House Of Wax X You - Tumblr Posts
COUGH COUGH, this was too- much that I LOVE IT
Rings and Keeps
@fluffy-little-demon and @sketchy-rosewitch, I give you, your husband—
Bo Sinclair x reader
“Are you sure you haven’t seen him in the shop?”
“Sorry, y/n,” Lester said over the phone. “Haven’t seen Bo all day. Promise.”
You sighed tiredly and said, “Okay, Les. Call back if you hear from him.” You hung up and looked nervously at the front door again. It’s not like your fiancé to up and leave Ambrose without telling anyone, let alone, not tell you. So, why’d he left? What made him up and leave?
Is he getting milk and cigarettes like my dad did? You thought jokingly to yourself, but that didn’t help you at all.
Still, dinner had to be finished and put away. You didn’t want to eat without him, and you felt too nervous with him gone. So, you started pacing to keep your mind off things. Back and forth in the house you tried to keep your thoughts on something else. Baseball. Football. Weather. Vincent. Lester and his raccoon army (don’t tell the twins). Bo’s ass— but noting. You flopped down on the couch and hugged a throw pillow as you looked at the door.
Maybe he doesn’t love me? Maybe he up and left to figure out the best way to kill me?
“No, don’t think about that,” you told yourself in a whisper. “Bo’s fine. He might be getting something.”
When 10:30 struck on the clock, Bo’s truck lights lit up the front of the living room, but you were already asleep, cuddling Bo’s sweatshirt, when he walked in the house. He bit his lower lip nervously as his eyes found you sleeping on the sofa. Quietly, he took off his jacket and hung his hat next to a picture him and you, where he’s hugging you from behind and your laughing in the summer’s glow. Vincent took this gem and had it framed next to his hook on purpose, but Bo’s not one for complaining. It just reminds him what his aching arms are for when he comes home to you, to his beloved.
He kneels in front of you and kisses you gently to wake you up. “Sweetheart,” he drawled tiredly. “‘M home.”
He watched your sleepy eyes flutter open as he thumbed your cheek. “Bo? Where have you been?” Your voice is so soft and tired it reminds him of a kitten.
“Was gettin’ somethin’,” he hummed.
“What?”
“Gimme your right hand.”
You do as your told and showed him your hand. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a little black box. Your eyes brighten as he slipped on a simple silver ring with a small white diamond in the center. “It ain’t much,” he started, “but I thought ya need somethin’ better than ‘at paper ring.”
“Bo,” you sigh, getting a better look at it. “You didn’t—“
“Hush,” he said. “I wanna do something right for ya. So, I, well…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I sold the ‘86 Dodge.”
“But,” you sat up and held his cheeks. He rested into your touch and closed his eyes. “But that’s your baby!”
He shrugs. “I know, y/n, I know, but,” he kissed your palm, “I wanna to do something good for you. Somethin’ right.” He leaned back and took your hands. “I wanna to give ya somethin’ better than Mama’s ring. Shit,” he eyes shines as he looks up to meet your eyes, “when I saw ya looking at that ring the other day, I knew I had to get it for ya because…” his voice trails as his head fell. “I’m afraid to lose you. I have so much blood on my hands, so how? How can you even stand me? Let alone, love me?” You’ve never heard him talk like this before, and this side of trust was so valuable that you felt like he was glass waiting to shatter. “Just wanted to do something right for once.”
Your shoulders fell, and you pulled Bo into your chest, rubbing his back. “That’s why you’ve been nervous lately,” you sighed. “Beauregard, I love you no matter how bloody your hands get.” You curled your fingers through his hair. “And I love this ring because you got it for me.” You lifted his head and kisses his lips. “You never have to worry about me not loving you. I’ll always love you.”
Bo smiles and lays a kiss on your neck. “Even if I lose control?”
“Even if you lose control,” you reassured. Then your face turned serious. “But, promise me one thing?”
“Anything, y/n.”
You looked at him dead in the eye and said, “Don’t sell the T-Bird? I love that car.”
He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Promise, darlin’. I’m keeping that like I’m keeping you.” He placed a passionate kiss on your lips, rocking into you. “Now, on t’bed, sugar,” his voice rumbled like thunder in his chest, “been missing you all day.” He pulls you up and carries you bridal style. “Lemme make up for leavin’ ya alone like that.”
Oh my God! This is so cute! I love this so much! Thank you!
hello, I was wondering if you could do a female reader x Vincent Sinclair. Where the reader is very needy. Like she constantly just wants to be around him. They don't have to be talking just being around him is fine. If you don't write for house of wax that's fine. If you do this thank you. Have a good day!
Thank you for the request, I hope you like it. As I’m posting this I realized I kind of made the reader gender neutral because I never actually used pronouns. 🤍 gn!reader
You’re overwhelming, to say the least.
And that’s being kind.
Vincent was his mother’s favorite, but even she had to cover his face. She might have favored him over Bo, but she didn’t love him, not the way a mother should.
At least, that’s what you told him.
Vincent was never sure if he should believe you or not. Bo had instilled in him that their mother was a saint. It was hard to lose that idealized image of her and replace it with the one you presented. But with the way you clung to him, hovered around him without a word, he started to wonder if maybe you had a point.
Growing up, he wasn’t allowed to take the mask off. If he had to eat, his parent’s didn’t watch. He didn't know if it’s because he was so grotesque to them or because they couldn’t stand to see their failure. His mother was an artist, his father a doctor, yet somehow, they had created him. Formed him into this ugly and deformed creature.
He struggled to reconcile with the fact that, maybe, someone truly could love him. He struggled with coming to terms that someone as kind as you, could love him. Most days he didn’t believe you. He would watch you carefully while you sat by his side.
He waited for the inevitable, a look of disgust, a flinch when he came near. It never happened. He figured you were biding your time, sweetening him up and getting him to trust you before you made your escape. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the victims had done that to him.
He almost wished he was right, that you were just a liar. He waited for you to slip up so he’d have a reason to keep you here forever in Ambrose. But you never did. Each day, you grew bolder, your presence nearly suffocated him.
You don’t always touch him, you rarely ever talk. Your days are simply spent lingering around him, watching him work or reading while he sculpts. It’s odd, going from so many years on his own in his workshop to suddenly having a constant presence.
He wonders why you don’t just go with Bo. He was the more handsome twin, more charming and funny. He could talk, he could walk around without a mask and be comfortable with himself. There was a clear language barrier between you and Vincent.
His sign language was choppy at best because he’d had to learn it on his own. Bo and Lester learned some for him, but the family was pretty against it. You struggled to decipher his odd language but you still tried. He didn’t understand the effort. There was a “better” brother to choose from and, still, you stuck with him.
Just as he looks over at you, you move from your spot by his desk. His fingers loosen around the tools in his hand while he watches you. You stretch, back bowing and a low groan leaving you as you finally move for the first time all day. You shoot him a smile before heading up the stairs out of his workshop.
He stills and listens to the way your footsteps echo across the floorboards above him. You’re in the living room, you give a muffled greeting to Jonesy before heading towards the kitchen. His hands fidget restlessly with his tools but he can’t bring himself to get back to work.
He hates when you go upstairs without him. He’s worried that one day he’ll hear the door open and close and he won't be able to get upstairs in time to get you back. He worries that he’ll hear Bo and you together upstairs, either in a fight or doing something worse.
But you always come back. You’re never away from him for longer than you need to be. Your footsteps rush back towards the stairs and he feels some of the tension leave him.
When you come back downstairs, a plate of food for you both, he pulls your chair closer to him. A silent invitation to stay close, one you eagerly accept. You sit beside him, leaning over his shoulder, and admire the sketches splayed out across his desk.
You reach out, before he can stop you, and tug at the corner of one, pulling it out from under the others. Your eyes rove over the drawing of yourself, one of you sleeping on the couch he now keeps down here for you. You smile and glance up at him. When you lean forward and press a kiss against his masked cheek he wonders if maybe he needs you around just as much as you need him.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie House of Wax, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
hello, I was wondering if you could do a female reader x Vincent Sinclair. Where the reader is very needy. Like she constantly just wants to be around him. They don't have to be talking just being around him is fine. If you don't write for house of wax that's fine. If you do this thank you. Have a good day!
Thank you for the request, I hope you like it. As I’m posting this I realized I kind of made the reader gender neutral because I never actually used pronouns. 🤍 gn!reader
You’re overwhelming, to say the least.
And that’s being kind.
Vincent was his mother’s favorite, but even she had to cover his face. She might have favored him over Bo, but she didn’t love him, not the way a mother should.
At least, that’s what you told him.
Vincent was never sure if he should believe you or not. Bo had instilled in him that their mother was a saint. It was hard to lose that idealized image of her and replace it with the one you presented. But with the way you clung to him, hovered around him without a word, he started to wonder if maybe you had a point.
Growing up, he wasn’t allowed to take the mask off. If he had to eat, his parent’s didn’t watch. He didn't know if it’s because he was so grotesque to them or because they couldn’t stand to see their failure. His mother was an artist, his father a doctor, yet somehow, they had created him. Formed him into this ugly and deformed creature.
He struggled to reconcile with the fact that, maybe, someone truly could love him. He struggled with coming to terms that someone as kind as you, could love him. Most days he didn’t believe you. He would watch you carefully while you sat by his side.
He waited for the inevitable, a look of disgust, a flinch when he came near. It never happened. He figured you were biding your time, sweetening him up and getting him to trust you before you made your escape. It wouldn’t be the first time one of the victims had done that to him.
He almost wished he was right, that you were just a liar. He waited for you to slip up so he’d have a reason to keep you here forever in Ambrose. But you never did. Each day, you grew bolder, your presence nearly suffocated him.
You don’t always touch him, you rarely ever talk. Your days are simply spent lingering around him, watching him work or reading while he sculpts. It’s odd, going from so many years on his own in his workshop to suddenly having a constant presence.
He wonders why you don’t just go with Bo. He was the more handsome twin, more charming and funny. He could talk, he could walk around without a mask and be comfortable with himself. There was a clear language barrier between you and Vincent.
His sign language was choppy at best because he’d had to learn it on his own. Bo and Lester learned some for him, but the family was pretty against it. You struggled to decipher his odd language but you still tried. He didn’t understand the effort. There was a “better” brother to choose from and, still, you stuck with him.
Just as he looks over at you, you move from your spot by his desk. His fingers loosen around the tools in his hand while he watches you. You stretch, back bowing and a low groan leaving you as you finally move for the first time all day. You shoot him a smile before heading up the stairs out of his workshop.
He stills and listens to the way your footsteps echo across the floorboards above him. You’re in the living room, you give a muffled greeting to Jonesy before heading towards the kitchen. His hands fidget restlessly with his tools but he can’t bring himself to get back to work.
He hates when you go upstairs without him. He’s worried that one day he’ll hear the door open and close and he won't be able to get upstairs in time to get you back. He worries that he’ll hear Bo and you together upstairs, either in a fight or doing something worse.
But you always come back. You’re never away from him for longer than you need to be. Your footsteps rush back towards the stairs and he feels some of the tension leave him.
When you come back downstairs, a plate of food for you both, he pulls your chair closer to him. A silent invitation to stay close, one you eagerly accept. You sit beside him, leaning over his shoulder, and admire the sketches splayed out across his desk.
You reach out, before he can stop you, and tug at the corner of one, pulling it out from under the others. Your eyes rove over the drawing of yourself, one of you sleeping on the couch he now keeps down here for you. You smile and glance up at him. When you lean forward and press a kiss against his masked cheek he wonders if maybe he needs you around just as much as you need him.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie House of Wax, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.