LOVESTRUCK // Slashers x Fem Reader

Chapter 42 - A Perfect Sculpture of the Flesh

[A/N - Heyo Gummy Bears! I'm trying to advertise this everywhere I can, so sorry for the interruption to the story. I'm not only a writer - I'm also an artist. You all may recall that picture of Diamond I drew wayyyy back after chapter... *going back to look* ...dear god. Chapter 13. My style has changed a lot since then because, y'know, I finally actually found my style. Point is - I do commissions. And, frankly, I would love to be doing more because I have a school trip I have to pay for. I figured advertising to my largest audience would be smart? So here's the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KXg9-f4aMlejJCqmctU809Y4A2g-2Eo_3XpW9YNZyJs/edit?usp=sharing (you might have to copy paste it or something if it doesn't click idk)

If you buy something, thank you. If you don't, thank you anyways. Anyone who has read this book has my gratitude. I never expected anything I did to draw this much attention. And I'm so sorry about my long absence recently - but I promise I'm going to do my best to write more often. Thank you - All of you - for supporting the work that I do.

Now then. Long ass diatribe over - let's get to the story, yes?]

You lifted your head to look at Bo. you hadn't been listening at all, so you really had no clue what was going on.

"Sorry, I was lost in thought. What were you saying?"

Bo grunted, "I threatened to kill you and here you are spacing out. Damn moron..."

Instead of responding to his statement, you instead took notice of what felt like a more pressing matter at the time - the hulking figure behind him wearing a wax mask. All three of the brothers. You'd met all of them. Lester, Bo, and now Vincent.

"Point is, I was saying that this here is my brother Vincent. And he's going to handle you while I go out and take care of any other issues," Bo explained. You could tell it was a threat. But fear had never felt so far from you as now.

"Okay."

Your one word response caught the both of them quite off guard.

"Okay? You got a death wish or something?" Bo's fists clenched. He was beyond angry, but... you just couldn't bring yourself to care.

"I suppose so."

The mechanic huffed and walked out of the house, shouting back as he did, "She's your problem now, Vince!"

Once he was gone, you sighed in relief and stared up at the ceiling, "...Vincent, huh? Well, I've really fucked up now, haven't I?"

But Vincent didn't feel too murderous right now. He couldn't have told you why, if you asked, but... there was no need to kill. He studied you for a long minute - debating. Why wasn't he dragging you to the basement?

And as he studied you, he realized why. There was nothing he needed to sculpt. There was no need to smooth your skin. No need to carve your face, nor melt your flesh. It was already so perfectly sculpted.

No artist - not even him in his endless skill - could have replicated Mother Earth's perfect creation. No art could make as perfect a beast as this.

But of course, those are thoughts best kept in one's mind - not spoken aloud to their target. Well, that, and the fact that his vocal abilities were about on par with Bubba Sawyer's.

However, there was one thing that bothered him. Surely such a perfect beauty as this should never have such dulled eyes. The passion held in them should shimmer and glow, yet it instead felt as if they were gems covered in dirt and grime. The muck of life dimming glowing jewels.

Another thing was your clothes. They were filthy. This, at least, made sense to Vincent. You had been running around all night and almost died. Anyone would be a bit grimy, yes? Perhaps you should clean up. But how to tell you... Oh!

Vincent tapped you on the shoulder and made a scribbling gesture with his hands. You - recalling Bubba's similar inability to speak - reached into your purse to reveal a notepad and pen. Good thing you brought the mom purse.

He took it and scribbled down a note - a much longer one than you expected. And his penmanship was beautiful...

"I have some spare clothes for my sculptures that might fit you. Would you like to take a bath and I can lend them to you?"

You'd done it again. Very impressive and all, but you were very much trying to die, and this was, in fact, not going to kill you. But, as you reasoned before, dying may not be the smartest decision.

"Uhm, thanks man. I'd love that actually. Can you show me where the bathroom is?"

Perhaps with a hint too much eagerness, he stood and grabbed your hand, guiding you to the bathroom. He wasn't dragging you or anything - in fact, he was being quite gentle to you. But it was, obviously, a little awkward.

He opened the bathroom door and let go of you, then grabbed a towel from the linen closet for you. He scribbled again on the notepad,

"I'll get clothes and leave them outside the door. Enjoy your bath."

You nodded and took the towel, then shut the door.

You hated the days without bathing during road trips. They were the worst. And you frankly felt disgusting.

You stripped out of your clothes, and stepped into the tub. You almost freaked out when you realized you had no clue how to use the faucet handle, but quickly realized it was a simple one, and you wouldn't have to jump through hoops to get some fucking warm water.

You pulled over the curtain and began to bathe, sighing happily as the grime washed off of you. It was... nice. You still felt like shit mentally, but at least you weren't covered in dirt and sweat. It's better to be clean and depressed than dirty and depressed.

The shower was nicer than you expected for their murder-shack mansion. It was clean and well-kept, and there was actually fucking soap. Like, there wasn't just a container of 3 in 1 or something - something you could easily expect from Bo at least. He just seemed the type - instead there was actual shampoo and conditioner, and body wash!

Though, admittedly, for all that Vincent was this big, burly, scary guy, he did seem like kind of a pretty-boy. He had the hair, the penmanship. He was an artist. Give him all the muscle you like, but that shampoo bottle said L'oreal, okay?

Not that you were complaining. You were clean and comfy. You were still upset and felt like an absolutely horrid human being - no amount of soap could wash that away - but you did at least not feel grimy.

***

Vincent had a lovely eye for fashion, and his sewing was sublime, but in all his searching, he found nothing in his arsenal of outfits that could possibly do your form justice. Vincent - terrifying though he was - was an artist. And in the short time that he'd laid his eyes upon you, you had inspired him more than anything else ever had.

But he just didn't have the fucking time to sew something new. So he looked through the wardrobe of clothes again - this time with the conclusion that nothing would be able to compliment you as well as he wished. He could make you something else later.

He found an outfit he figured would look nice on you, and hung it on the door knob of the bathroom. He wasn't going to barge in - no matter how beautiful you were.

***

It was about seven in the morning when Diamond awoke feeling horrendously ill to his stomach. He wasn't sick. But something in his gut felt wrong. His sickness turned to horror quite quickly when he lifted his head to see that you weren't sitting next to him asleep in the car anymore.

Where had you gone?

[Words: 1135]