✨ The collection of my Mari Lwyd art through the years ✨
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First art is called: “Dude… give me the bottle” (or when you lost a rhyming contest against the supernatural skeletal horse)
Second art is a meme reference x)
Third art is featuring Mari on her day off (hence no rhyming, but she wouldn’t say no to a treat)
Plus other stuff, silly sketches and artworks, like Mari Lwyd in modern times being disappointed that nobody wants to rhyme with her anymore, so she has to buy everything herself (featuring a distant relative of the guy from the first piece, plus a Waterboy mashup).
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P.S. - don’t forget about the frogs in some of the arts
Mandatory winter reblog of my Mari Lwyd post, now updated with new artwork 💅
December is my birthday month (in the end of it), so I’m very happy to have such a wonderful cryptid on my side
A head kiss is *so* significant as a choice. Obviously he can’t kiss her lips unless he wants to have his face superglued to hers, but to waste time getting upstairs to have kissed her at all is sorta what I get caught on. There’s got to be *something* going through his head to make that decision over damage control.
We know the abuse of these women, tying them up in a medical chair, is because of what he went through in his childhood. The duct tape bindings in his high chair, the experimental surgical procedures from his father, the neglect; it’s all mirrored in the leather straps, the chair itself and the identical one up at the house. But we also know Bo, despite probably killing at least Victor, has undying devotion to his mother and her legacy. Trudy slaps her child no older than three across his face without hesitation. What affection might look like or have once looked like in the Sinclair house is curious.
The forehead kiss, in the context of the abuse, can read of both possessiveness and distance. Something like staking a claim, less intimate and affectionate than, say, one on the cheek. A heavily controlled sort of relationship. But back to actual affection.
With the Sinclairs, it’s very skewed what that might be like. When Vincent and Bo interact on screen for the first time, Bo is critically injured and angry. He snaps at his brother, but his remorse is immediate and he uses words as a form of affection. Promises as apologies. Almost like begging, a kind of worship on its own.
Which itself ties into his relationship with their mother too.
Trudy is kept down at the church, having her perpetual funeral service. Bo is seen on screen for the very first time kneeling at her coffin in a probable prayer. But that kind of devotion I think is the Sinclair way of affection. As in religion, which has a recurring symbolism in House of Wax, and as such in the characters lives. Prayer drawing parallels to love isn’t surprising.
Something interesting is that in numerous religions, head kisses can be the passing on of a blessing. Bo forces Carly into the same bindings he suffered in for years, but he grants her a blessing before he leaves her there. It doesn’t seem affectionate at first, if anything it’s just kind of condescending, but knowing how Bo works is what makes it much more interesting.
The question is why?
Bo consoles Vincent after he hurts his feelings by talking about their mother’s blessing and legacy. All of Ambrose is a gift from a woman who treated them horribly, and they accept it. The killings are literally for her. In that way, I think Bo is apologizing. He’s inflicting on this woman something that destroyed his life, and he isn't some zombified, all magical slasher; he’s still very much a human being who feels pain and emotions. A lot more emotions than either of his brothers seem to show on screen, actually.
His role as the leader -or the preacher of this church they’ve built, hence why he finds Carly hiding under the robes in the church- isn’t without remorse. It’s do what’s got to be done. Which started with his parents. Victor says in the cold open, “I’m doing the best I can,” while wrestling a toddler. They call little Bo the monster while they’re actively hurting him. These excuses are pre-programmed into his complex.
In regard to further biblical imagery and the Sinclair parents, is the theater. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? plays nonstop, with the specific scene with Carly being hunted in the theater taking place during Jane’s song. The first two lines of that say, “I’ve written a letter to daddy, His address is Heaven above.” There’s this idea of communicating with a dead parent again, just like Bo speaking out loud to Trudy’s corpse, but now it’s outwardly tying it in with religious beliefs. If Bo is the preacher, he’s simply passing along the holy message instilled in him by his parents above. Bo *is* Baby Jane in that way, but not for the most obvious reason. While yes, he is harsh to his brother, as Baby Jane treated her sister Blanche badly, there’s also the fact that he’s a washed up, desperate, abused child who craves love and validation and normalcy again. Using his communication with the divine up in Heaven above to spread a blessing is a way of getting approval. With a detached kiss to Carly, his crimes are the gospel.
A consistent theme here is not only his relationship with being abused, but also with Vincent. Biblically, conjoined twins are considered a mistake of nature. God creates two human souls, but it is the fault of nature that their bodies combine. However, because of the risks, it is also considered mostly immoral in the church to separate them if one or both will have their lives risked. For the Sinclair twins, their father did this surgery himself, at home, which is obviously wildly illegal and dangerous. That makes him a sinner and an obstacle to a perfect Ambrose, on top of being an abusive asshole. So he’s killed, implied to be shot by Bo directly. That bullet was his punishment as much as the highchair was Bo’s punishment. Vincent may not have gotten the highchair, but he does have the marks on his face to show for what Victor chose. The surgery, the sin of going against the new plan, left Vincent scarred and missing not just tissue but parts of the bones in his face. Having to wear the masks and being disallowed from leaving Ambrose is his punishment for Victor’s moral crime. God took from them both unfairly and I think, despite his devotion, Bo doesn’t quite believe in the faith fully because of that.
Again, he’s human. He has his doubts and fears. His reassurance to Vincent in the form of “Ma would be proud” goes for himself too. And his subsequent “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Vincent doesn’t need convincing though, he needs an apology. That’s what Bo’s speech about Trudy is, is an apology, but that doubles for both him and Vincent. And the head kiss too. Because again, he’s operating on what he’s supposed to do. It’s a routine.
At that point, I think Bo doesn’t get satisfaction from fulfilling God’s (ahem, Trudy’s) plan anymore. Carly, and by extension every other girl who was down in that cellar at one point or another, is a sacrifice to it. She’s duct taped in that chair because someone has to be suffering in order for the Sinclairs to thrive. That’s the way it’s been before. Someone has to be hurting to need God’s grace so badly as to keep up what they’re doing, rather than just forgetting Ambrose. But what makes me think Bo specifically has stopped deriving anything positive from that order, is that he also tells Vincent “We almost finished what Mama started.” Based on the number of empty seats in the theater alone, they could theoretically kill a lot more than just the six kids that night. Why stop there? Because of the sacrificial lamb down in his cellar. I think Bo thinks that his actions will trigger be some fateful event that’ll free them all of Ambrose. Some great flood or some such. And when it doesn’t come for an entire decade after Trudy’s death, I think his desperation is growing more and more over those ten years to where his faith is now slipping. Back around to the head kiss, the silent promises he makes to Carly is to reassure himself that she’ll be special and it’ll end with her.
Choosing Carly specifically, could come from a biblical Madonna-Whore complex. Bo saw the whole group the night before, only two of which were girls obviously. Between them, Paige is pregnant. The Bible states directly that she should be burned for that (as she is out of wedlock.) Ambrose is, to him, a Holy place, but bringing Paige in and keeping her alive, no matter for how short a time, would technically be making the entire land impure. So Carly it was. I do think he has an attraction to her, since whoever has the video camera that night takes special care to record her lips, and then he makes a comment about them after supergluing them. It’s just the fact he could’ve kissed her at any point before the glue came out, and chose not to. Just that little head kiss. Because as much as he’s preached, he has to resist temptation himself or it’s all for naught. Does that mean I think he doesn’t assault any of the women? No, absolutely not. There’s a sex swing in that cellar. It’s just a matter of repenting. The first time we ever see Bo’s face, he’s on his knees in the church. Out of all the empty buildings in Ambrose he chose to go pray at church before the group showed up. He knows what he’s gonna do and knows he shouldn’t. Hence the other meaning of the kiss again, the apologetic side combined with the resistance.
Bo is such a deeply, deeply complex character. He went through so much only to turn around and inflict so much. Going back to their father’s choice to do the surgery on his own, the impacts of having a whole person removed from the back of Bo’s head is so unknown.
From the way they were conjoined, their skulls may have very well been attached. Seeing as Vincent has impacts to the development of his brow bone, cheek bone, lower jaw, and nasal bridge, those bones would have to go somewhere, and the realistic answer is that they would’ve been fused to Bo, or at least the parts of those would’ve been there. All in the back of Bo’s head, directly against his skull. To me, it’s incredibly, incredibly unlikely that no impacts would’ve been made on Bo’s brain development. How much of his violent impulses are even his own, and how much comes from a traumatic brain injury, inflicted by their father himself. Certainly blaming that baby for being a monster, when it’s a consequence of his own behavior, seems about fitting with the rest of the manipulation processes that go on in that family. Which Bo had to learn from somewhere. Trudy was likely his biggest abuser, but I think Bo modeled a lot of himself, unconsciously, after their father. Killing him was just taking on that role, and the religious filtering of it all, is Bo’s way of processing that. The father, the son, and mama’s Holy Spirit.
Hello there! I'm Sumpf. I can't call myself a writer, 'cause I don't speak English as well as I wanted to, but I'd really like to try start writing little fics and oneshots, ABC's, etc. Not without translator, ofc, but I'll do my best. So, I'm gonna write for slashers (not all, but gimme time to watch all movies), and I'm telling you about: Sinclair brothers, TCM 1,2,3,4 and Thomas with his family, My Bloody Valentine (all of), The Boy, Joyride 1,2,3 , Billy Loomis and Stu Macher, The Shining. You may send me requests, but furstly tell me if it's okay to use translator sometimes (English is beautiful, but still hard to learn). I should say that I'm writing for Female reader mostly, but you can request whatever you like, except pedo, rap1d, zo0, and other shit. Love ya all, bye.
Let me explain something. I am working on your requests, writing them, and the only thing I ask of you is to be a little patient. The world is not so calm, and a few days ago I almost died LMAO. So please, just let me finish writing your requests. Thank you.
Hello there! I'm Sumpf. I can't call myself a writer, 'cause I don't speak English as well as I wanted to, but I'd really like to try start writing little fics and oneshots, ABC's, etc. Not without translator, ofc, but I'll do my best. So, I'm gonna write for slashers (not all, but gimme time to watch all movies), and I'm telling you about: Sinclair brothers, TCM 1,2,3,4 and Thomas with his family, My Bloody Valentine (all of), The Boy, Joyride 1,2,3 , Billy Loomis and Stu Macher, The Shining. You may send me requests, but firstly tell me if it's okay to use translator sometimes (English is beautiful, but still hard to learn). I should say that I'm writing for Female reader mostly, but you can request whatever you like, except pedo, rap1d, zo0, and other shit. Love ya all, bye.
Slashers + kissing them in panic before they kill you (pt3)
[including rusty nail (joyride), stu macher, lester sinclair, vincent sinclair - implied sexual content under cut]
Rusty Nail (Joyride)
It wasn't you. You wish you could tell him that, but he's got your mouth taped up and his hand over that, so you try your best, knowing it's your life on the line, to communicate your innocence with your eyes alone. You weren't the one messing him around, calling him on the radio, playing him like a chess piece. You're tilting your head, gaze ever so slightly angled so you can look into his own cold, unforgiving eyes. There's nothing but death in those eyes. Nothing but a painful, prolonged death.
There is no mercy for those who cross the king of the highways.
He shushes you, chuckling in deep, rich baritone that would have given you butterflies in any other situation. If you'd met him at a bar, you think, you'd have hit it off. He'd buy you a drink, be a real gentleman until you went home together, where he'd show you how rough he could be when you asked nicely. It's this thoight that finally breaks your resolve - the idea that you and your murderer-to-be would have gotten along, if he'd known of your innocence. Tears don't spill down your checks but cascade, desperate, wrenching sobs leaving you involuntarily despite your pitiful attempts to get yourself under control. You can't stop torturing yourself with ideas of what he'll do with your trembling body, shivering violently even in the oppressive heat of his truck. It encapsulates the man who owns it so well - gradually increasing until it became overpowering, almost blisteringly hot; you're reminded of a frog in a slowly boiling pan.
Your thoughts are ripped away from you as the tape is similarly ripped off your mouth. His hand, in lieu of the tape, comes back, though.
Your thoughts don't.
It's chemically calm, sterile like a hospital in your mind, right up until he lifts a blade. Rusted iron will soon meet delicate flesh and it is no battle: your skin will break first. Something must give, and he won't.
You have to. You have to. You're not dying here even if surviving means you're plagued with nightmares of this very night, this very truck, this very man who's toying with the knife he's intending to use on you. You try to picture the bravery you're trying to summon like a hand coming to deflect a blow to the face. This is going to hurt, but it will hurt far less than the alternative.
You shut your eyes and press a kiss to his hand, then his...ring finger, perhaps? You can't tell, your eyes are firmly closed and staying that way, almost as though in sleep or death. You intend on neither, tonight.
Rich laughter again, this time carrying a note of genuine surprise.
"You're not the first to try that."
You hear the smile in his voice rather than see it as he speaks to you.
"But you're certainly the prettiest."
Your eyes open as if his voice has hypnotised you. You see his smile fully now as he removes his hand and leans down, intent on replacing it with his mouth.
"I've been needing some company."
Stu Macher (Scream)
There's always some stupid fucking reason to go into the creepy basement/garage/cellar/attic/cave (list non-inclusive), isn't there?
You feel like such a cliche as you stomp down Stu Macher's stairs, internally lamenting the stupid fucking configuration of this massive house. Your internal monologue is basically one big stream of complaints right now, cursing Stu and his parents and everyone at the party and your boyfriend who hadn't bothered to show up to the party you didn't even want to go to in the first place! Thoughts of his pure audacity prevent you from being fully aware of your situation. That's cliche, too.
(Stu certainly thinks so as he watches you curse under your breath. He'd intended on Billy doing this one, loathe to be absent from the party for so long, fearful of raising suspicion, but there was something about you...it had to be done personally.)
The bleating terror of a sheep with a wolf at its throat has never been more understandable when a masked figure catches you by the waist, still bent over retrieving the beer from the fridge, the business end of a knife pressing into your back as much a promise as a threat.
How embarrassing. A horror fan like you being victim to some low-rate, teenager killer with a fucking Spirit Halloween looking mask?
Oh my god, did the fifty cent masked fucker just laugh - oh, shit, you actually said that.
To his low budget face.
Desperate to appease him somehow when, with shocking strength and speed, he pulls you up from your position and backs you against the wall - the blade at your sternum now - you abandon all rational thought, and act on instinct.
What would temper the anger of a vicious killer, one who'd only left brutalised corpses in their wake?
"I- I like your mask," you say as quickly as you can. That mask shifts as the man - woman? (could be either, but with the build you felt as he pulled you up, your bet is on male) - tilts his head to look at you in an expression that almost reads "Oh, really?".
You swallow nervously, something this figure doesn't miss. The ghostly, pale white visage is hauntingly bright in the dimness of the garage, the light from the fridge the only thing illuminating it...and you. It's like some twisted love at first sight; you two are the only people that seem to exist in the universe together.
And you don't even know his name.
"Can I call you something? Even if you're going to kill me."
He seems to consider this, knife turning and twisting against you, almost like an anxious first date fiddling with napkins at dinner. Is it sick that you're comparing him to such a figure of romance?
Eventually, you get a nod.
For the first time, Ghostface is christened. Maybe not the most creative of you, but you'll have time for ingenuity if you make it out alive. You have to play this very, very carefully.
You wonder if Stu's noticed your absence yet, or Randy, or Tatum, or Sidney. Buying time is all you can think to do. "You- you know my name?"
An easy nod this time. God, what do people in those wildlife shows do? It's as if you're facing a predator, strong and sleek with animal instinct driving it to rip, kill, maim, tear.
No. You're asking the wrong question. What do people in horror movies do?
They die screaming in fear, their deaths played for laughs or tragedy, but they die either way.
Or, they fight back. There's always one that lives to tell the tale. And for a killer that appears to revel in their infamy...
"You could be a legend one day," you whisper, pressing yourself further into that knife. The sting is nothing compared to the pain of betraying yourself. "This town will never forget you."
"But if you spare me now..."
You continue your ascent, and shakily turn both of you around - facing a mirror in the garage, your back against his front. Cracked and splintered, it's enough to get the job done. To convince him, to convince you?
The image that appears to you, the future that could be, is not just exhilarating but intoxicatingly powerful.
The Visage of Death and his Lovely Muse.
You're both so still it could be a painting; the knife is done, his hands have replaced it on your waist. You turn around one last time, and hope he doesn't notice how your hands shake as you take the mask in your hands, gently remove it and kiss him on the forehead.
"The world would never forget us, Stu."
Vincent Sinclair
You like museums as much as the next person, but you never expected to end up as an art piece.
All your pleading, your screaming and running has done you no good. It's done worse to your friend - you catch their eyes, forever wide and unblinking behind the wax. Stuck in a mask of terror forever.
The artist stands above you; you're strapped down firmly on the table, but you see a watchful eye pass over you anyways. The moment that eye leaves, it's a death sentence, isn't it?
"Please...Vincent," you rasp out, throat hoarse and dry. "I don't want to die. I don't have to die."
No response. You're not talking to Vincent; you're talking to the artist of Ambrose.
"You're a monster," you whisper, not quite brave enough to say it loudly. Like your friend did.
Before they died in horrible pain.
You don't know if he hears it, but there's no response. He's working on something pretty close to you, you can see his tools spread out on the table next to you. You have to keep trying. It's your only chance.
"You don't have to kill me...I can help you."
Seemingly tired of your words, he slams whatever he's tinkering with down on the table and marches over to you. It's a small blade he grasps onto like a lifeline: it's big enough to do the job, though. Big enough to make your pulse skyrocket, your head spin - it's a wonder he can't hear your heartbeat as it tries to escape your chest, escape this terrible fate you've met with.
He goes from above you to nearly touching you, long hair tickling your cheek. You think he's intent on telling you to hush, threatening you with a blade so clean you can see him in it.
So clean you can see the shock in that one blue eye as you tug on a lock of his hair to meet the mask's lips with yours.
The table straps weren't as secure as he thought.
You'll help him do better, next time.
Lester Sinclair
You've never met anyone quite like Lester.
At first, you thought that was a good thing.
He was chatty, cheerful and charming, politely making small talk as he drove you around Ambrose. For being such an obviously lonely person, he was incredibly well-mannered and engaging in conversation. He told you about his roadkill decorations, watching as you delicately ran your hand over the bleached white and tawny bones. You thought you saw a kindred spirit in him - another person who wasn't afraid of the macabre.
Now, knowing this could be the only thing that saves your life...well, prolongs it. With his brothers hunting you down, you had no place to go but right into Lester's waiting arms, and in the relative safety of his arms you'll remain, if you're careful and clever enough to pull this off.
"Lester, Mr. Sinclair, please don't kill me," your begging has a serious effect on him - his arms tighten around you and god, clearly he's never been called that before because you feel him getting hard against you. "Please, didn't we connect? I liked you, I had a crush on you-"
The grip becomes painful.
"Have, I-I have a crush on you, I thought-"
You cut yourself off.
If this Lester is still the one you got to know for a brief time, he'll appreciate actions over words.
You press a long kiss to his cheek; you're just staying the executioner's sword. Your words won't sway him from cutting your head off, but this might...
Your shaking hands travel from his face to his waist. They become steadier. Mirroring his grip of iron on you.
You don't know it, but you've been safe anyways. He never had any intention of letting you go.
He'll tell you that later, though, once you're done worshipping him, Lester thinks as you unbuckle his belt.
if you've been waiting for Stinky, he's finally making his first appearance in this chapter!! V excited to approach him in a longer format >w<
SFW | Word Count: 3,921 | Rusty Nail x Female Reader
🎼: x
⬅ continued from for making me feel like i'm guilty
➡ continued in maybe we're bent and broken
Learning how to use the night exposure on the camera was a lifesaver, another barren tumble of hills and shadow-stricken weeds showing back on the small LCD screen. It almost glowed under the moon compared to the abrasive sun, the usual browns and oranges now sharp silver and black. You gazed out the window, satisfaction that came from the photo spilling over your chest in elated heat.
Maybe it was the vodka Natalie had offered to pour into your Arizona too, but regardless, you were doing what a college student did best: getting it done while drunk and on a strange road in the middle of the night.
Mel drove, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel every once and awhile when a particularly catchy jumble of a song came through the radio fading in and out, disruptive static sometimes barging into the hum of noise but overall buzzing past. It was a little hard to get any sort of signal out here that resembled civilization, but in the grand scheme you didn’t mind. Half the car was asleep, and the other half had no interest in conversation.
A sharp collection of snaps in your ear made you turn around, seeing Dean holding his mouth open. Sure as shit, he had pop rocks with him from the station – and a can of Cactus Cooler in his hand only confirmed that he was mixing the two. You gave Heather a silent look from the middle of the seat, then looked back down to your camera. Wonder what his teeth are going to look like in ten years, because I know he isn’t going to brush them tonight.
“What’re you smiling about, [Y/N]?” Dean then asked, mouth jumbled. You looked back at him and pondered, “Maybe from the soda and candy you’re guzzling, but that’s just a hunch.”
“Of course he grabs the loudest things to eat.” Heather mused, arms stretching to the ceiling before flopping behind her head. You nodded before Mel argued, “I think pork rinds are noisier, especially if you eat them a certain way.” You nodded surely, imagining it as you continued to browse your photos.
He then slowly pulled to the side of the road, saying he needed to take a leak and already halfway out the door as the car came to a crawl. If the photos were akin to a fine painting that you would stop and stare at, then the cool Spring air was the fucking Louvre itself. You closed your eyes, another full sip to relax, and the half-moon staring down in a clear star-studded sky. Somewhere far in the recesses of your mind ready to bash this trip wondered if the serenity of being buzzed out in the middle nowhere was better than you’d expect.
Like it was worth it just for this moment in time. The beetle on the blacktop, the laughs when sitting in a booth with the other four… You had to make this worth it, somehow and some way if not this story you were trying to paste together.
“Look, I’m tired and I want to drink, [Y/N]. I know you have a policy in place, but… can he drive?” Mel said, looking back at you after tucking himself away. One testy glance towards Dean, but you yourself were already half a can of spiked tea deep. You took in a deep breath but then nodded mutely, turning off the camera still around your neck by the strap.
“Yes?” Dean’s bark made you stop walking away from your car, kicking up dust as you returned to the moment – and lost that breath of tranquility. You huffed, “Yeah, sure.”
“I have to ask before I sit up here again. What’s with the radio?” Dean hung halfway from the driver’s seat in a stand, and you admitted, “The uncle I bought this from was…” You swallowed, hands now exposed, “He drove a few rigs in his day. Put this whole idea of mine into motion if you really should know.”
“Ohh,” Dean leaned into the open window, “That’s why she’s writing the truck story, huh?”
You sighed, “Sure, but I have my own interest too.” He nodded, then asked, “What, do you want to know why all of them look like they’re five steps and one bad cup of coffee away from doing crank and choking you with their steering wheel?”
You scratched some stray dust away from your face, finding a bit of it settled on your upper lip but quickly dissipated with a flick of your hand. “I’m not writing a sort of vigilante, secret-life piece like you think I am. Just a general-“You threw a hand to the dirt in front of you, “There it is, do with the information what you will. If I see crank, I’ll mention it. If I don’t, it must not be as prominent as we think. It’s not in the story, more just a thing we don’t choose to think about rather than exposing anything. I’m one source, after all, but this is my source of information. That’s kind of why we conduct multiple interviews.”
“Well, I’m just saying it could be. They’ve got a rep, you know.” Dean pointed out, and when you merely gave him an uncracked look he elaborated, “Truckers. There’s a reason we all think it’s meth and diseases that you catch with your dick.” You squinted, “Well, it’s also not the main focus of their job, Dean. It’s like saying all stockbrokers in the eighties were cocaine and getting plastic surgery.”
He craned his neck, smiling slightly and almost lost in the way he tried to look into your eyes. “Come on, were they not, though?”
You stood, shaking your head at him as you dropped the keys into his upturned hand. You quirked your lips. The tea was now drained from being out in the fresh air, so you set the empty can on the floor and in a swift motion and rise of your foot, you stomped down. Dean watched with crossed arms and arched brows as your foot lifted, the crumpled can a hockey puck shaped scrap in your hand.
“Don’t worry, Dean.” The buzz caused you to throw the trash into the field in front of you as you grumbled, “If I see meth and the clap out here, I’ll let you know before anyone else.” He nodded, ignoring the baffled expression for walking around to retrieve your seat in the back of your car.
You rode on the passenger side with the window down, eyes closed as the cool air continued to bathe the worry out of your dusty face, your wrung out brain…and the dull hum of the vodka in your chest was just an extra to the perfect sensation that made the night go by like the wind itself. You didn’t know how long you sat like that, but it was the same as the walk outside the car: you’d take a moment of serenity in hopes the moment lingered like that long enough to last the rest of the trip.
Dean picked up the radio, the clicking sound of the mouthpiece making you snap your eyes open and warn him, “No way, that thing’s functional, so fucking put it back. Never bothered to deactivate it,” You trailed off, barely paying attention to your own voice as you yawned, “Don’t know shit about cars compared to the next trucker’s niece.”
In the back, Heather insisted, “Seriously, dude. Put it down, there’s going to be feeds out here that don’t need us trying to entertain them.” Mel asked in his own tipsy drawl, “Whuh, is it illegal or something?” Natalie was quiet, probably asleep, and you looked over to see Dean holding it up to his mouth. The red light from the console made your posture straighten, and your expression wind tight as the moment was thoroughly ruined and replaced with an utter wreck waiting to happen.
“Breaker – Breaker!” Dean loudly called into the radio, “This is…Pop Rocks coming in all the way from the middle of nowhere and the center of nothing, looking for someone to kick it with.” You nearly yelled now, immediately restless in your seat, “Fucking Dean, knock it off!”
“Dude, no way.” Mel muttered as Heather gasped, “Dude, stop!” You put your hand over your eyes, nearly boiling over from the very notion of this guy being behind the wheel of your car on a radio he shouldn’t have looked at twice. Still, he went on, “I repeat, this is Pop Rocks, and I’m here with my team-“
“Cactus Cooler,” He gestured towards Mel.
“Sweet Spots,“ Heather rolled her eyes, adjusting uncomfortably in her seat.
“Easy Eagle,” Natalie was woken by the yelling, squinting at him with her thick eyeliner smudged and her breath heavy with cinnamon from her own poison of choice, Schnapps.
“And the best for last-“ The hand that held the wheel stuck its index and pinkie out, the other fingers unwrapping from the handle just to point out in a familiar shape, “Quiet Coyote! The five of us are hot and ready, so come on through if you need the company.”
“Dude.” Dean hung up the radio as Mel sat forward now, “You’re going to get us fucking skinned out here.”
“Not if Dazed and Confused doesn’t interview us onto the wrong side of the road first,” Dean mused, making you look out the window in a furious fester of emotions that you couldn’t put anywhere besides maybe another shot of vodka. You digressed, though, because if you abstained then there was a chance you could take the wheel again at the next stop.
“Never letting you drive again,” was all you muttered, and Natalie lamented as she curled back up against the seat, “Told you it was a bad idea.”
“Seriously, we can’t be doing that, dude.” Mel said, looking up at the radio with a pressed expression, “Someone might trace it. Cops might trace it, dude!”
“Lighten the hell up, good god!” Dean crowed, shaking his head as he picked up speed down the road, “No one fucking heard me, I was just saying a bunch of empty shit to an empty line, so leave-”
“Pop Rocks?”
The voice made your spine embed into the seat behind you, a sober state of mind falling from cloud nine, back to earth and crash landed in the base of your skull. You mutely looked down at the radio, praying that wasn’t where the question had come from – but alas, the LCD that showed the volume coming from the radio flickered again.
“Sounds like you’re up past your bedtime.”
“Fuck!” Heather ducked in the back seat, and Mel sat back in equal shock. Dean smiled at you, but before you could hold the radio to the console, he grabbed it again.
“Stop, fucking- Stop!” You seethed, covering your mouth as he spoke into it again. “Is that another lonely man out on the road? I assure you, our bedtime is nonexistent if we’re sharing the road with you, isn’t that right?” He grinned into the night ahead, and Mel once again hissed, “Dean-!”
You were utterly pent up, attempting to stop your heart from surging out of pure anxiety as the voice spoke again, the pit you felt yourself melting into sinking down into your seat and your knees pressing together.
“I suppose so. Where’re you headin’?”
Dean snorted, “Who wants to know? But before I give you my home address, gotta ask what your name is.” He then took his thumb off the button, looking over at your devastated expression. “Oh, [Y/N], I think this is your chance!” He shook the radio in his free hand, eyes lingering off the road for a dangerous amount of time, “I just got you another interview!”
You shook your head vehemently, and the voice answered again. “I guess you could call me what everyone else does. Rusty Nail. Pop Rocks, you sound like you’re in company.”
“Do I need to go down the names again?” Dean asked, and the other man was silent for a beat. You looked up at the moon again like it’d give you any help, but instead felt an eternity of empty sky and quiet stretch of land staring back, the car still speeding down the road.
“Think I remember just fine. Cactus Cooler…Easy Eagle…Sweet Spots...”
Your stomach knotted, the urge to dull yourself again nearly throwing you for a loop – but you were pulled from it as soon as the last words left the radio in a questioning tone.
“And a Quiet Coyote?”
“Impressive, Rusty Nail.” Dean praised, “Are truckers supposed to have good memories?”
“Stupid.” Heather groaned.
“Corny.” Natalie added.
“No, but we do remember every handle that we’re thrown. I hope you do the same.”
Dean paused, his thumb still holding down the radio and you shaking your head at him. He instead took that as an invitation. “Well, how could we forget such a good name like Rusty Nail. Say, speaking of good hooks, I got one for you: Trucking stories.” You made a gesture at him to stop talking, but he digressed, “You see, Quiet Coyote is writing a story about the perils of truck driving, since she’s this caring journalist and needs her answers. She’s looking for all these anecdotes and one-person experienced perils for a juicy tabloid.” You frowned hard at that, opting now to set your head against the window and wonder if jumping out of the moving car would kill you fast enough.
“Is that sarcasm in your voice, Pop Rocks?”
Your eyes darted back over, and Dean eased, “Nooo, no!” He laughed, finger off the radio button for a moment, before pressing it again. “Here, why don’t I just hand it over to her and let her ask the questions.”
He held the radio over to the passenger side, but you stayed silent. You were tempted to shove the damn mouthpiece out of his hand altogether, but the liquid courage was drained out and you were just feeling sick, tired from its whirlwind. You opted instead to let the dead air hang, and Dean quickly scoffed, “Knew you’d lose that itch eventually, [Y/N].” You glared at him as his hand went back to his mouth. “Sorry, Rusty Nail. Seems the cat’s got Coyote’s tongue.”
Your hand lunged for the power switch on the HAM, the volume, anything to get it to stop – but just as your fingers pinched a knob, the voice spoke again and stunned you in place.
“I don’t see why you think I’m going to bite, Coyote. If there are any questions on your mind…” You watched the LCD grow and shrink with the inflection, captivated by the deep tone and the mysterious edge to his words, “Have more than enough to tell you. Been doing this for far too long.”
You remained silent, sitting back now and the skin on your arms and neck starting to prick from a cold you were painfully aware of now. Dean finally hung the radio up, the look on your face enough to get him to show some mercy.
“That wasn’t nice, girl. You left him hanging.” He scoffed, and you slowly went back to turn the radio off altogether.
Sleep would’ve been easy if you kept drinking, but you decided to make some use of the inability. You sat in the backseat of your car, parked at another motel and everyone in their drinking comas in the room directly in front of the parking space. You played back an interview that one driver was kind enough to let you record, but found yourself zoning out again and again, too tired to do any substantial work but too bundle of nerves to try and lay down. The cigarettes in the glovebox made your mouth water, but you pushed it aside – what was that statistic about successful deliveries in the state of Nevada you were going to include?
The last drink you had planned to have for the night if the need to pass out grew dire sat in the front seat’s cup holder, making you sit forward with one peripheral still on the notepad in your lap and the recorder still playing. Your voice crackled over some background noise, “I’ve wanted to ask every driver I’ve interviewed this to wrap up: any words for the people you deliver to?” Your hand pushed the bottle rather than grabbed it, tapping the radio and the light glowing red again. You took the can, sitting back as you frowned at the pad: the man’s voice on the recorder had barely picked up.
“I like that, good advice for people who don’t always think about the trip it took to fill shelves, and all the heavy loads. Thanks for your time, sir-“
“Any time, Miss. Thanks for the opportunity, look forward to…”
“Coyote…”
You stopped the recording, frozen to the spot with the glass of the spout tapping your bottom teeth. You looked up at the radio, flinching to see it on, realizing you had been sloppy with grabbing your drink. Sickening sweetness that came from mixing beer and flavored liquor made you fester for another beat, your breath picking up as you almost ran from the predicament, left it alone.
Still, you leaned over the center console again when it spoke once more, “Come in, Quiet Coyote. This is Rusty Nail, and I don’t think you and I were done speaking.”
You furrowed your brow at that, hand shaking as it grabbed the console. There was no reason this guy should’ve held onto anything Mr. Pop Rocks had said, and you now felt the urge to look over your shoulder. The notion he hadn’t dropped the stupid grab for attention, the bait to a mess so in character for Dean…
Still, the guilt of lying, of being a nuisance was now back – tenfold without the presence of the whole group to pin the blame on. It was zeroed in on you now, and everything in you told you to leave the radio alone.
But you instead took the last swig of beer and held the radio.
“Come in, Rusty Nail.” You barely spoke fast enough to keep up with your own thought, a pre-rehearsed apology coming easy, “This is Quiet Coyote, and before we go anywhere with this conversation, I need to just say it: We aren’t truckers.” Like it was any sort of revelation, even the most dirt-tired and dim of a truck driver should be able to tell Dean was full of it. Still, you had to smooth the ripple on the radio the five of you had made, newfound blame pinned on yourself and tying your innards into knots.
Looking out the windshield, there was a grin in his voice now, “Now, I don’t know why you thought you could fool me. I know some kids messin’ where they shouldn’t when I hear it.” You looked down now, frowning as he teased you slightly, “Your friend Pop Rocks sure doesn’t sound like the type, if I can be frank with you.”
You shook your head at that, and complained through a stifled hiccup, “I know, and I’m sorry.” Steadying your voice, you admitted, “I don’t know why I let that prick, uh…’Pop Rocks’ get on the radio. This is an old car, something my uncle gave me when I learned to drive. He…he was a trucker, and that’s why we were able to harass you to begin with.” You sat back, stretching the mouthpiece as far as it would go with you, sweating around it like a gross hold on the poor man as you then promised, “We won’t be doing it again, or else I’m tearing this radio out myself, or- strapping my friends to the roof of this damn car.”
Silence, the kind that made your ankles cross and your throat tighten even more, breathing become an active command from your mind. In, out. You didn’t even know you could get more anxious, breathing out with a sickly taste in your mouth. Lemon and 90-proof venom.
The laughter was like a dodgeball to your chest, making you jump as the curl of an amused chuckle from the other end of the radio pinned you to the spot. “Well, look at that. Normally, I like to give a pretty hard time over stunts like that, Coyote, but I suppose I can take your word. It sounds like it all fell out of your hands.”
Despite the easygoing tone, you still didn’t feel off the hook, hand on the back of your neck as you breathed against the mouthpiece for a moment. You had to get some air, opting to set the mouthpiece down and step out from the backseat; opening the driver’s side and hearing Rusty Nail continue as you got settled with legs out the side, door left open.
“But before I let you off the hook, is there any truth to you writin’ a story, or was that all part of the joke you and your friends were pulling on me?” Your mouth opened a little, contemplating whether you’d continue to spill your guts to a stranger. Your eyes flickered to the recorder in the back, the faulty interview making you press the button before a second thought on it.
“No. No, that…that was true. I’m a student, like you suspected. It’s nothing major. Just… something I’m interested in, which is, well, the family business.” You twinged, the glazed look on Dean’s face whenever you even hinted you were taking it so seriously, that you wanted to talk to someone before you got back on the road, and even the bones that your other friends threw were just out of a nicety the former couldn’t find in himself. No one thought much of it, so to be asked about it? You had to share whenever there was a chance of being taken seriously. Made you feel like you were doing something important besides standing to the side while everyone else soaked in the experience, the fun of being out here that couldn’t seem to reach you.
“Now, this is a business line for truckers, but if you have any questions while you’re out here, I suppose I can give you permission to send me a signal.” Your eyes fell to the radio, furrowing your brow as he then added, “So long as your friends stay out of it, and the questions are pertaining to what you need for your work.”
You were once again knocked aside by the offer, stuttering your way even harder through the reply, “Oh, I…I mean- That’s…That’s nice of you, sir. Really, I’m already pushing my luck doing this, wasting the air on…apologies, and whatnot.”
“Don’t think apologies are a waste, Coyote.” Strangely kind, you pressed the man, “Well, doesn’t this need to be for… your work?”
“Mm-hmm, but…I’d say you’re workin’ alongside the rest of us. ‘Sides, very quiet this time of night, right before the morning comes back around and scares all the shadows from the roads. I don’t see why you couldn’t use the opportunity.”
You swallowed but smiled as your anxious flexing finally subsided. Tired, you replied, “Think I’ll take you up on that. Not tonight, though. I’ve got to get some rest, but…soon, alright?”
He was silent, and you almost heard the blowing of smoke, leaving the button on while he did it.
HC Drabbles • Domestic AU • Bo Sinclair x Newly Wedded Fem!Wife Reader • Bo's a traumatized (traumatizing) asshole
♡ One HC I have that I stand by and we see in canon in the movie when he clearly looks guilty but just hypes up their mama to Vincent instead of saying sorry after lashing out...
Bo NEVER apologizes. Doesn't know how, was never apologized to, looks at it as weakness in a toxic household he grew up in. He will do or say anything but say 'I'm sorry'.
♡ Look, no one said 'marrying' (definitely wasn't legally binding) the crazed, abused, past rapist, 'no one loved me but my abusive mother' mommy issues, torturing, previously conjoined, Old Fashioned Southern raised serial killer was a cake walk. Is he better with a wife that makes him feel safe and cherished? Oh God yeah. Like, damn he should've had you a whole decade sooner!...But healed? Healthy? Vulnerable?...Eehhh...
♡ Depending on you and your personality. Either your rebellion surprises him or it angers him.
♡ "Careful there, sweetheart. Love, honor and OBEY. I'm still in charge-"
♡ He was raised that domination was love and fear and respect were the same thing and no one in that family ever just 'talked things out'.
♡ He just didn't expect him telling you, "C'mon suga. Be a good lil wifey, huh? Now, quit bein' all mouthy before I put ya over my knee, babygirl. Maybe on your knees an' put that pretty mouth t' good use..." while pushing you against the wall and kissing your neck wouldn't work. He expected you to fold like normal. To fear him but be turned on but not this time.
♡ Saying something like "NO! I'm not an object! This ring may not mean anything to you but it does to me and if every argument is gonna be threatening to tie me up and use me-" You probably can't even finish. You might even cry because you actually DID love this POS asshole. You shouldn't but you did. (if this is ooc? too bad imagine cussing him out then lol)
♡ He only knew how to seduce, charm, manipulate or scare to get his way...He looked like you might as well have slapped him as he reeled back looking flabbergasted then tense and uncomfortable and finally angry in a defensive way.
♡ "Fine! Cry all ya want." before shoving off the wall maybe even hitting something or knocking something over with his temper on the way out.
♡ But...He does care. You don't realize how much him placing that ring on you out of all the victims that came through here means A LOT to him even if he gruffly acted like it was slavery and you owned by him. It was but also wasn't. He always craved domesticality under the bondage and ritualistic killings but had no idea what something like that even looks like
♡ At first, out of guilt he HATES feeling. This icky foreign feeling he's not use to...Oh he's a big baby. Slamming things, doing things extra loud, passive aggressive gestures.
♡ If you return it with silence and your own passive aggressive coldness he is absolutely losing it. He HATES being ignored. It triggers him as bad as being yelled at does; maybe even more!
♡ He is so PETTY at being ignored he starts doing shit just to piss you off like "Ya finally done with yer lil hissy fit and ready to apologize?"
!?
"Me!? You expect ME to apologize?"
He shrugs and sniffs; acting all nonchalant, "Yeah?" He made a mocking look to taunt you, "You expected me? Nah. Oh no, I ain't apologizin for shit."
You grit your teeth trying so hard not to do what he wants; yell. He wants you to yell, lose your cool, get you all angry so he can smirk that he got under your skin maybe even hoping it would end in bondage or make up sex...
You turned back to doing dishes since these two brotherly slobs sure the Hell didn't. "Well, then that's that then...Guess we have nothing to say."
♡ He's outraged and glaring daggers. Either yelling at you or storming out slamming the door. If he didn't love you he'd grab you by your hair and threaten you but sadly his heart aches at you mad at him or afraid of him
♡ After a while he will feel bad, or at least, want his wife back. If you were JUST a victim like he tries to act like sometimes then you would've been dead or dragged down to the room under the gas station for an 'attitude adjustment'...But you actually mean something to him.
♡ He knows dragging you down to that room as punishment for an actual domestic issue would make everything 10x worse. It would only make one of the few people (What? Vincent maybe Lester and you? That's it.) fear him or hate him and deep down inside he doesn't want that even if he DOES want your compliance
♡ Yelling? Oh he secretly loves it. Feels like 'I love you' to a traumatized guy like him. Crying? Eh, makes him feel bad but he can wave it off as you just being an over emotional female. Hitting? He'd get turned on and rough. A slap feels like kiss to him.
♡ Silent treatment? He hates it. Hates it so so much. It's like he's a teary eyed lil boy begging his parents to not be mad at him all over again or acting out just to get attention
♡ So, a few days later, you blink at him having fixed a cabinet you were complaining about in the kitchen and he laid your favorite snacks silently on the table. A tiny offering that felt like a creature giving it to you rather than a man. Like a dog giving you a dead bird with puppy eyes wanting to be told they did good.
♡ This was...A new side of Bo you weren't use to. He won't look at you, looks extra tense, waiting but uncomfortable.
"What's this?..." You asked softly in confusion. Secretly missing talking to him too.
He shifted his weight with his arms folded and eyes downcast, "Just...Got snacks ya might like while I was down at the store gettin' stuff to fix the cabinet." He shrugged averting his eyes and clearing his throat. "Thought...Ya been...Um...W-Workin' hard round here keepin' things a float and got em is all." He gave as awkward as a teen boy as you stared at him. "Ya really...Ya make this place home, ya know...Mama might even have competition. She'd be proud how you turned this place back to a home with a feminine touch."
He barely looked up through his lashes. His blue eyes secretly pleading with you for forgiveness he didn't know how to ask for or apology he didn't know how to give. Not without it feeling like ripping his own tongue out. All he knew was to hype you up in some way.
♡ This shit was getting out of hand like most arguments with him would and you were starting to realize him giving you snacks or fixing something like a caveman is the closest apology you'll get.
♡ You both hug it out and you pour your heart out while he stiffly hugs you and yet buries his tired face into your neck...He still will use his ego to justify in his mind that he was the bigger person BUT he's secretly keeping notes to not do xyz again.
♡ He's a good husband but he just needs redirected sometimes and he'll even tell you that.
