i’m here to ask a question that’s been bugging me for awhile, what would the sinclair brothers do if you took a bullet for them? like would you officially be a sinclair after that 👀
TW; GUNS, BLOOD, READER TAKES AN ACTUAL BULLET FOR THE SINCLAIR MENTIONED IN THE PARAGRAPH, ANGER, MURDER (NOT READER), DEHUMANISATION OF VICTIMS (REFERRED TO AS ‘CANVASES’ ETC.), VIOLENCE, CANON TYPICAL DARKNESS. GORE!!!! GORE!!!! SAYING TWICE BECAUSE IMPORTANT!!!!
Shoutout to @hersweetrevenge, who practically wrote Lester’s portion of this ask! Mwah mwah beloved, your mind is amazing and ilyyyy ~ 💖✨ aaaand additional shoutout to @pharmacykeys for helping me too hasdfghjk this blog wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you😭😭😭
Vincent would be angry at you and at the person who shot you. That bullet was meant for him, Y/N, what the fuck are you doing???? Don’t be fooled by the way he looms over you menacingly; anger is a secondary emotion which most often hides fear or pain, and when it comes to something happening to you, Vincent has both of those primal emotions in spades. He picks you up gently, cradling you in his arms, and the way his shoulders are dead tight despite the slight tremble in his hands tells you the reality of it. Muffled gasps of worry are coming out from behind his mask, his nose nuzzling at the top of your head as he stalks you over to safety, setting you down carefully. Hands flutter over your body like butterflies, landing but never staying as his critical eye sweeps over your body, analysing you, assessing you. He is a physician now. You’re not going to die, you’ll be fine, so he holds a hand up - “stay” - and leaves. He rips to shreds the person who shot you, fucking their face with bullets and making them so unrecognisable that Lester could easily put them on the very top of his pit and nothing bad would come of it. They’re just a lump of meat, sinew and bone. Not even dental records would be enough identification. But Vincent doesn’t care. He’s back beside you just as quickly, blades and hands dripping with blood, and he washes himself carelessly, hands cupping your face as he tilts your head this way and that, checking you over. Assuring himself of your safety before he clinically wipes the blood away from the injury site, patches you up, sits down with you in his lap and then lectures the everloving fuck outta you for being so fucking stupid. Don’t you know that you’re a Sinclair even if you don’t take a bullet for him? Don’t ever do that again, Y/N, you almost gave the poor man an aneurysm.
Lester can barely see for the tears. He’s angry, he’s upset, he’s scared, he’s worried, he’s in love… he’s everything all at once and the poor man can barely function for the panic. You’ve just taken a non-fatal bullet for him (he can tell at a glance, a hunter is he) and all he can do is stare at you. That knocks him out of it quick and there’s a voice in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Bo) telling him to, “get a fuck'n move on, would'ya? Get 'em outta there!” So he does. Lester darts over, your name on his lips like a litany, a battle cry, and wraps a tight arm around your waist as he pulls you up and towards him, into the safe cage of his embrace and away from the person who just shot you. “C'mon, darlin’, we gotta, I gotta - ” he can’t talk, his chin is wobbling, his bottom lip is trembling, his hands are shaking, he can barely think. He can only think of you, bleeding, and of his brothers. Home. Safe. Get you looked after. You let him get you to the truck - in truth, you could walk yourself but you can’t deny that you’re leaning more and more on Lester as the adrenaline wears off and the pain starts to set in. It fucking burns, as does the rubber on the dirt road as Lester almost throws himself into the driver’s seat and puts the pedal to the metal. He floors it to Ambrose, rolling the window down as he drives. The closer he gets to the house, the more he starts to yell for Bo, Vincent. Fucking anyone. “Please, it’s, it’s Y/N!” Is all he says, accompaniments to his brother’s names, which become Bo n’ Vincent rather than two separate people. After all, they were born together, so their names are almost double-barrel, too. Bo and Vincent. Vincent and Bo. Bo n’ Vincent. Vin n’ Bo. Lester shakes himself out of it when the thought turns to 'BoVin’, his tears burning like acid through his skin as his brothers come out of the house like a bat out of hell. Bo is on the warpath, shotgun loaded, and he takes off in the direction Lester floored it from. He’ll take care of the soon to be canvas, and Vincent already has you in his arms. He’ll take care of you. And Lester? He’ll sit in the bed of his truck with Jonesy in his lap and together they’ll howl and cry until word reaches them that you’re safe, alive and well.
Bo is… the poor man freezes. Bo.exe has broken, please turn the brain off and on again. He just freezes in place, icy blues unblinking, jaw slack, hands by his sides. He’s just totally stuck on the fact that you got shot. For him. Fuck, darlin’, he ain’t worth that. It’s only when he hears you scream as the pain sets in that Bo jumps into action, emptying his shotgun into the person who attacked you and then stomping on their head so hard and so many times that he almost slips on the grey matter that leaks out of their skull, sickening cracks almost perfectly matched in sync with the widening smirk on Bo’s lips. As he looks up at you, though, that smirk slides into a grimace and Bo shatters. His face crumples and he drops the shotgun. You idly register the fact that you’re glad he emptied it; it could’ve gone off again with how carelessly he dropped it. In an instant, he’s before you, bloodied hands cradling your face. The scent of blood, yours and the shooter’s, fills your nose but you try not to gag, making yourself focus on your Bo’s face. “Fuck, darlin’, y'all righ’? They get'cha anywhere else?” He shuffles towards you, almost dropping to his knees as one hand hovers over the injury site. You tell him no, it was just that one bullet, and all at once Bo is angry again. Nostrils flare and deep breaths are taken as he helps you to stand, an arm around your waist like a vice as he walks with you to his truck, scooping up the useless shotgun on his way past. He can always bash faces in with the butt. Anyone who hurts his loved ones isn’t worth the shit in his toilet. “Gotta get you home, get Vincent to take a look at'cha.” You dare not protest; Bo is protecting you for you as well as for himself. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to you and as it is, he’s angry at himself and at you and at the shooter and at the world and at Vincent for not taking better care of you… he’s a fucking mess. Once you’re all patched up, there’s a cuddle so tight you have to make a concerted effort to breathe, a lecture so mean that Vincent will step in to calm Bo down (even you can’t get to Bo as deeply or as quickly as Vincent can), and a possessiveness so strong that even Lester can’t be alone with you for at least a week or two 'til Bo’s got himself calm. He’s got too many fucking emotions and no time in the world to process one before the next one has him by the throat.
