there are some issues regarding certain stages of the repairs. Mr LeBlanc, who owns the company, has taken ill this last week, and it is not yet known when he will recover, and I am the only member of staff he has employed at the moment. Unfortunately, I am not experienced in radio mechanics, and strongly advise that you come and collect the radio and take it to be repaired at a radio shop.

The radio can be returned here for outer repairs, but I am afraid that is the only option I can offer you at this time. The radio will be ready for you to collect from 9am on Monday morning. I do apologise for the inconvenience.

Regards,

---

Signing the first letter of your name, along with you surname, you read over what you had written. Satisfied, you sealed it in the envelope and got to work wrapping the radio back up. Quickly taking a candle, you took a peek in between the crack in the wood, the light shining on the innards. You definitely had no chance of fixing that, if the absolute mess of dislodged coils, wires and metal pieces inside said anything. Reluctantly you placed it back in its box wrapped up and padded with the cotton, before taping it up and re-glueing the parcel paper and twine back in place. It was a shame that you had to reject the request, the payment for the repair would have benefited you and Ralph quite a bit, and it made you feel awfully guilty to prevent someone’s gift for their mother, but it was out of your control. So, with the guilt hanging over your head, you pushed the parcel into the corner under one of the tables on sale.

Doing one last round of the shop, you extinguished the candles dotted around and flipped the light switches off except the main one by the door. With your coat and gloves on, you made sure the scarf was wrapped tight round your neck before grabbing your bag and did one last sweep of the place. Glancing in the corner, you took one last lingering look at the sorrowful parcel that sat under the table, but quickly snatched your eyes away, and grabbing the keys, you flipped the final light switch and stepped out into the cold, looking for the nearest post-box with the letter grasped in your hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Monday, 9th December, 1929.

Monday came rolling round as usual, and you began your usual weekday routine of washing and dressing yourself before heading downstairs for breakfast. Scooping some scrambled eggs onto the toast on your plate, you trudged from the kitchen to the dining room, the slap of your bare feet on the tiles echoing through the wide hallway.

Shuffling through the doorway, you sat opposite Ollie, who, by the looks of it, was still waking up as he shovelled buttered toast into his mouth with his head still lying sideways on the table. Reaching over, you slapped the handle of your fork against his ear that stuck out from between his loose, dark curls, and he let out a whine as he sat up to face you with one eye glued shut, the other barely open, bread hanging from between his frown.

“You’ll choke eating like that.” You said as you scooped egg into your mouth.

Ollie dropped the toast from his mouth onto his plate. “Good.” He mumbled. “S’better than Miss Sammie droning on and ooonnnn about nonsense.” He flopped his head back on the table.

“Well enjoy it while you can.” You snorted. “If this crash gets any worse Mum will be pulling you both out to find jobs. And I know you two wouldn’t last a day in the workplace.”

He jerked his head back, scrunching his face in offence. “Like you would be any better.”

You deadpanned. “I’m currently working 9 -5, Monday to Friday, dumbass.” You jabbed back in annoyance, throwing a piece of crust at his forehead.

“Shit, forgot about that.” He grumbled, but perked up suddenly. “Yea, but you’ve only been working full time since last week!”

You chucked another crust. “Running a shop full time on my own – something I’ve never done before??”

“Still.” He retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

You had opened your mouth to retort, but stopped halfway as Allie’s voice echoed through from the kitchen.

“There’s been another one!” he called out, almost excitedly, the thumping of his feet vibrating through the floorboards as he practically sprinted into the room with the morning newspaper grasped firmly in his hands. The two of us jerked back as he slammed it onto the table.

“Amuver!?” cried Ollie, voice muffled by food, though he quickly swallowed it. All evidence of his tiredness now gone, he snatched up the paper and brought it right up to his face. “It’s barely been a week!”

“I know!” Allie replied, his voice rising in volume every time he spoke. “At this point it could end up happening every month!”

You looked between the two of them confused since you couldn’t see what Ollie was reading. “What could happen?” you asked, perplexed.

The two of them froze, turning to stare at you. Their eyes darted to each other, before Ollie lowered the newspaper and spoke.

“…The murders?” He revealed, as if it was the most obvious thing.

You blinked, then looked between the two, more confused. “What murders?”

“What!?” Allie cried, bracing his hands on the table as he leant over it, eyes wide. “You’ve been gallivanting round town for seven months and don’t know about thee murders??”

You leant back slightly at the sight of your cousin’s crazy expression, and slowly shook your head. “I’m uh – not one to read the newspaper often.” You explained sheepishly.

He gaped, clearly shocked at your lack of knowledge about the subject. His head whipped to where his brother sat, and his hand reached out and snatched the newspaper from Ollie’s. You quickly moved your breakfast out of the way, saving your food from being flattened as Allie slammed the paper down and began aggressively prodding at the headline on the front page. Swatting his hand away, you read the giant words printed above a photograph of a lake you didn’t recognise.

‘BARRISTER FOUND BUTCHERED ON EMBANKMENT’

Suddenly intrigued, brought the paper closer to read the front column.

Tragedy strikes again in New Orleans as the remains of county barrister, Paul Morgan, were found on the embankment and in the water of Lake Cataouatche by visitors to the area. Morgan was reported missing last Wednesday by his wife, Martha, when he failed to return home for two days after a night out on Monday with his colleagues. It was reported that Morgan’s body was dismembered, and his head took several hours to locate. However, certain body parts are still missing, therefore the lake has been closed off to the public for the foreseeable future. Police are calling in and searching for potential suspects, and give their condolences to Paul’s close family and friends, stating that they are working overtime to bring the killer to justice and prevent any further deaths. Due to the nature and severity of the crime, it is possible that this is another victim of who the public dubs ‘The Bayou Butcher’. The Sheriff strongly encourages people to stick to an early curfew and remain indoors after nightfall, as the safety of the public cannot be guaranteed at this trying time. (More on Page 5)

You went to flip through, but the paper was pulled out your hands by Ollie who wanted to read it.

“You know what I’m thinking?” Allie hissed excitedly as he lowered himself onto the chair at the head of the table between you both. “This could be another Axeman!”

Ollie gasped, eyes sparkling. “Shit, it could!”

You perked up. “Another Axeman? How long has this guy been around?” you asked as you brought your breakfast back in front of you.

Allie turned to you, eyes shining in excitement. “The first body was found in 1927 – and the rest have been popping up every 2-3 months, but this is the first time there’s been two in less than two weeks!”

You narrowed your eyes in thought. “How do you know it’s all one guy?”

At this question he seemed to get more excited, practically vibrating in his seat as he gestured to his twin. “Ollie and I have been collecting newspaper clippings on every murder that’s happened, and we’ve tried to eliminate any outliers – like, different weapons, ones that are bleedin’ obvious who did it – the rest all have the same MO: they never find the whole body.” He yammered on at light speed, emphasising each word with a loud thump of his finger prodding the table. “Sometimes it’s not obvious, I think they try to throw the police off by going for something small – like a finger – but there’s always something missing, and we know it’s them.”

You frowned. “Them?”

He shrugged. “Could be a woman.” You raised an eyebrow. “What!? I don’t discriminate! Women can be scary!” You slowly sat back in your seat, staring your cousin down. He pointed at you as he looked at his brother with wide eyes. “See!? You wouldn’t be surprised if she dragged a body in?”

Ollie swallowed the food he was chewing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she caused the second Great Fire of London because someone stole her food.” He said nonchalantly, before casually returning to his toast.

“Exactly!” cried Allie. “No wonder the government wants you all nice and buttoned up in a strait jacket!”

Dropping your fork with a clatter, you looked up at him in shock, mouth hanging open. He froze, quickly realising what he had said, and his face slowly scrunched up as he cringed.

“Too far?” he squeaked meekly as he glanced at you. “Sorry.”

Pouting, you glared silently before picking your fork back up.

A few moments of silence passed, before Ollie decided he had experienced enough of the dampened mood. “You know,” he began, catching your attention again. “We think the body parts aren’t just missing for the sake of it.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued again.

He looked you directly in the eye. “We think they’re eating them.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oo yummy, like a cannibal?” you queried, eyes darting to Allie, who perked back up, nodding. “So… there’s a cannibalistic serial killer running around New Orleans?”

Allie pointed a finger. “Serial killer, yes. Cannibal, possibly. We don’t actually have any proper evidence for that. I’m also going to skip the ‘yummy’ part, cuz I know you would never willingly consume human flesh.”

“You would be correct,” you confirmed with an amused smile, before glancing at the two. “Has mum ever suggested that you two should consider joining the police force?”

All you got were two matching cheshire grins in response.

----------------------------------------

After cleaning up your food, and disappointing the twins because no, you didn’t bring your serial killer books to America with you, because you didn’t want to be judged by the luggage inspectors on the ferry, besides, Jack the Ripper got a little boring after a while.

Even though it was interesting to learn about the current events of the city you were staying in, the subject of said current events did end up putting you on edge when you travelled to work that morning, with you clutching your bag a little tighter, and intensely staring down anyone who looked at you a little odd on the tram. It even got to the point where you had stepped off the tram, and spent the ten minute walk between there and the shop glancing down any alleyways as subtle as you could, even though you knew you would spot anyone against the white snow that reflected the morning sun into your poor, suffering eyes anyway.

Unlocking the shop doors, you stepped in, stomping the snow off of your boots on the mat before picking it up and shaking it off outside. Crossing the threshold of the room, you ducked under the rug into the kitchen, shrugging off your scarf and coat and hanging them up on the pegs.

You were just dusting off the old grandfather clock that was slotted between the shelves of smaller antique clocks when a knock echoed through the shop. Jumping slightly, you lowered the feather duster in your hand and looked over your shoulder to see the same mailman from Friday waving at you through the window in the door, his smile growing as you made eye contact with him . Placing the duster down, you quickly strode over to the door, twisting the locks before pulling it open and sticking you head through the gap.

“I do apologise Miss,” he began after you said hello. “I hate to interrupt you whilst your still getting ready to open, but my boss handed some priority mail to me – said I had to get it to you as soon as I could.” He held a letter out in front of you.

Frowning, confused, you slowly reached out and took the letter from his hands. “Okayyy…” Turning the letter around you came across some very familiar hand writing:

‘To Mr LeBlanc’s Employee.’

“Oh god.” You groaned quietly, your shoulders slumping. This could turn out to be quite nasty if this was going the way you thought it would.

The mailman glanced between the letter and your very prominent grimace. “Is everything alright?” he asked, concern shining in his eyes.

“Yea! Yea,” you breathed, glancing around the street with the dwindling hope that your client would show up to pick up his parcel, but the letter in your hand said otherwise. “Everything’s fine. Just some very small business issues.”

He glanced at your face again, and went to open his mouth, but hesitated, seemingly switching what he was going to say. “Well, uh, I hope everything goes well, ma’am. I’ll see you around?”

You nodded, still staring down the street. “Yea, sure. See you around.” You said distractedly. Quickly giving him a strained smile, you stepped back to close the door, and the man tipped his cap at you again before strolling away.

Walking over to the counter, you slumped onto the stool with a groan, chucking the letter down in front of you. Leaning your elbows on the surface, you rested your forehead against your palms as you glared at the words inked onto the paper. The way it was addressed to you already screamed passive-aggressive, and you hated confronting anything or anyone with a passion, and you certainly didn’t want to confront this Boudreaux guy because you denied his mum a Christmas present. With a loud whine, you slammed your head onto the counter before blindly patting the surface until you felt the thick paper and slowly dragged it towards you. Sitting back up, you held the seemingly innocent envelope in front of you, and stared at it for a couple more moments, before you couldn’t take it anymore and tore it open.

---

December 7 th, 1929

To the Employee of Mr LeBlanc,

I hope this letter has found you in post haste. I am deeply upset that you lack the skills of radio repair, after all it is a growing medium that most should be learning at this point. Therefore I have come to the conclusion that I will refuse your rejection. The fliers you put out stated very clearly that you could repair ANY object, and it would be very disappointing for people to hear that it no longer has that skill to offer, since the only other option for radio repair during these trying times is a very unpleasant experience with that owner I mentioned.

I do hope my Mother’s radio will be fixed on time, I do hate to disappoint her. If Mr LeBlanc does not recover within the period, or you have any queries about the repair, please call the number I have written below.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Best Wishes,

Mr A. Boudreaux

---

If your mouth hung open any further than you would be catching every insect that resided in the swamps surrounding the town.

Was this guy fucking for real??

You scoffed slightly. Then again. Eventually you scoffing spiralled into manic laughter as you guffawed at the audacity that this man thought he had. With wide eyes, you slammed the paper down back onto the counter, staring over at the wall because if you looked at those words any longer you would probably end up tracking this man down so you could shove his mother’s radio up his ass along with the fat metal rod that apparently already resided there.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed back the stool and stood up, deciding you needed you reset your mind before the first customers came in. Marching back to the kitchen, you spent the next five minutes sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for the kettle to boil as you very angrily stuffed the blueberry muffin you had brought in your mouth. You glanced at the clock and pouted as you realised you only had 15 minutes before you had to put on your best customer-friendly expression despite the metaphorical grey cloud that thundered above your head.

Thinking for a moment, you shot back up, chucking the muffin case as you strode back through to the counter, and snatched the letter up, marching back to the kitchen over to the rotary phone on the table in the corner. Picking up the handset, you pressed it to your ear as you spun the number written out on the paper in front of you.

It rang for a moment, and you tried to picture the man who would – hopefully – receive your call. You expected to hear the gruff voice of some 50 year old, that would start yelling down the line about how incompetent you were, especially when he found out you were a woman, before you heard a crackle as it was picked up and a polite and much younger sounding “Hello?” came through.

You froze for a moment, your vision of some rude, old guy whooshed away at the voice of a much younger, more spritely man, and you pictured someone like the mailman, until you heard a louder, drawn out “Hellooo?”, the man on the other end seemingly becoming amused at your lack of response.

Snapping yourself out of the character builder you had in your mind, you quickly spoke. “Hello, do I happen to be talking to–”

“Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” You blinked as you were interrupted. “But I do believe you’ve accidentally called an American number!” The man said chipperly, though there was a condescending undertone – his amusement clearly growing at the thought of your apparent mistake. You guessed it was when he heard your accent.

“I- what?” you stammered down the receiver.

“Oh you poor thing.” He simpered over the line like some fake grandma comforting you after you tripped over. He was clearly having fun – you could just picture the fake pout he was putting on. “Like I said, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

No, this was definitely the right one. His attitude over the phone matched his attitude in the letter precisely.

You could hear him being to move to put the phone down, and you quickly called out. “WAIT NO!!” you cried, on the verge of an outrage. “I definitely put the right number in! Now, am I or am I not speaking to a Mister Boudreaux?”

“Oh! Do pardon me.~” He practically sing-songed. Oh, so now he was willing to listen? “Yes that is I, and to who do I owe the pleasure to be called by an English dame such as yourself?” the fake flirtatious tone had you picturing the faceless man laid on his front, kicking his legs as he twirled the coil between his fingers. You pushed that amusing thought down, however, when you caught sight of the piece of paper in your hand.

“I got your letter.”

“Ah,” It was like a switch was flipped, the man’s tone darkening slightly. “I see.”

Rereading the words this guy had put down, you could barely control yourself, and you pictured the time your mother had marched you down the lane to the house of a boy in your school year. That boy had given you a large bruise on your forehead, and instead of telling you that he did it because he fancied you, your mum decided to give him and his family the verbal lashing of your life. ‘I’m not raising you to snap at the slightest pressure like those London lasses, my love’, she had said, ‘You’re gonna go down kicking and screaming like it’s the last thing you’ll do’.

And that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Right,” you began, your Yorkshire accent coming on full force. “I’m gonna need you t’ open yer lug ole, lad, cuz I dunno how you lot do customer service over here in America, but bein’ passive aggressive t’ someone who’s literally done nowt to deserve the absolute shite you’ve just given me makes you out t’ be a right knob’ead, you hear me?” You reprimanded. “If you don’t get your arse down to the shop by the end of the week, I’m putting ya mum’s radio down as unclaimed and selling it t’ the next person I see!”

You quickly slammed the phone down, too fuming to hear anything that Mr Boudreaux had to say. The only reason you felt a little guilty was that you knew nothing about this guy’s mum – she could be the sweetest woman in the world, and you just up and went and threatened to sell her possession! Though, with the way her son behaved, you would be surprised if she turned out to be just like him. Ugh, then you would be dealing with two of them.

Letting out a sigh, you picked up the phone again, instead dialling the phone number pinned to the corkboard on the wall. It rang for longer this time, and when it picked up you received a very loud coughing fit. When it died down, you finally spoke.

“Ralph I need your help.” You groaned, plopping yourself down on the spindly chair next to you with a defeated sigh.

“I’ve got the worst customer in the world.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Does uh, anyone want more memes?

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, and I do apologise for the sudden dialect change, I was desperate for MC to finally speak the way I do lol. See you soon for Chapter 3!!

Please let me know if you want to be added to the Taglist!

< Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 >

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*feeds you content a lot earlier than I thought*

Taglist: @theredviolets @mybrainsautocorrect @all-user-error @belos-simp69 @boogiemansbitch @elio-ee @snowlotr @mistresslemonsuger @sugasweettea @jaygrl22 @mysterypotatoink @yunimimii @threefingeredpencil @mydeardelphi @glowinthedarkbones1150 @fluffismystaplefood @writer-girl99 @rl800 @the-unhinged-raccoon @riritvt

#alastor #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor fanfic #alastor x you #alastor x oc

[abarbaricyalp]

Written for the @sambuckylibrary Valentine's Bingo fill: Secret Admirer

5 times birds try to tell Bucky he has a secret admirer and 1 time a human does

Rated T for brief Canon typical violence AO3 Link

Blithe Spirits, Higher Still and Higher

I.

Truthfully, Bucky was hiding. Not well. Not in any substantial kind of way. He was sitting on a bench almost directly outside the front door of the New Avengers Compound. Anyone on the south side of the building would be able to see him. Still, he was not anywhere near any kind of AI system that could tell people where he was or could ring out to him to join some inane meeting or the other. Bucky was not very good at the bureaucracy of this job. Sam said he was an excellent trainer and he established good relationships with the younger heroes that came through the compound, but Bucky was fairly certain that was where the compliments ended as far as his work here was concerned.

He hated it. He hated the building. He hated being in DC. He hated the transient nature of everyone who came through the door. He had a house in Louisiana where he was close enough to the Wilsons to stop by when he wanted. The only good thing about being here was that Sam was usually here as well.

So he took breaks outside as often as he liked. The bench was just big enough for him to lay out on without having to incline either his head or his feet on the armrests and the backing was tall enough to block out the sun after 1:00pm. He really liked this bench.

He was absorbing enough sunshine to stave away the AC chill in his fingers when a bunch of rustling interrupted the otherwise quiet afternoon. He dropped his arm away from his eyes and glanced to his left, searching for the intruder to his quiet afternoon. He expected one of the kids trying to wrangle him into a sparring match, or a handler trying to wrangle him into a desk.

Instead, there was a crow bouncing towards him with a bundle of wildflowers in its beak. It kept throwing its head back at him in some sort of display. He sat up on the bench and the crow jumped up to stand next to his leg. It deposited the flowers on his thigh.

“Where did you get these?” he asked with a small smile. The flowers were nothing extraordinary, so he didn’t assume the bird had taken them from anyone’s hands. Except maybe a nearby child who’d been collecting them on a walk. But Bucky disregarded this theory. They were of the usual suspects as far as flowers went. Some yarrow and laurel and even bluebells. The stems were chopped fairly neatly, which didn’t suggest that the bird had ripped them from the ground. 

Actually, if he thought about their origins much more, he was probably going to get a headache.

“What’re you gonna do with them?” he asked the bird instead, like it could answer him. He collected the flowers in a loose grouping and held them back out, but the bird didn’t take them. Instead, it hopped away again. “You’re leaving them with me?” he surmised.

The bird bobbed its head. It cast one more glance over Bucky and then flew away. Bucky took the flowers and, after glancing around to make sure no one could see him, closed his eyes and pressed them against his nose.

II.

Being back in New York felt much more comfortable than being in DC, even if he was once again stuck in a stuffy building. This time, he was doing more paperwork than he thought should be allowed of one person after saving the world for the umpteenth time. As soon as their assigned agent had turned his back, Bucky had vacated the office seat and headed for the nearest food truck.

He’d asked Sam to come along, but had been flatly denied. He was trying very hard not to take it personally, but he wasn’t really succeeding. Sure, he wasn’t half the flirt he’d been in the 30s, but he held his own in this brave new world. He picked people up fairly easily when he wanted to.

The only problem was that he hadn’t wanted to. Not for a long time. His attention had quickly and fully shifted to Sam. But Sam was remarkably resistant to Bucky’s attempts to woo him. Despite the fact that they got dinner together all the time, or went to see a new movie often, as soon as Bucky started asking with the express intent to make further moves on Sam, Sam became absurdly good at skirting his invitations.

This wasn’t even a move. He just really wanted a hotdog. He figured a walk in the sun would be good for Sam too. But, no. The paperwork and their deadlines and getting shit done.

Whatever. Bucky was in New York again. He wasn’t going to waste the precious few hours he had in his loud, noisy city again. Certainly not by embarrassing himself in front of Sam or pushing his boundaries.

Bucky knew this food truck and he was more than a little obsessed with it. When he’d been goading Sam into coming with him, he hadn’t lied by saying he literally dreamed about these hot dogs when he was in Louisiana. This line, the warm summer sun, it was all worth it as he got to the front of the line and reached for his wallet as he began to order without looking at the menu.

He stopped halfway through, which the vendor didn’t even clock, just mumbled, “Yeah, with the relish and extra mustard, I remember.”

“No, wait,” Bucky said and patted his pockets down again. The back ones and then the front ones and then his own waist, where his jacket would usually sit if he was wearing one. “I don’t have my wallet. I must’ve left it in my coat.”

“I think I can spot ya’ this time,” the vendor said in the sarcastic, but loving way, of a brash New Yorker. “You just knock my truck outta the way next time aliens attack.”

“No, no, I can’t,” Bucky insisted, the ghost of his mother’s good manners curling low in his stomach. “I was gonna get a handful. I don’t wanna put you out. Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

“Barnes!” the man called after him, but Bucky was already striding away.

He didn’t get very far. A very large pigeon posted up in front of him. Bucky tried to sidestep it, but it followed him across the sidewalk.

“I’m not in the mood,” he told it, which made someone walking past him snort. “Actually, I’m kind of in a rush and I’m starving.”

The pigeon didn’t budge. Instead, it reached under its wing with its beak and produced a twenty dollar bill. It threw the bill on the ground between them.

Bucky blinked at the bill and then at the bird. The bird cocked its head back at him. Did birds blink, he wondered. Surely they must. Flying in the air and everything. They’d need to protect their eyes.

“Go return it,” he said, nudging the bill back towards the bird without actually stepping closer to it. This bird was clearly a criminal. Who knew what it’d do next.

The bird picked up the bill and flung it at Bucky with a palpable distaste. What was going on here? Bucky was in a hunger and hotdog aroma fueled dream. His stomach chose right then to growl like he hadn’t eaten in years. He’d literally had a huge bagel this morning. (There’d been a point to prove to Sam about the frankly appalling bagels in DC.)

Still, his stomach was growling and no one was shouting about theft by bird or chasing this pigeon down. So…he took the bill and got back in line. The pigeon followed after him, letting itself get distracted by the scraps on the ground along the way.

“Found a twenty in my pocket,” he explained to the vendor when he got back up to the front of the line.

The man looked like he may have been skeptical but wasn’t interested enough to actually care. Bucky ordered two hotdogs with the promise he’d come back tomorrow for his handful. Not that he was going to get away with feeding Sam hotdogs two days in a row. Not unless one of them came with broccoli instead of mustard.

He started away from the food truck with his semi-ill-gotten gains in hand when all of a sudden a sharp pain stabbed through his ankle. He looked down with a scowl and found the pigeon basically glaring up at him. Again, with the birds having eyelids thing. He was going to google it as soon as he got back into the room him and Sam were locked in.

“What?” he asked. “It’s a barter system. I don’t have the money anymore.”

The pigeon bobbed its head like it knew what a barter system was. Then it looked pointedly at Bucky’s hotdog. Ah, Bucky thought. It was a barter system. He tore off a piece of his bun and tossed it at the pigeon. Without another look, the pigeon grabbed the bread and flew away.

Literally what was going on?

Read the rest on AO3 here!

#sambucky #bucky barnes #sam wilson #captain america #sambucky fanfic #the falcon and the winter soldier #writing #sbvday2024

[mur-art]

Mur's WTTT Art Master Post

A compilation of all my Welcome to the Table/Ben Brainard-verse art (so far), sorted by topic and character. I think I covered everything! I tried to organize them the best I could but some categories were hard to define. If I missed anything, plese lmk! WARNING: LONG POST AHEAD!

(GEN) COMICS/MULTI-CHARACTER SCENES:

---> Weekend at Congress (Florida, Loui, Gov)

---> Baby's First Hurricane! (Florida, California, Mother Nature)

---> Pile O' Corners (Four Corners)

---> The Gambler, The Family Man, and The Stoner (Nevada, Utah, Colorado)

---> A Family Affair (IDC, Penn, Gov)

---> Gator Onesie (Florida, Gov)

—> Surfin’ USA (California, Hawai’i, Alaska)

FLORIDA AND CALIFORNIA ANTICS:

Continued under the cut...

---> Karaoke Night at the Statehouse

---> Halloween Horror Night

---> What is This "Moun-tan" You Speak of?

---> "Whatcha readin', Safe Space?"

—> Cali’s Gonna Yeet Him off a cliff

INDIVIDUAL WTTT CHARACTERS:

Alaska

---> Good View From Up Here (Alaska + Hawai'i)

---> I Was Born Under a Wan'drin Star... (tw: blood)

Arkansas

---> Pirate Kansas!

California

(This diva has his own category; see below)

Colorado

---> Snowy Selfie

Florida

—> Florida!!! (Mur’s Version) (TW: Blood)

—> Emotional Support Alligator

---> Astrophysics for People in a Hurry

---> The Price of Freedom

---> Gator Onesie

Gov

---> You Should See The Other Guy (tw: blood)

---> "I Was So Worried" (Gov + IDC)

---> Gator Onesie

Hawai'i

---> Good View From Up Here (Alaska + Hawai'i)

---> Gossip Girls (California + Hawai'i)

IDC

---> "I Was So Worried" (Gov + IDC)

Louisiana

---> <3 Heart Eyes <3

Massachusetts

---> Spiked Dunks!

---> I Started a War!

---> Dunks Onesie! (feat. New York)

Michigan

---> "I Brought Salad!"

Montana

---> Treasure State // Big Sky Country

National Guard

---> POV You're Late to Your Date w/Natty Guard

Nevada

—> Playing With Fire (Nevada and Utah)

—> Vegas Vic (collab with @freshwolfhell)

—> Circus, Circus (collab with @freshwolfhell)

—> “Wait, YOU don’t have a lottery?” (Utah and Nevada)

---> Neon Showgirl

---> Caution, Do Not Dig (semi-nsfw)

---> Oh, You're Actin' So Holy (Utah and Nevada)

---> MOBvada

---> Being an Absolute Mood

New Jersey

---> Stick 'Em Up! (tw: blood)

---> Bad Boy (tw: smoking)

Oregon

---> Get In Loser, We're Dying of Dysentery

Utah

—> “Wait, YOU don’t have a lottery?” (Utah and Nevada)

---> "I'm Not Like Other States, I'm a COOL State!"

---> Oh, You're Actin' So Holy (Utah and Nevada)

Washington

---> Get In Loser, We're Dying of Dysentery

---> Judgy Washing Machine

Wisconsin

—> Go Pack Go!

SHIPS/DUOS:

Texas/California

---> Dios Mio, Erán Vaqueros!!

—> “Stay Still, Idiot!” (Hurt/“Comfort”)

—> OMG They Were Cowboys!

---> "Let Him Kiss Me..." (nsfw)

---> I Hate Everything About You

---> Not-So-Lone Star (semi-nsfw)

---> Wildflowers

---> Saw Your Face in a Dusty Daguerrotype

---> "It Suits You, You Know" (Cali/Austin)

Florida/Louisiana

---> Karaoke Night at the Statehouse

---> "Mornin', Sunshine" (semi-nsfw)

---> OMG They Were Pirates!

---> Bisou Ur Face

---> Those eyes, damn those eyes

---> "Hey Loui-- <3"

Florida/Gov

—> Send Me a Selfie

California/Nevada

—> “Fighting” Over the Remote

---> California is a Big Spoon (nsfw)

---> 99 Problems

California/New York

---> Working Late

---> Straight Gay Espresso Morning

---> "Get Loved, Idiot"

---> Can't Handle the Cold

New York/New Jersey

---> "What the [bleep] are you lookin' at?"

Massachusetts/Virginia

—> The Gentleman and the Sailor

---> Kingdom of Days

Oregon/Washington

---> Get In Loser, We're Dying of Dysentery

---> May 18, 1980 (tw: blood)

Alaska/Hawai'i

---> Good View From Up Here

Massachusetts/New York:

—> I am NOT Wearing That!! (The Dunks Onesie Saga continues!)

A SECTION just for CALIFORNIA since I draw him so much (whoops):

---> Money, Power, Glory (CA Statehood Day Art 2023)

---> Fem!Cali

---> Looking for the Golden Light

---> Two Sides of the Same Coin/King of Diamonds (NorCal + SoCal)

---> Twelve Atmospheric Rivers Later...

---> "I am California, Can't You See?" (CA Statehood Day Art 2022)

---> Gossip Girls (California + Hawai'i)

---> Firebender Cali

NON-CANON CHARACTERS/OCS:

Jefferson

---> Abolish the Police...Birds? (feat. Austin)

San Diego and San Francisco

---> CA's Favorite/s?

#welcome to the table #wttt #welcome to the statehouse #florida man in socal #ben brainard #wttt fanart #mur art #the table #the table fanart #will pin this post #and try to update it as necessary #long post #fanart compilation

[deadboyfriendd]

3 April, 1894

To the Lady that may find this letter, I hope it finds her well, 

I first would like to send my sincerest regards in reverence to your fianceé, may he rest in peace. 

The air is dry in the lowest desert of Cochise county. We have only had about an inch of rain in the last two years. The ground is brittle, and a layer of dust covers everything here in a fine film. Sometimes I even feel it in my lungs when I breathe. 

Despite this, there is a wildflower superbloom this year. It is the grandest I have ever seen. 

It seems the desert knew you would board the train in New Orleans and set west for us, and wanted to welcome you with its kindest hello. The desert is not kind, but she would make an exception for someone like you, I would suppose. 

Your cousin tells me about your home in Louisiana, the merchant, and Lady May. I know we do not have the same grandeur here, but there is a traveling merchant that sells imported scarves and swatches. He says they are Parisian, but I overheard some ladies talking about how they were Chinese. Nevertheless, I do believe they are still beautiful. 

I hope to hear your voice soon. I want to hear about Louisiana and the train and your father, the merchant, and the Lady May. The water seems foreign to me now. The East feels like an undiscovered land. The train might as well be a ship, carrying you across the seas. If you are half as interesting as Nellie says you are, then I would listen to your stories for a lifetime. 

Your cousin is very kind. I like to think that you are kind like her, though, I also hope that you are tough in the same way that she is. This place is not forgiving, nor is it kind. I hope that your heart is not faint, and I hope that this place is kinder to you than it has been to us. Though, as it seems, The Eastern shores have not been particularly kind to you either. Maybe it is not the place that we search for, but the tomorrow. 

If that is the case, I hope that your tomorrow is kinder. 

With warmest regards, 

Steven Harrington

#stranger things #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #Cowboy!Steve Harrington

[thekimdelacreme]

#flower #iris #louisiana iris #german bearded iris #bearded iris #wildflower #showy primrose #buttercup

[thisapplepielife]

Crawling Back to You, 1/1, Complete

Gareth/Di, Gareth & Eddie, Background Steddie, Gareth & Wayne, The Party, E, 31.6K

(Read on AO3)

Corroded Coffin's leased plane went down on June 13th, 1995 in the woods of Louisiana.

Ten people on board died.

Gareth Jones survived.

After he survived, he got a second chance to really love.

(This is the fourteenth part of my series: Wildflowers...and All the Rest. It takes place in the same universe as Tuesday's Gone With the Wind, but with Gareth as the focus this time. So this single fic is complete, but the series is not all posted, yet.)

#thisapplepielife #gareth fic #gareth stranger things #gareth (stranger things) #new fic #stranger things fic #ao3 fic #wildflowers...and all the rest #one shot #one shot collection #gareth & eddie #Youtube #wayne munson

[pazzesco]

TP & H | Strangered In The Night

TP & H | The Wild One, Forever

TP & H | Hometown Blues

TP & H | Luna

TP & H | Fooled Again (I Don't Like It)

TP & H | Mystery Man

TP & H | Anything That’s Rock ‘n’ Roll

TP & H | Breakdown

TP & H | American Girl

TP & H | When the Time Comes

TP & H | I Need To Know

TP & H | Restless

TP & H | Too Much Ain’t Enough

TP & H | You're Gonna Get It

TP & H | Magnolia

TP & H | My Baby Is A Rock ‘N’ Roller

TP & H | Listen To Her Heart

TP & H | No Second Thoughts

TP & H | Shadow Of A Doubt (A Complex Kid)

TP & H | Refugee

TP & H | Here Comes My Girl

TP & H | Louisiana Rain

TP & H | Don't Do Me Like That

TP & H | Even The Losers

TP & H | Walls

TP & H | The Waiting

TP & H | Don’t Come Around Here No More

TP & H | Mary Jane's Last Dance

TP & H | Into The Great Wide Open

TP & H | Too Good To Be True

TP & H | Cracking Up

TP & H | About To Give Out

TP & H | High In The Morning

TP & H | The Last DJ

TP & H | U Get Me High

TP & H | Cracking Up

TP & H | Heartbreakers Beach Party

TP & H | Fooled Again (I Don't Like It) Live '78

TP & H | I'm A King Bee Live '78

TP & H | You're Gonna Get It Live '78

TP & H | Don't Bring Me Down Live '78

TP & H | Breakdown Live '78

TP + SN | Stop Draggin' My Heart Around

TP + SN | I Will Run To You

TP + SN | Needles And Pins (Live)

TP | Zombie Zoo

TP | Yer So Bad

TP | Free Falling

TP | Runnin’ Down A Dream

TP | I Won't Back Down

TP | American Dream Plan B

TP | You Wreck Me

TP | You Don’t Know How It Feels

TP | Wildflowers

TP | Cabin Down Below

TP | Crawling Back to You

Wilburys | Handle With Care

Wilburys | Last Night

Wilburys | Tweeter And The Monkey Man

Wilburys | Margarita

Psychoactivelectricity Jukeboxes

#jukebox #tom petty #tom petty and the heartbreakers #tom petty & the heartbreakers #music #classic rock #bob dylan #george harrison #jeff lynne #roy orbison #stevie nicks #mike campbell #benmont tench #stan lynch #ron blair #nick lowe

[breakingournecksforhome]

Day 2 we went through Louisiana saw a REAL swamp and my dad told me about nutria, we got to Texas and switched drivers I drove us through Houston which was crazy. Brewster mccloud time. We got through the middle ‘hill country’ which was sooo beautiful, the wildflowers and hills! We stopped at a rest stop and my dad and I danced and he pulled my arms up to stretch me lol. Then we hit a more desert area, I read a chapter of my book I’m reading (Love Medicine.. very good…) we got dinner and checked into this hotel in the middle of nowhere, in Texas. It is extremely windy but the air is amazing. Also the guy who checked us into the hotel was very cute okay goodnight

[small-sinclair]

Hayyyy I just found your blog and love your work 💕

I was hoping to request bo with a future s/o that also doesn’t like being touched and is sad they might not get to experience love because there to scared to be touched

Ps: I hope your having a good day and your feeling well 🥺👉👈

-❤️‍🔥

Hello, Fire Heart Anon! Thank y'all for this request.

This is based off true events from when I was a kid. Younger, I didn't like holding hands, so my grandma made a short silk rope for me to hold when my family went out. If I wanted to hold hands or need to hold hands, they would slip the silk over my wrist and they tied the other end to their wrist. It was never too tight or loose, and it felt like I was holding their hand because I felt their strength at the end. They did this until I got comfortable with hand holding on my own time.

*******************

End of the Rope

Growing up, you hated touching or hand holding, and it made it hard to show how much you loved your family and friends. Saying 'I love you' was a good thing, yes, but you felt like it wasn't enough. So, when you went on this road trip to take photos, ending up living with the Sinclairs, somehow catching feelings with Bo, you didn't know what to do with yourself. Every wildflower you placed in his shop, little rocks in his truck, and small smiles you shot at him... it never felt like enough. Every time your felt read to hold his hand or just touch his sleeve, you felt the static at the end of your fingers and pushed away from it.

Bo is a hand-held man, he made that clear from the moment you met him. His hands were strong and scarred, but there were soft when his hand would brush your skin by accident. They were worn and roughed from work and growing up. His hand demand blood, demand work and oil, demand to be near yours but never once dared to touch you. He never understood why you didn't like to be touch, but he was more than happy to let you take your time. Yes, he was pride and held himself higher, but he wasn't a monster to you.

Bo yearned for the day to feel your touch, imaging how soft your hand would feel in his. Yet, he would look down at his hands and recoil at the sight. The scars from fights and scars that littered his wrist wasn't a pretty sight, and he did his best to hide them from you. Sometimes, you saw them, and it hurt Bo know you saw them. He would snap and tell you not to look, but he secretly wanted to feel your fingers over them to touch them as if he was glass.

But he'll wait for the say you're ready.

An idea came to him when he watched you picking flowers in the fields near the station, picking each daisy and forget-me-not with meaning and care. But, as he looked at you, something brought a smile to his lips, curling up slightly enough to make the Louisiana rivers jealous. He pushing himself off the door frame and went inside the shop, digging around in the old boxes. If it's not here, he'll go bother Vincent about it, but he had a new goal.

Outside, you picked flowers, taking each flower in your hands and fingers, rubbing the steams and smiling. You found your own happy place among the wax and spare parts. You stood and dusted off the dirt and grim. These flowers for Bo would look cute in his curls, and, maybe, he'll let you placed them. As you walked back to the station, you saw Bo standing over a box on the counter, his hands digging through fabric, tossing the once that felt nice out and leaving the bad ones in. You said nothing as you watched him confused, biting your lower lip and lifting a brow.

When he looked up at you, he glanced down at the box then the fabric. His face heats up in a soft red as he kept digging in the box.

"You okay, Bo?" You asked hesitantly.

"I have an idea," he murmurs, but he doesn't look up at you as he pushed the box towards you. "But 's a dumb one."

"Yeah?" You asked, walking in. You put the wildflowers on the seat next to the door as you looked over the box of fabrics. "Try me, though."

He wipes his mouth after licking his lips. "I remember ya don' like it when people touch ya." He wiped his hands over his pants. "So, I figured, well," he seemed to failing to find words to tell you but the words came back. "I got a box wit' fabric. So, pick somethin' ya like."

"Bo?"

"Please, trust me, darlin'?" When his eyes met yours, they looked desperate and pleading. He's been trying so hard to find something, and this was his finding: a box of fabric. "Pick somethin' ya like. Any will do in t'box."

You looked down and started feeling the fabrics. There was soft cotton ones, but you didn't like how they felt against your arms. There was felt, but your fingertips didn't like how they wiggled under your grasp. Then a light green silk fabric caught your eye. There were little red roses over the green on vines and little bushes. It felt perfect against your wrist, cool then warm, and your hands enjoyed how soft and smooth it felt. You held it up for Bo to see and he smiled at it.

"Okay," he whispered. He takes the fabric and step around the counter to be standing in front of you as he started to speak. "Vincent hated holdin' hands when we were youngin's. And I hated long shirts fer a bit, but Mama had us hold hands whenever we left home." He made a slip knot at one end and started on the other end. "So, Vin and I figured somethin' out. We used a short rope," he slipped his hand through the other end of the silk and held the other towards you, "somethin' soft lik' 'is an' we held hands lik' 's until Vincent and I got used to touching skin."

He was gentle when he took your wrist and placed it in the slip knot. The silk wasn't too tight or too loose; if felt like you were wearing a bracelet. You could feel his strength in the other end, your hand a respectful two feet away from his. You felt his hand wrap around his end, tugging lightly at your skin. Breathless, you looked up at him and felt butterflies circling around your body. It's like he's holding your hand without you touching or feeling his skin.

He gave a trying grin. "See? Doesn't feel too tight?"

You shook your head as you looked at the fabric again.

"Bo," you said as you pushed back tears. "Why... why are you doing this?"

He blushed again, looking down at the rope. "I-I know ya don' like touching, so... maybe this is good? For hand holdin'?"

"Are," you placed your words carefully as your fingers rubbed over the silk, your fingers inches away from his, "are you saying you... you want to hold my hand?"

"Don't you?" He asked, his head snapping at you. He felt dumb. Of course you didn't want to hold his hand! Stupid, Bo! This was so dumb!

You looked down at the rope as a soft smile formed. "This is the nicest thing anyone's done for me."

His eyes grew wide. "No, it ain't."

"I know, but..." you couldn't stop smiling. "I've always waned to hold your hand, too, but I hate skin touching me. I hate the way it feels. It's like static and needles poking at the skin. It feels like it burns." You met his eyes and smile widely, "But this? This is nice! I can feel your strength and warm through the silk and... and it's nice." You look down at his tied hand, large and strong. "This... this is nice. Thank you, Bo."

He caught your smile and something inside him swelled. Something screamed him to kiss you and call you his. Call you by his name at the end of his days and nights. It mixed over his eyes like a lore around fish and its scales. There something beautiful hidden behind your voice, behind your smile that made him want more. When you're ready, the day he feels your hand his his, arms around him as he holds your tightly, kissing your hair and your soft lips, he'll be there.

Was this love? It's something he wonders, and he'll hold that closely to his chest.

"Whenever ya want t' hold my hand," he said, clearing his throat, "just show me 'is an' I'll hold th' otha end." He he brought his end up, which brought your hand up with it, and kissed the center of the silk rope as if he was kissing your hand. "Deal?"

You smiled as he watched your fingers linger over his ghost kiss on the silk. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Outside, butterflies fluttered and landed on the bright flowers, fluttering around the petals as they watched you two. Seeing you two bloom in love would be the sweetest flower ever to cross the flowers of Ambrose.

#bo sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x gn reader #house of wax fanfic #house of wax 2005 #house of wax (2005) #house of wax #house of wax fanfiction #house of wax x reader #cliff answers

[gnarl3ne-blog]

Primrose by Arlene Schag Via Flickr: This drought-resistant plant prefers loose, fast-draining soil and full sun. It is a herbaceous perennial wildflower native to 28 of the lower 48 U.S. states (Alabama, Arkansas, Arizona, California, the Carolinas, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Missouri, Mississippi, Nebraska, New Mexico, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, and West Virginia) and North Mexico.

#oenothera speciosa #pink #evening #primrose #four petals #Pink Evening Primrose #Onagraceae #flickr #Westcoast Wildlife