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cherryskyies · 2 years

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Slashers when you are held hostage

Includes: Thomas Hewitt, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair

Next up: Brahms Heelshire, Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, (Maybe the grabber idk haven't watched it yet)

navigation || masterlist

It was an accident, he must not have tightened the victims binds properly or there was one he missed — either way, you were stuck paying for his mistakes.

The knife against your throat was quite the warm welcome, having just finished dinner and set the table. The escapee was much larger than you, bloody fingers digging into the not-so-white fabric of your sundress, steak knife held tight in place as he backed toward the door.

---

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas was quick, storming up the steps, chest heaving in a mix of fear and anger as his chainsaw revved. He knew you were upstairs, preparing dinner. He knew you were vulnerable, he could see it right now — you were scared, shaking against the man who watched him with careful eyes.

Your eyes catch his, pleading for him to do something, “Thomas,” you call, it’s quiet, but the man behind still hears it, pressing the knife tighter against the soft flesh of your throat, threatening to split it open.

“Shut the fuck up or i’ll fucking kill you bitch,” he spits, eyes leaving thomas’ form to look at you.

Without missing a beat, Thomas hurdles toward you, swiping the knife from your neck and tossing you away from the man. There is so much he wants to do, but not wanting another mistake like this to happen again, he kills the man in one swift movement cutting him clean in half, before turning towards you.

“Turn the chainsaw off, Tommy. It’s okay – I'm okay,” you try to reason, but he retreats back downstairs to finish what he should have hours ago.

Chances are, you won’t see him for a while. Thomas is too caught up in what could have happened, what he could have caused. If Tommy wasn’t able to get to you when he did, would you still be here?

He needs time and reassurance.

Vincent Sinclair

It was one of Bo’s victims, a blonde male pressing you tight against him, knife sinking further into your throat with each rapid movement made. He is going on about a sister, threatening to kill you if the man in front of him, Vincent, didn’t tell him where she is. “I swear to god,” he begins, hands shaking. “I will fucking kill this bitch if you don’t tell me where she is.”

Vincent is terrified and pissed, how dare Bo let this one find you and how dare this man call you a bitch. You don’t seem to be as scared as he is, breathing rather steadily and staying composed. You have yet to say a word to either him or your captor, but the way you look at him, pleading like a lost child, it’s enough.

He uses the advantage of surprise, rushing toward him in calculated movements to disarm him and free you — it works, the man lets go of the knife and thrusts you forward, hoping to distract Vincent, but he is far too late. He touched you, tainted your perfect skin with his sin and he will pay.

He’s quick to find you as soon as he’s killed your captor, locking you away until the rest are cared for and it is safe again.

Vincent will hold you close, afraid you’ll somehow disappear on him, all while chewing the fuck out of Bo.

Bo sinclair

It’s his fault, he should have killed the girl the second she was in the chair, but he didn’t and now she and her brother were running loose around the town. Bo tried so hard to beat them to the house, to warn and hide you away so he and Vincent could take care of them — but as soon as he heard the yell from inside, your sweet scream, he knew he really fucked this one up.

“You let her go, she has nothin’ to do with this,” Bo spat, eyeing the man who held a knife to your throat. He could see the pots on the floor, carrots and other vegetables thrown around. The look in his eyes was like no other, you’d only ever seen that crazy look one other time and it meant death.

Tears fell down your face, embarrassment soon following. You had no reason to be afraid, Vincent was prowling beneath the floorboards and Bo was in front of you, realistically you’d be fine, but you were unable to stop the cry that ripped from your throat, “Bo, please.”

The girl was nowhere to be seen, Bo could gather that much in his panicked frenzy, and it seemed the guy holding you hostage did too, “I just want my sister man, give her back to me.” But he wouldn’t be getting her back, chances are if he couldn’t find her, Vincent already did. “I’ll kill her,” he threatened, pushing the knife tighter. “I’ll fucking kill all of you sick bastar-”

In one swift movement, the floorboard raised and scissors shot through, cutting the man's achilles tendon. Bo raced toward you, grabbing you and kicking the knife from his hands. “I’ll take you to your sister, maybe she’s still alive enough to say hello,” Bo teased, cocking his head to the side. “Y’know what happens to bitches like you?” he asked, feeling like a king with you, unharmed, by his side. “You become wax.”

He doesn’t show it, but the way he and Vincent check you over shows just how scared Bo was, he promises to never make the same mistake again.

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hanighul · 2 years

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🦷 Inktober Day 10: Teeth 🦷

“Such a wonderful smile you have, Vincent…”

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leonsmommykink · 8 months

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creating oc’s are literally so fun, especially when it comes to the scenarios omfg i eat it up every time

#should i honestly make a post abt my ocs?#slasher x reader #slashers #texas chainsaw massacre #thomas hewitt x reader #house of wax #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #bubba sawyer #vincent sinclair x reader #johnny slaughter #charlie walker #ghostface #jason voorhees #michael myers #dead by daylight

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avintmich · 4 months

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I can't stand it. I read a post about the Sinclair brothers with pregnant Oc. Yes, of course, it’s very cute and.... homely (?. I don’t know how to describe it) BUT FUCK. Just think, Ambrose is a city of doctors, especially without an obstetrician! brothers are their own doctors and surgeons (yes, in my opinion this is funny, ha.ha.) Perhaps at the time of contractions and other crap, Lester will take the wasps to the nearest hospital, but do you really think that they will accept you and give you the proper care/help? No, believe me, no. They will literally look at you

- Um... Strange people came to our department in a smelly car... And they have a pretty girl giving birth... Okay?..

Well, really! Moreover, all subsequent expenses for the child, and what if Oc has health problems? There won't be enough money from the victims. Moreover, in that post everything was described so nicely, but excuse me, I sat there vomiting from this post. No! I don't want to say that the post was poorly written! no no, no way. But I just decided to think about this situation and I felt... Unpleasant. And so, frankly, do what you want

I liked the concept of pregnant So with children who follow him like ducklings following their mother duck. Well that's nice. That's it, wait for a sketch with this idea

#vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x gender neutral reader #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax 2005 #oc #pregnant oc #personal opinion #no offense to the author

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sketchy-rosewitch · 1 year

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Could You Be Seen With Me and Still Act Proud?: Vincent Sinclair x male!reader

Warnings: homophobia, ableism (I think that’s what calling Vincent a freak would fall under), abusive parents from both sides.

A/N: Honestly Vincent would be the second easiest Sinclair brother to confess your love to. Also not me using a Heathers reference 🤭🤭

The school hallway crowds at one end as you and Vincent walk to your next class. Loud yelling and cheering can be heard, you furrow your brows and look at Vincent before the two of you book it down the hall.

Mandy, one of you and Bo’s friends comes up to you. “Bo’s getting beat up by a couple of guys. Talkin’ like it might have to do with Vinny!”

Your stuff drops to the ground and you push your way through the crowd and into the fight.

You grab the flannel of one of your classmates and pull him back. Punching him in the nose, he falls back.

“You’re defendin’ the damn freak too!?”

You sneer and kick him roughly. Bo has the other guy against the locker, you lower your guard enough for the first guy to get up and punch you. He throws another one at you, a groan escapes your chest.

There’s a loud whistle and all of the students disperse, only leaving the four of you, Vincent and Mandy still in the halls.

“Get up! Principals office, all of you.”

Mr. Kent, the gym teacher and you and Bo’s baseball coach shouts. The four of you are quick to get up, Mr. Kent is right up your asses. As you pass Vincent and send him a wink, he shakes his head in disappointment and leaves with Mandy to go to their last class.

“You can’t keep doin’ this. It’ll ruin you.” Dr. White, your principal sighs and leans back in her chair. “I’m giving a week suspension and you’re helping cleaning the cafeteria after lunches when you get back.” She finishes. “I just hope you have something planned when you graduate or you’ll end up in jail. I personally don’t want any of my students in jail.”

“Oh yeah, got stuff planned Dr.White. No need to worry about me. I’m just defendin’ a friend s’all.” You smile, you’re slouched in your chair, with your hands clasped.

She sighs and brushes a loose strand of her permed hair from her face. “You’re very smart. Very good grades, you only get in trouble for things like this. You don’t need to fight everyone who says things about Vincent. Those boys out there are not gonna end up in good places, pick and choose your battles and let life handle them.”

You look up at the ceiling, trying to choose your words wisely. You look back at the messy haired principal and smile. “Will do.”

You hear the door open and your parents bust in. “Ma, Pa! She was just finishing up!” You smile, standing up to go and hug them. They stand with more than pissed faces.

“Oh no you don’t. Sit your ass back down.”

You do just that.

“Dr. White. We are so sorry. We taught him better than this-“

You zone out, it’s the same speech as the last five times and even the first five times this has happened. Really all you cared about was how you were gonna hang out with Vincent tonight.

The guest bedroom would be a good idea. The locks don’t work and the window doesn’t squeal when you touch it. It’s downstairs too, it’ll be easier to get out. Then you could go behind everyone’s houses and sneak up using the latter Dr. Sinclair always has in the back.

“Get up.” Your mom grabs you by the ear but let’s go when you comply with her command. The three of you walk out of the office.

“Bye Mr. Sinclair.” You wave your fingers at him, he mimics you, attempting not to laugh. “Andy, Abel, I’ll see you two in a week. Hopefully scraping gum from under the tables.” You chuckle, loving their pissy faces.

“You gotta stop doin’ this! Lucky we don’t whip you straight boy!” Your dad shakes his head. “This better not be because of Dr. Sinclair’s boys either. I am sick of you gettin’ in trouble because one of them can’t stand people talkin’ about his brother a certain way.”

“Well no one should be.”

“Shut your mouth. It ain’t like they’re lyin’! That Dr. Sinclair shoulda let both of them suffer and die. Instead we gotta go an’ have a psycho and a freak runnin’ around our town!”

Your fists clench. “Bo ain’t a psycho and Vincent ain’t a freak. They was just born that way and that’s okay! I hate when you say shit like that!”

“You watch your mouth, I only say shit ‘cause your reputation is in shambles ‘cause o’ them. They cause all this trouble here and you get dragged along!”

“Who cares?!”

Silence falls between you and your dad. He frowns and you realize you’re in deep shit.

“Gonna end up in jail one day boy, you best get you ass up to your room ‘fore I beat you.”

For once you listen, huffing and trying not to say shit. You close your door and lay in your bed.

Your knuckle taps against Vincent’s window and you wait for him to come to it. His long black hair shines in the moonlight as he opens the window.

“What are you doing here?” His raspy voice is aggressive, but you can’t help to smirk at him, you know his tone is that way because he’s nervous not because he doesn’t want you here.

“Come to save you Rapunzel.”

Vincent’s eye squints, he rolls it and grabs his crossbody bag, knowing that you’d keep nagging him until he agreed. You climb down the later, Vincent following after you.

“I was gonna ask for you to let down your hair but I think that would’ve woken your parents up.” You joke, Vincent shoves you and you try and not laugh. Taking his hand you guide him into the wooded area that surrounds the town and to the creek.

Gravel crunches between your shoes and you set down your coat for Vincent and you to sit on.

“Anything happen to Bo?” Concern fills your voice, Vincent shrugs and grabs a rock, skipping it across the water.

“Same old.”

Lecture, mom getting huffy and leaves the room, dad ties his wrists together and beats him with a belt, sends him to his room without dinner. Then Vincent gets praise for being so good and never getting into trouble.

“My dad didn’t whip me this time. Then again I stopped talkin’ back an’ went to my room when he said. I’m grounded the full suspension and then some. Don’t matter though cause I’ll always find time for you.”

Your chest swells a bit. You always like time with Vincent, these moments you feel like yourself, Vincent doesn’t judge you and you don’t judge Vincent.

“Why do you find time for me?” Vincent’s voice is almost a whisper, when he asks your brain feels like shutting off. You were always honest with him.

When you were younger you’d tell Vincent how cool he was with a mask on. You told him even if he took his mask off he’d still be cool. Then throughout school you’d tell him how much you struggled and just wanted to leave Ambrose. You’d do anything to get out. You just weren’t truthful about one thing, and you should’ve been.

“I uh-.”

Your confidence falters and vulnerability shows up. Your whole body feels like it’s sweating, like you’ll melt into a puddle any second. Vincent turns his head and looks at you. All of the air in your chest leaves. Why was this so hard?

“You take pity on me don’t you?” Vincent’s voice gets defensive, he’s on the verge of building up a wall that you don’t have the time to knock down. You panic.

“No! No! I’m- fuck I’m so scared to say this. You have to promise you won’t tell no one. Not even Bo.”

Vincent nods and holds out his pinky, you take it in your and shake it. The anxiety in your stomach seems to dissipate.

“I’m in love with you Vincent.”

The silence feels as though it’s stabbing you. The thing is Vincent is almost always silent so this shouldn’t be any different. Yet it is, you confessed your love to him and he could fuck you over completely and tell Bo, then Bo would tell the entire school and you’d be dead meat.

“I hope what you’re saying is true or I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident.” Vincent pulls his mask off, he’s never done this in front of you. Adrenaline courses through your body.

“It’s all true. Vincent I’m so fucking in love with you. There’s not a day that’s go by where I couldn’t defend you. You mean so much to me.” Words flood out of your moth and into Vincent’s ears. He looks at you and you realize him wearing a mask protects him from an even crueler fate of this town. They just don’t understand beauty, they never will with their closed mind sets.

You smile and watch as in the moonlight, pink dusts Vincent’s face. “You’re so beautiful Vincent.”

He stays quiet, clearly not knowing how to respond, your hand touches the developed side of his face, not knowing how sensitive the other side is.

Vincent leans in and you do too. Chapped lips kiss your soft ones. You run your hands through Vincent’s hair, he pushes you down so you law on your jacket. Vincent straddles your lap, a grin plastered on his face. You can’t help but to smile back at him.

Reality sets in for both of you, promises and secrets have to be kept to make sure you two stay alive. You go to say something but Vincent kisses you, not wanting to hear it and ruin this small fantasy world that you two were in.

Everything could be discussed later when you would go and kiss him goodnight.

#vincent sinclair x oc #vincent sinclair x reader #house of wax 2005 #house of wax #bo sinclair

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bluecoolr · 1 year

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@goldrose-star I think they'll get along alright... in time 😅

#darrell todd #slasher oc #band au #oc x canon #house of wax #lester sinclair #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #bluecoolr.art #my moots got my creative juices flowinnnn #edit: lester is a country guy through and through

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naughtyslashers · 9 months

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ꜱʟᴀꜱʜᴇʀꜱ ɪ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ

❈ 𝖠𝗌𝖺 𝖤𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗒

❈ 𝖡𝗈 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋

❈ 𝖡𝗋𝖺𝗁𝗆𝗌 𝖧𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖾

❈ 𝖢𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗒 𝖢𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗁𝖺𝗆

❈ 𝖣𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝖢𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇

❈ 𝖤𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝖣𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇

❈ 𝖩𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖢𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗌

❈ 𝖫𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋

❈ 𝖱𝖹!𝖬𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌

❈ 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖧𝖾𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗍

❈ 𝖵𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗋

#slashers I write for #slashers x oc #asa emory #bo sinclair #brahms heelshire #corey cunningham #dominic craven #eric draven #jesse cromeans #lester sinclair #rz!michael myers #thomas hewitt #vincent sinclair

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demon-lover-669 · 1 year

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Y/n: people flirt all the time!

Slasher: yeah I know.

Y/n: so that means! I-

Slasher: nope! Not you I own your ass!

Y/n: *looks around and at their hands*

Slasher: what are you looking for?

Y/n: my god damn wedding ring that says I’m yours!

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capybar00 · 1 year

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more vinnie doodles (i'm preoccupied)

(first pose was highly referenced)

(kind of have an artblock atm but will be back soon with a more functional brain lol)

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solivagant-muse · 2 years

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I had to do this because I found a really cute picture of Brian van Holt while searching for Sinclair material. This is their dynamic.

Click read more to see reference picture.

#my art #slasher #messy sketch #sepia #house of wax #slasher fanart #house of wax 2005 #how 2005 #vincent sinclair #oc x canon #my oc #oc: odile #slasher: oc #slasher oc #SolMuse art

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articdelilah · 1 year

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YALL KNOW WHAT I NEED IN MY LIFE??? SLASHER PARENT SCENARIOS/FICS

I NEED TO SEE BO’S AND VINCENT’S SONS GETTING INTO A MASSIVE FIGHT AND I JUST NEEEDDDD TO SEE DAD BO OR THOMAS WITH A REALLY UNSTABLE SON OR SOMETHING PLEASE AJHSKSBSKSBKS IM DYING OVER HERE

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿Help me✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

Sexy pic of Bo

#house of wax #house of wax oc #vincent sinclair #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #slasher x reader #slashers #halloween #micheal myers #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt my beloved #brahms heelshire #jason voorhees #scream #billy loomis #stu matcher x reader #micheal myers x you #fanfic writers

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myers-meadow · 2 years

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Ambrose Summer Vacation ch. 3

Title: The Ambrose Summer Vacation, chapter 3: Strange Harvest.

Chapter 1: 45 Miles To Go. Chapter 2: Malda.

Summary: On vacation in southern Louisiana, a friend is seduced by a handsome southern man to visit his museum in a small town called Ambrose. The vacation lasts longer than intended. During her stay, Katyusha tries her best to get a hold of the Sinclair brothers, to understand what is going on, and perhaps to claw her way to freedom. Their receptiveness to her soon causes a complicated predicament and her struggles grow as she gets in over her head.

Contents: Vincent x OC and Bo x OC. OC is female, named, but has otherwise little specified backstory. Slower burn than my usual stuff, and it is dark. It is a poly fic, but no threesomes and the brothers aren't involved with each other.

Warnings: Kidnapping, canon-typical violence. Dub-con touching, nudity. 18 + chapter. Sexually explicit scenes. Stockholm syndrome?

Wordcount: 3899

Enjoy! I had great time writing this, thing are happening after the set up of previous chapters, and I'm so glad I can share this with you after days of working on this part <3. It's also a bit longer than previous chapters.

Ao3 link. Link to masterlist.

Divider by @/firefly-graphics.

The tourists didn’t show up that day, and it felt like a waste to have been so on edge the whole time. The ‘watching Katya’ shift changed, and Vincent took me upstairs to the bedrooms. I’d been there often enough before, to clean. Bo had the big bedroom, the one I suspected used to be their parent’s. They must’ve shared a room, the one that’s now Vincent’s, but there was barely anything there to remind of Bo’s presence. I liked the small bathroom best, though. Despite the guestroom that always sat untouched, neat, with the quilt thrown over the foot end of the bed and the curtains closed, they never let me sleep there. Perhaps because Vincent made so little use of the upstairs, preferring to work, sleep and eat in the basement whenever possible.

That evening, he went straight to his room, making sure I followed. Leaving me to stand awkwardly by the door, he fiddled with the record player, until something jazzy, with lazy vocals, something rhythmic and seductive, filled the room. I dared a few steps inside. He walked around me, movements swift, overly familiar with the space, and opened the adjoined bathroom, the sage green one. Gestured me inside, handed me a razor and pulled at the waistband of my skirt. I raised my eyebrows in confusion. Pulling my hand in between us, flattening it, and using the end of the razor to write something letter by letter.

‘Shave. Down there.’

“You want me to- what?”

He sighed and retrieved a sketchbook from his nightstand, with a pencil. “I need a nude model. So I’d like you to shave there.”

I blinked. “I’ve never shaved before.”

We stared at each other for a beat. He handed me a tub of shaving cream. It never occurred to me that he’d shave, or perhaps have a beard underneath the mask. “Go against the grain. Take your time.” And with that, he shut the bathroom door.

After shaving, showering, and drying myself off with a threadbare towel, I stood still, staring at the door. Since he had specified to shave down there, I left my legs and armpits hairy as they were. What would be worse; coming out nude, or undressing in front of him? The power he had over me made my head swirl.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I ignored his eye on me and headed to sit on the bed, as he usually drew me sitting down. He sat in the only chair in the room, by the room covered with old toy cars on the window sill. He flipped the page he was working on over, starting a new one as soon as he saw me. Perhaps he did art at university. Perhaps he was very used to seeing nude women. He stood up as I tried to sit in a somewhat modest position, and leaned his knee on the bed. He loomed over me, even more frightening than before, and I willed my hands to stay on the duvet. To not react with fear or defensiveness. Gentler than before though, his hand pushed my shoulder until I leaned back, and he helped my legs up on the bed until I laid down. A shudder travelled through me from the warmth of his hands. It was still September, but the evenings cooled down considerably. He noticed, his gaze quickly shooting up to mine, before resuming his movements to position me. His fingers slid along the skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Shoulder to elbow, to wrist, then onto hip, over the roundness of me there, his breath hitched, and it was then that the movements could not be considered professional by any stretch of the imagination. He kneaded hip and thigh, digging in his fingers, testing softness, firmness, where the bones were hidden. The mask showed nothing of his expression, but his breath was heavy as it echoed against the wax.

In a desperate attempt to distract him, to place something in between us, to do anything at all, I leaned up and reached for the sketchbook. At the same time as I brough our faces closer by reaching for it, it occurred to me, clear as day, sharp like being pricked by a needle. Those wandering hands, that heavy breathing; I could use it. I could survive this place. At least until others come, until I steal the keys to Bo’s truck – until something goes well for me. The thought was quickly squashed as Vincent gripped my wrist with a large hand, stopping me from flipping it over to the side he was drawing on, and it was just as clear that if he wanted anything, he would have it.

“Can I see your drawings? You’ve drawn me almost daily, but I’ve never seen any of those,” my voice was thin, the lisp worsening as my mouth felt foreign and dry so close to him. Close enough to smell the wax, his heat, to see the coarse white dog hairs on his t-shirt. “Please?”

He searched my face, eventually sat back, tucking his legs underneath him. He grabbed one of my legs to throw over his lap, then picked up the paper with a last look at me, and flipped through it until he decided on a good one. Holding it out for me to take and I did.

It was me, yes. One of the earlier days, I wore the same clothes as I came there with, my hair in a single, messy braid – must’ve been the first week. Why did that stick out? Vincent’s style was naturalistic, realistic, but seemingly more lifelike than I was in all my flesh and blood. My expression was serene, looking away from the spectator, eyes averted, face relaxed, almost smiling.

“Do I really look like this?” I mumbled. It wasn’t a judgement, of either his art or of me, just the realisation that he has had opinions on my body since the moment he set eyes on me. “Sorry. You’re really good. Do you have a formal education in art?”

He shook his head, watching my reactions. He flipped to another page, one by the window in the kitchen, the light illuminating my figure like a baroque painting. His warm hand returned to rest atop my knee after each time he flipped a page. Another, one where I had no idea he drew me; more of a sketch, also in the kitchen, reaching up to take something from a cabinet. A homely scene. Another in the basement, on his table, this time with an incredibly detailed background, including Jonesy at the foot of the workbench.

Couldn’t help a fond smile at her head laying on her paws, “you’ve drawn Jonesy too.”

On I looked, and as he flipped through the pages, more confident as I commented idly as he did so. Me, me, me. Page after page. Some had details. Pages of just my hand with my rings, of just eyes, eyebrows, different positions sketched out quickly and messily. The ones where you could barely tell it was me were my favourite.

“The way you draw me, the shadows… It reminds me of Rubens, or was it Caravaggio? I believe it’s called chiaroscuro, the contrast.”

His eye shot up to mine, fingers ghosting over the page. He nodded slowly. A new page, he pressed hard on the pencil as he wrote something down. “How do you know?”

“I took a lot of art history courses back home,” I said, feeling the memories of my previous life choking me. Yet it felt like I could speak more freely now that he’d shown an interest in hearing what I have to say. “It feels strange to see myself drawn… Like I can view myself from your eyes. See what you see when you look at me, even if you try to be objective.”

He flipped to another page, an intricate one, a portrait. His hand didn’t return to the warmed up spot on my knee, instead he traced the features of my face on the paper. Eyebrow to nose to lips. With a certain hesitation he brought his other hand up to my face, and touched me, featherlight, following the path his other hand invented.

Even without words, that spoke of something, a feeling, so instinctual that it preceded language entirely. I averted my gaze. He traced the outline of my lips, letting his thumb linger after his pointer finger had already left to feel my jaw. A sigh escaped me, he shuddered, pressing his eye closed briefly, the blue disappearing between dark lashes, and pulled away suddenly – leaving me cold on top of the duvet. Grabbing the sketchbook and pencil, he briskly walked out the door, letting it clatter noisily against the frame. I slept uneasy, not daring to leave or wander about. Awoke with wrists tied to the bedframe without any sign of either of the brothers.

Bo was right about the visitors that were coming. They came just after lunch the next day, during which I was barely able to eat, stomach filled with dread instead.

First, they lingered outside, exploring the town, then the gas station. When we heard them come nearer, Bo looked up from the hood of the car and smiled at me, his crow’s feet made it feel genuinely reassuring. Just follow along. Breathe deep.

“Hey there, we’re looking for a mechanic? Could you help us?” The man that stepped forward was young, in his early thirties at most, dark hair, wore pilot sunglasses. The sleeves of his light blue button up were rolled over his elbows, showing hairy underarms.

“Ya found one,” said Bo, straightening up and turning to him. The look he sent me was intoxicating. “What do you need?”

The man came closer, taking off his sunglasses and clipping them to his shirt pocket. “Hi, yeah, our car broke down, just down the dirt road from the 35.”

“Do y’know what’s wrong with it?” asked Bo, he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands clean, before tossing it.

“No, not very car savvy,” said the man. “It just won’t start. We weren’t having any trouble before, and we always check up with the garage before going on long trips.”

“Guess we’ll have to check it out then,” said Bo, looking back at me with a grin. “Darlin’, will ya mind the shop while I’m gone?”

With the most casual nod, he threw me the keys. The trust, the familiarity, how was he so good at this? It made me lightheaded. The other people had gathered and we went outside. They were just a young woman, and another young man.

“Yeah, he can help us,” said the man in the button up to the rest.

“Name’s Bo, by the way.” Bo leaned on the door to the garage and motioned to me. “And that’s Katyusha, my assistant at the shop.”

The visitors looked to me and made their own introductions. There was the first man, Thomas, the woman’s name was Sylvie, the other man, blond, was Baxter.

“So, you’ll take me to your car, then?” Bo asked Thomas. “See what can be done to get you on your way.”

Thomas nodded. Sylvie grabbed his arm. “Don’t you want me to come along, baby?”

“No need for that, honey,” was all he said. Bo sent me a look.

I spoke, clearing my throat. “I can take you both up to the house for something cold to drink? It’s hot out here.” To punctuate my point I wiped the sweat from my brow.

Baxter was quick to agree. “Yeah, sounds good. It’s not far I hope?”

“Not at all.”

And so we split up.

Once at the house, I let the two roam, to get ice from the fridge and glasses from the cupboard.

“The town seems nice,” said Baxter, lingering in the kitchen. “Quiet, though.”

“Yeah,” I answered with my back to him, “most folk are out of town at this time of year. But we like it just fine.” I handed him the cold glass of lemon water with a smile. Condensation made the glass slippery, or was that the sweat of my palms.

We moved to the living room, where Sylvie snooped around. She was looking at the various stuff stacked on the drawers and the coffee table. At least it was all clean and neat. I set the glass down for her too, sank into a wooden chair, leaving them to sit on the couch.

“So, you and the mechanic guy, you two together?” asked Baxter. He seemed younger than Thomas. Sweet face, freckles, blond curls.

“No, not at all. I just help out at the shop sometimes, so he can do his thing. But it’s not like we get many customers out here.” The glass was chilly in my hand. I should do something, anything for this moment to stop and for my nerves to calm down. Unfortunately t was much easier to keep my voice steady, than it was when dealing directly with the twins. “Where were you three headed?”

“Just on a journey to see as much as possible. We have all taken as much time off as we could get.”

“No destination?”

“We’re going east, to the coast. We’re visiting some landmarks. Planning on going via Baton Rouge too.”

Sylvie nods. “We heard about a festival up there? Perhaps we’ll check it out. Is there a bathroom here? Excuse me.”

I pointed her the way and she disappeared. Baxter shifted closer on the couch, our legs were almost touching from how wide he spread himself out.

“What’s that on your wrists? Are those scars?” he asked, even daring to point. Reflexively, I rubbed the marks.

“They’re old,” I said, but immediately knew my tone was off. “The heat makes them… seem worse again.”

He gave me a look that very much felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff, but whatever he said was interrupted by a scream. He shot up, and I pressed my eyes closed for a second before getting up too.

“Was that-?” he asked.

I shrugged, holding a wrist tightly, to soothe the memory of the ropes. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along the hallway to where he saw Sylvie go. He tried a door, then looked back at me. At that look, his posture fell.

“What is going on?” he asked, disbelief and fear settling over his features. I realised then, how my face was scrunched up in fear. He grabbed my hand and looked closer at the marks, and I could not help myself. Tears filled my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was all I was able to say, voice barely a whisper. Baxtor released his grip on my hands, instead pushing me to the wall by my shoulders, gritting his teeth.

“What kind of trap is this?” he hissed. I only shook my head, shocked by the quick change in his demeanour. Despite knowing better, despite it being a bad idea, the hope that these tourists could be my rescue dissipated like a drop of water on a hot pan. The door behind him opened soundlessly, but when he noticed my stare, it was too late. A blade pierced his chest, stopping short of mine by just five centimetres. I wiped my tears, clearing my vision and found myself face to face with Vincent’s chest. He hummed softly and rubbed my arms. The rough texture of his jumper against my cheek was comforting. Safe. Shock overwhelmed me and there was little to do but cling on to what I knew – who I knew.

Waking up was painful. The room was a proper bedroom, Vincent’s. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, a note underneath. The sheets smelled like him, like wax and the particular way Vincent smelled like a man. Vaguely of laundry detergent. The curtains were drawn, but the bits of light that shone in through the cracks were enough to make my head pound. Quickly scribbled letters read: ‘there’s breakfast in the fridge, I’m in the basement. Avoid Bo.’

These words were casual, but at this time, it was best to take them as instruction. Breakfast was a banana, and even that felt like a terrible decision, and down the stairs I went. Bo was nowhere in sight, thankfully.

Vincent was working on a sculpture. He heard me approach and looked up. Hands darting to pen and paper. His handwriting was as familiar as the sound of my own voice.

“How are you feeling?”

I shrugged. “Headache, but I’m fine. Didn’t see Bo. How… how did everything go?”

With a bounce in his step, he moved over to a cabinet with medical supplies, took out two bottles. He handed them to me, and I examined the labels. Painkillers.

“Thank you,” I said, took one out of each, put the bottles back. “Is there some water?”

He was writing again. “Bo kept the girl, but she stabbed him. He’s in a bad mood. Other than that, all is well.”

At times like these, his masked face was frightening. No emotion. The warmth of our closeness on my skin as he guided me next to him at the workbench. It was Baxter.

Vincent continued writing. “He was going to hurt you.”

“I tricked him. Them. Bo- he took me to the shop to help.” The desperation in my voice made me sick. Did Vincent know of Bo’s plan to use me to draw victims like a spider in a web?

His hair tickled my shoulder, he pulled me closer, away from the sedated man. His hand on my chin to make me look at him, but I closed my eyes instead. Another tug. Fingers moved to my throat, grazing the pulse points. I shivered, then opened my eyes.

His blue one looking directly at me. He was braver than the day before. The kill, or the sculpting, seemed to invigorate him. We were closer than I thought, I was almost pressed against his woollen jumper.

“You did well,” he wrote on the little scrap of paper from his pocket. The way his fingers trailed over my cheek, lips, neck, could almost be considered affectionate. He drew letters on my underarm, “You were so good, for me.”

And I saw it without even seeing his face, his eye was enough. Pupil blown wide with desire. And I felt it too, as something that crawled under the skin where he touched me. Perhaps it was there the day before, as it seemed to have warmed him considerably too. His gaze so lazily taking me in, lingering on my lips just too long. The little movement of his head, forward, closer, his hand curling around my neck. I whimpered. That one little movement, instinctual, of baring my neck, of angling my head, that little glance at the wax lips – it was all he needed. Slammed me into a cabinet nearer to the bed, hips grinding. His apron was gone in an instant. Scrambling behind me to get something from the cabinet. A syringe. He was quick to grab my arm to hold me still. Fuck-

“No, please, Vincent, you don’t need to do that. I’ve been so good, I’ll be good for you…” Wrong words. The neediness in my voice sickened me. “I know you want to touch me, I want to touch you too. To feel your hands, your skin… Please, Vincent.”

The syringe clattered to the floor. Immediately his hands were on me, he was panting. Fingers dug harshly in the soft skin of my hips, he kneaded his way up to my breasts. I pressed myself to his chest, experimentally trailed my fingers under his jumper. His skin was feverishly hot. He pulled a leg to his waist, leaning me back against the cabinet. Breaths against my ear. His groin pressed against my heat. He was hard as he moved against me. I hiked up my skirt, hissed at the harshness of his zipper. The hand I had around his neck for support, he pushed down, fingers digging so hard they’d leave bruises. Papers scattered around as he pushed me on the surface, legs spread around his hips.

He whimpered when my hand found the button on his jeans. This is what he wanted, right? This is what he kept me for. The pounding behind my eyes made it hard to think. I wrapped my fingers around his cock firmly. He was painfully hard, velvet length leaking precum. His broad hand angled my head up to his, looking him in the eye. The pressure on my throat increased as he gripped it tighter. Eyebrows scrunched together from desperation and guilt.

His hips and my hand created a rhythm. I licked my dry lips, not daring to look away from him. The fierceness in his eye scared me more than the tightening hand around my throat. Hard to tell which moans and pants came from which throat. His eye fell shut and his hips stuttered, before a mess of cum spurted over my bare leg. It dripped lazily on the floor and the wax nose of Vincent’s mask bumped my cheek. His hand on my neck stayed, although its grip loosened with each of his shuddering breaths. I stroked him through the aftershocks until he softened. He released my neck, took hold of my cum-slick hand and intertwined our fingers.

“Did that feel good? I just want you to feel good,” I breathed and another low grumble escaped from under the mask. Jolts of something new sparked through me. I pleased him. He pet my hair, made soft sounds and rubbed his mask against my cheek. I did well. That thought, both exhilarating and sickening, carried me into the night.

The new wax statue found a place in one of the houses. The other victim was not deemed worthy, for whatever reason. They sent me to clean the old lady’s house, check the mechanism, dust the knickknacks on the cabinets and coffee table. Bo’s fury was resolved when his stab wound healed. It was shallower than he made it out to be.

A threshold had been crossed when it came to my involvement. They let me out more easily, some nights Vincent took me up to his room. He found it difficult to keep his hands off me, even at the most domestic of times; greeting me with a squeeze of the shoulder or a hand on my back. Bo got more physical too, but he preferred to shove me out of his way, to back me into cabinets, to grab me and to yell when he had his moods. Secretly, I thought he did so to scare me on purpose. To not forget my place, and perhaps to indirectly protect Vincent. To make sure I wasn’t a disappointment.

The nights when I brought Vincent to orgasm with just my hands and his shallow breaths and whines still resounded in my ears, it felt as though my power in the dynamic grew. The desperation of him gave me a high unlike anything else, but I still had to be careful, to show myself in ways they liked me to appear. Daydreams of getting out of Ambrose seemed far away, but Vincent’s hunger for affection was a light that illuminated the path to escape.

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