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ohmantarzan · 2 years ago

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TO THE WOLVES.

𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁. | one-shot — not requested.

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴. | bo sinclair / fem!reader / vincent sinclair.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁. | 5.8K.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀. | threesome (m/f/m), mild degradation, spitting, vaginal fingering, dry humping, vaginal sex, breast play, tiddy sucking, dirty talk, descriptions of cum, breeding kink if you squint, begging, choking, biting, etc. this was extremely horny and I’m not apologizing.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲. | wow I’m back ?? this was my first big writing project of the year and I think I’ll probably do more with it, honestly. thanks for being so patient. I said I’d have this done a month ago (lmao I lied) but here it is. extremely proud of this one. thanks for your support, I love you all so much!

TAGLIST: @dootys ; @reveluving ; @sat10 ; @milland ; @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better ; @iamcautiouslyoptimistic ; @darklylucid ; @sirstompely ; @chaotichellscape ; @callsigncrash ; @peachygothgirl ; @manicpixiimurderdoll ; @sandeepics ; @rainbowcreepie ; @kiki-dohedo

August hung like a noxious cloud, oozing with sticky humidity and a brutal heat like no other. Crawdads sang in the dead of night, a cacophony that rose above the thick, Louisiana marshlands. Any heat was enough to drive you away indoors, to the cooler gloom of the Sinclair household — windows down, curtains billowing in the night.

Hikers and sightseers became increasingly prevalent, roaming the woods with a giddiness that would soon be snuffed out forever. It was best if you kept away from the onslaught that was to come, but you were never very far — screams echoed from the basement, silenced by a wax tomb.

A passive accomplice, that was what you were. Present for it all, never dissuading the twins from persuing their town of terror. Perhaps a sliver of you, a depraved splinter enjoyed it all, unconsciously reveling in the suffering, but you didn’t know yourself anymore.

Faces came and went, faces forever sealed inside wax, inside of the museum. Each with eyes that screamed fear, begging for a quick demise — eyes that lost such a lively sheen as time passed.

Sometimes you wondered what it was like to inhabit Bo’s brain, or perhaps Vincent’s — those fractured, mystifying minds that were capable of such immeasurable destruction. You would never exude chaos like they could, never be molded into their protégé, but you were their anchor.

Bo liked to pet your hair, whisper strings of vulgar words into your ear, tell you how much he wanted you. He was the thunder — tumultuous, rancorous and boisterous, yet clouded with a gloom that you couldn’t quite place, nor penetrate. Many people feared thunder, as it meant a storm was approaching, but thunder often paled in comparison to lightning.

That was Vincent — the lightning. Quick, unpredictable, unyielding — beautiful in the most terrifying of ways. He was some coiled predator, his rage subdued, agony subtle. It was hidden beneath the pale visage of a mask and beneath the many wax statues he’d poured countless hours into. Vincent’s hands were delicate, yet forged to kill, perhaps more than Bo’s ever were.

As you laid in bed, layered in a sheen of perspiration and trapped within a snare of sheets, you were only half-awake. Floorboards creaked underneath the quick, haughty steps of Bo, whose calloused fingers dragged against your cheek, his gentle way of rousing you.

“Hey,” A hoarse utterance emerged from his chapped lips, temples glittering with sweat from the fog of Louisiana heat. “Need your help.” Bo felt a pang of irritation for waking you, but it was urgent.

Stirring to consciousness, your vision swam with the bleariness of sleep, brows furrowing together. It wasn’t common for Bo to wake you in the dead of night like this, but you pushed yourself upright anyway, reaching for your robe. “What’s wrong?” You asked, attempting to swallow the growing lump within your throat.

Bo’s resolve was steadily fracturing, like the cracking of a stone foundation. He maintained a tempered glower for now, jaw set with an uncomfortable tension. “Vincent.” It only took a singular word for you to understand the gravity of the situation.

Haste drove you as you skittered out of bed, following Bo down the stairs and into the kitchen. You could make out the back of Vincent’s head — raven-coloured tresses somewhat disheveled, lithe form slumped-over within one of the wooden chairs. He was never out like this — you knew how much Bo’s twin preferred the sanctuary of the basement, his slice of seclusion.

Part of Vincent’s sweater had been torn apart, frayed fabric seeped in barely-dried crimson. The basement door was agape, and so was the front door. A shape of a body was laying just outside on the front steps, and you wondered if one of the victims had attempted an escape.

“He asked for you,” Bo’s voice did not retain the usual venom. The elder Sinclair was possessive over you, but the grievous injuries his brother had sustained far outweighed his own volatility. “M’askin’ you t’do what you can for him.”

Something pulled at your heartstrings, then and there — Vincent rarely requested your company. It was enough to warrant a look of surprise, but you couldn’t afford to stew within your own feelings.

“Of course.” Your gaze shifted, meeting Bo’s own fiery hues as he edged toward the doorway. A new pressure arose, taking care of his wounded twin, but you had stitched Bo up countless times before. This wouldn’t be any different.

It was the first time you had witnessed such vulnerability from Vincent, though unwilling, it still struck you as foreign. You fumbled around the kitchen for everything you’d need, returning to his side without an utterance.

Bo took care of the corpse outside — a likely distraction from the present. It was always him in Vincent’s position, bloodied and beaten, being torn apart and sewn up by you more times than he could count. His helplessness in the matter would be his own undoing if he didn’t keep himself occupied.

From the shadow of the front steps, Bo watched as you cleaned his brother’s wounds, gentle as to not startle him. It wasn’t your actions that made him grit his teeth, but the haunting manner in which Vincent ogled you, head canted downwards. Bo knew that look — intimately understood how his twin must’ve been staring, raking you in over and over — because it was the very same way he looked at you, too.

For the longest time, Bo deprived his twin of you, afraid that he’d come to blows over his own ugly, possessive desire, but his mind began to change. His own thoughts began to blossom into something insidious, fueled by a multitude of things — lust, frenzy, you, and perhaps an understanding of his own flesh and blood.

An understanding of what it was like to want — to fester with desire, bleeding want and endlessly yearning for something that you couldn’t have. In a moment of vulnerability, Bo felt a pang of sympathy for his twin.

As he hauled the body toward his truck, it left the both of you out of-sight, for now.

Vincent’s cerulean hue fluttered toward the door — Bo no longer stood vigil, lost to the dusk, prompting him to focus on you. He could detect his searing glare from the beyond, as if he possessed some sixth sense for his brother’s disdainful jealousy. He valued his twin’s feelings, but a sliver of it evaporated when it came to you.

You — uncomfortably seated on dirtied floorboards, knees digging into decades-old wood as your hands scurried to tend to him. Vincent wholly understood why Bo was enamored with you. It was difficult not to be, in truth — what man wouldn’t be?

Nimble fingers curled into the dirtied, rib-knit fabric, keeping his sweater aloft, allowing you to work unhindered. It was a deeper gash than he thought, but never enough to incapacitate him. He was stronger than that, pushing himself to the very edge over and over again.

His torso resembled a battlefield, scars etched deep into his pale flesh, livid and seething. Each mark told a story — a victim, an incident, or perhaps something more. Vincent kept a thinly-veiled investment into your movements, gaze fluttering across the delicate bend of your digits. Warm water cleansed the blood from his skin, towel and pressure soon to follow.

Feeling the residual effects from Bo’s tempestuous stare and aloof demeanor, you kept quiet, dutifully working on Vincent’s wounds. The silence was deafening — perhaps too loud, filling the gap with an unusual tension. He was eerily still, glittering eye glued to you, fluttering back and forth as he followed you.

Vincent often experienced something close to jealousy whenever he saw you and Bo together — some concealed sliver of his being yearned for that closeness, too. Envy became an understatement, and his fantasies were often locked away within wax statues. He wouldn’t dare intrude on what he presumed to be Bo’s, yet a string of intrusive thoughts began to take root, salacious seeds soon to blossom into something darker.

Both were callous in their own way — Bo was verbally obtuse, whereas Vincent was physically indifferent. Yet, both were violently possessive in similar ways, more than you were aware of. It would be a volatile clash if they were both involved at an intimate level. Vincent knew that Bo would never relinquish you without malice and hostility involved somehow.

Even now, with his twin nowhere in sight, he maintained a great deal of self-control, digits tensing against the tabletop. A sanguine glow enveloped you, cast in blood-orange and the dismal, pale kitchen light — the prettiest creature he’d ever seen.

It would’ve been so swift — brushing the top of your hair, ghosting his fingertips across the contour of your jawline, or perhaps leaning closer to inhale your scent. Yet, it all felt wrong, as if he were attempting to take something that didn’t belong to him. Vincent exhaled, slow and melancholy, before leaning back within the chair.

Curiosity and concern brought about your voice, words bubbling to the surface at last. “What happened?” The wound could’ve been a product of a great many things, and you decided to not voice your list of assumptions.

“Glass.” Vincent’s digits moved sluggishly, his signing seemingly exhausted. His hawkish gaze drifted toward the glittering shards that were partially scattered across the living room floor. It must’ve been a sizable shard of glass — he’d taken a gruesome hit.

Your brow furrowed, expression twitching with concern. “I’m sorry.” The apology slipped from your lips, laced with an underlying apprehension.

“No,” You apologized for things beyond your control, and your understanding — Vincent was to blame for the carnage, and he was willing to accept accountability. “Happened more times than I can count.” He signed, a soft grunt escaping him as you began to stitch flesh together again.

Sorrow sank into your bones — Vincent always had Bo present to pick him up, stitch him back together again. You wondered what would happen if he wasn’t around to do so. You weren’t a constant in their lives until recently, but you envisioned Vincent mending himself with those dexterous hands, hands that breathed life into wax, and snuffed it out all the same.

“Tell me if it’s too much, it isn’t a shallow wound.” Your mumble emerged from between frowning lips and a voice that commanded concentration. It was easy to immerse yourself in Vincent — he was noticeably different from his brother. Vincent was wiry and musculed, but wore it like a sleek jungle cat.

Bo held muscle in his arms — the taut, working hands of a skilled mechanic, rugged and calloused. The rest of him was stout and not nearly as lithe as his twin, who stood above him in stature. You enjoyed mulling over the comparisons, the intricate details that caught your eye, be it a scar or otherwise.

Hawkish eyes carefully roved over you, drinking you in as if he’d never seen you before — again, and again, and again. Vincent could watch you like this for an eternity from behind the curtain of midnight hair and the wax-laden visage.

He tensed and bit at his sleeve as you gained ground with the stitching, over halfway through. You could detect his pain — it was palpable, rolling off of him in red-hot waves that you wanted to quell so very terribly. “Almost done,” You breathed, noticing his white knuckles grappling at the tabletop. “Sorry.” The apology emerged, rushed as ever.

Vincent’s hands were terrifying and beautiful altogether — and in the midst of mending flesh, your mind descended into a flurry of depravity. What would it feel like for him to touch you, mold you in the way he did with wax? It was sudden, took you by surprise — so much so, that heat consumed your body, a purging fire.

Only his twin had touched you — it was often rough, twined with spurts of need and carnal lust and affection all twisted into some unruly knot. Bo was good to you, better when he wanted to be, but your thoughts began to dwell on Vincent.

How would he make you feel?

As you completed the last stitch, your throat grew tight, as if this foreign swarm of newfound sensations had stolen the breath from your lungs. Part of you felt guilty, as if this was the start of a horrible betrayal against Bo — none of it was intentional.

Sluggishly, Vincent began to uncoil his body, as if the tension washed away all at once. Despite the searing pain from his abdomen, the worst was over — medication could fix it.

“Vincent,” Your voice had dropped an octave, strenuous from tension and soft all the same, “You okay?” His lack of a reaction had prompted your concern, but maybe that was just it — he was accustomed to the pain.

“I’ll be fine.” Vincent signed, slumping backward into the rickety chair, despite the uncomfortable nature of the object itself. A soft, breathy sigh escaped him, barely audible through the waxy seal of the mask. He watched you stand, fingertips matted with his blood.

As you lingered at his side for a moment longer, goosebumps erupted like a plague across your flesh, feeling the sensation of his hand catch yours. Vincent’s touch was unusually gentle, perhaps an extension of gratitude, but it lasted much longer to be only that — your throat became tight, warmth soon to follow.

“Vincent,” A hapless gasp escaped you, likely worried of Bo’s impending return. “Is everything —“

The vice-like snare of his grasp began to tighten, as if commanding you to stay for only a moment, no recoiling. With his available hand, he signed, piercing gaze boring right through you like the bite of a knife. “Thank you.” The calloused pad of his thumb drifted across your knuckles, then.

“Y’finished with ‘im?” Bo’s tempered drawl filled the room — his hands were dirtied, in the process of being wiped clean by a stained rag. He pretended not to notice his twin clinging onto you, crossing the threshold from entryway to kitchen.

“Yeah.” Reluctantly, you slipped away from Vincent, nearly leaping sideways when Bo made himself known. An uncomfortable sensation began to flourish within the pit of your stomach, a gnawing that refused to cease.

It would’ve been dishonest of him to admit that he didn’t feel some seething streak of jealousy when Vincent grasped for your hand — Bo felt it fester, snap like the crack of a whip, before diminishing. He keenly studied the startled look you wore, picking it apart, dissecting you as you passed him into the kitchen.

Bo made the short stride toward his twin, crouching down in the very same spot you were in just moments beforehand. This was done intentionally, swiftly — while you were distracted with cleaning up, he spoke in hushed whispers to Vincent.

The brothers kept low, a conversation done in rugged utterances and the brief movement of curious fingers. Bo momentarily peered over his shoulder, hawkishly watching as you washed yourself free of his twin’s blood, tidied up the kitchen afterwards.

It was agreed upon, then — Vincent’s gaze held a vast amount of understanding, and perhaps a twinge of gratitude. Bo fought against a salacious grin, yet it forcefully tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. Both of them moved at once, as if their minds were one. Vincent lingered at the fringes of the table, movements unhindered by his injury.

You entered the fray, cleansed and dazed — your countenance reflected a semblance of confusion as Bo sauntered toward you. Something seemed off, as if the tension had suddenly flared to life, but a different tension — it lacked envy or malice, this one more familiar to you.

“She’s real pretty, ain’t she, Vince?” Bo drawled, clicking his tongue as he began to circle you like a predator flying overhead. He reveled in the way you shrank — a sheepish, bashful little thing. It was the instantaneous nature of it that left him feeling victorious, chest swelling with pride.

“Bo,” Your voice rose above a whisper, but only slightly. Instead, your stomach fluttered with butterflies, a nervousness gnawing its way into your very bones. “Stop.” Meek — your trembling tone reeked of it.

Bo finally stopped by your right side, swiping the pad of his thumb over your jaw. “Real sweet too, must be, puttin’ up with th’two of us,” As you opened your mouth to protest, he squeezed, forcing you to tense — your lips quivered. “Should hear her in bed. Mewlin’ like a little kitten.”

Vincent’s posture remained unnaturally rigid, though as Bo rambled on about the lascivious nature of your relationship, he slacked. Instead, he inched forward, tall and lithe as he leered in your direction — the electricity felt from his ogling alone was enough to make your knees shake. Dark tresses framed his visage, no obstructions this time.

“Yeah, you’ll see,” Bo purred into your ear, calloused digits stroking along your flesh, evoking a wave of gooseflesh that prickled across your skin. “Bet y’think ‘bout her, don’t you?” His inquiry was sharp, fringed with a faint venom, directed right at his brother.

You froze, a shudder rolling down your spine, skin feeling like an open furnace, as if fire had devoured you whole. The tension had reached an uncomfortable high, able to be sliced with the dullest of knives. “Bo,” You urged, unsure of where he was going with this. “What are you doing?”

He was hungry — a leering wolf, with sharp teeth and a ravenous stare. “M’brother likes lookin’ at y’too,” Bo husked, bleeding heat from behind you now. It was enough to evoke a shudder, your flesh creeping with an insatiable warmth. “You want him?”

There were little indications of humour — Bo’s voice remained steely, impervious to your bewilderment. Roughened digits slipped underneath your chin, directing your stare toward Vincent. It almost felt akin to some fever dream, a mirage that teased you in the dead of night.

No — this was reality.

“I—I…” Your stammer turned uncertain. If Bo expected honesty, he surely knew the answer already, didn’t he? Concern ate away at your gut — you were terrified of hurting Bo if you admitted your growing desires. What were you supposed to say?

“Be honest, sweetheart. M’bein’ real generous right now, he knows it.” Bo uttered along the cartilage of your ear, teeth gently scraping enough to make you shiver. He liked that — he drowned himself in making you so wound-up. “I ain’t a fuckin’ fool.” He murmured, nipping at the skin just underneath your earlobe.

A flame burned within your belly — a fire that demanded to be extinguished. You felt feverish, feeling the heat creep along your skin like a virus, or some haze. You were staring at Vincent now, who was closer than he was moments prior. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation began to feel heavy.

“Yes,” There was a relief you felt, in confessing. “I want the both of you,” Your voice nearly trailed off into some pathetic whine. “I want you both so bad.” You felt so desperate, in the best way possible. You knew that you were in for it, but the exhilaration replaced the nervousness.

“Mm,” Bo smirked, pressing a chaste kiss against the side of your head, nose briefly nestled atop your crown. “Hear that, Vince? She wants us both.” Leading the charge, he shamelessly reached around, groping at your breast in front of his twin who stood mere inches away, within arm’s reach.

Two layers of thin fabric was all that separated you from them — your baggy nightshirt and panties, concealed by the hem of the shirt itself. Bo was itching, chomping at the bit to see how much of a mess you’d become, a listless lust dancing beneath his mischievous stare.

Vincent finally closed in, peering toward his brother for approval. His dexterous hand closed around the hilt of his ivory knife, which sat soundly against his hip, begging to be utilized.

“No kissin’,” Bo uttered, his command directed toward Vincent — not you. “If y’fuck her, pull out, or this’ll never happen again.” The regulations were set — Vincent was willing to adhere to them. Kissing wasn’t something he sought from you, anyway. “Everythin’ else is fair game.”

Bo liked your mouth — that was his. He was being benevolent enough by sharing you, and Vincent knew this. As both twins shared an unspoken acknowledgment of boundaries, the fun was set to begin, and it was off to a jarring start as razor-sharp silver sliced down through your shirt.

A hapless gasp escaped you, emerging from the back of your throat. Vincent watched, endlessly hungry, desire flickering to life within his singular eye. He tugged the torn garment away, and your flesh prickled with goosebumps, due to some sick thrill coupled with the cool air.

Using the sofa as a crutch, Bo was comfortable enough to keep you pinned against him, his chest pressed snugly into your back. “Don’t be shy, Vince.” He growled, kneading your breasts between calloused fingers, planting a string of hot kisses along your neck.

You moaned, sheepishly ogling Vincent through half-lidded lashes. His breathing hitched — your eyes connected for a moment, enough for him to smooth his palm across your stomach, teasing the waistband of your panties.

It was brief — he lifted his hand toward his mask, slipping it aside enough to place two fingers into his mouth, coating his digits in spit. The realization of his intentions was what hit you the most, a pang of arousal that gathered between your legs.

Vincent’s hand lowered, quick to journey toward the juncture between your thighs. One hand tangled into a fist around your panties, tugging them down enough to barge in between, parting your legs with his sinewy frame.

His touch was incendiary — hot like the lick of an open flame, raking embers across your aching cunt. Vincent’s wet fingers found their way to your clit, causing you to sputter, whimper his name in as he stroked along your slit. He kept a steady rhythm, though it almost felt exploratory, as if he were dissecting you.

“Vincent,” You moaned, hips jolting into his hand, body beginning to rattle. Bo’s hands kept busy, nipples tugged and tortured through his thumb and forefinger, teeth grazing along the dip between your neck and shoulder. “Vince.”

The stark contrast between the brothers became glaringly apparent as time passed — you could find favor in both methods of intimacy. Vincent’s touch was borderline obsessive, yet he reveled in the compliance, the surrender. His digits continued to rub against your slit, until he began to work his way inside of you.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering erratically as his fingers sluggishly invaded your cunt. Swallowed by your tight heat, Vincent easily fell into some sort of pattern, moving his digits forward and back, just enough to make you squirm.

Bo’s digits wove their way into your hair, tugging you back at an angle, enough for his mouth to collide with yours — teeth, tongue, and lust. His jeans chafed against your backside, met with friction and the tangible protrusion of his erection. “Y’like that, don’t you?” He mumbled.

In between a flurry of feverish kisses, you could barely catch your breath, trapped between Vincent’s dexterous fingers and Bo’s greedy maw. He bit your lower lip, sharp enough to draw blood, coppery twang spattering against your tongue. Another simpering moan escaped you as Vincent curled his digits inside of you, thumb pressing to your clit.

“Yeah,” Bo exhaled, tongue catching crimson as he lapped at your mouth. “Lemme hear you.” He slurred, one hand wrestling with his belt in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure mounting within his cock.

You moaned again, cunt clenching around Vincent, legs beginning to quiver. “M’close.” A whimper tore past your lips, haplessly wedged between them. The taller twin let his fingers increase in speed, slipping in and out of your wet slit with a newfound haste. His free hand fell to your hip, as if guiding you toward an orgasm.

There wasn’t any room for recuperation — you came on Vincent’s fingers, nearly seeing stars, a white-hot haze blurring your senses. Bo spun you around, at his mercy as you faced him. Vincent was right behind you, chest nudging against your back, dark tresses brushing against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“Open that pretty mouth, baby.” His voice was an alluring husk. Bo’s countenance was glazed with lust, hues dark and fiery — it was intense, more than you’d ever seen before. His thumb pried your mouth apart, caressing your lower lip as a show of affection.

Bo was shameless as he spit into your mouth, palm clasped tightly against the side of your jaw, digits unnaturally tense. It was more than enough to send another surge of heat between your legs, cunt still oozing with wetness and warmth.

“Fuckin’ slut, aren’t ‘cha?” Grit and desire struck you right to your core, his tone dropping an octave as he watched you swallow his saliva without an ounce of protest. Bo kissed the corner of your mouth, his hand now replacing Vincent’s. “Wet from that, look at you.” He crooned.

“Please Bo,” As pathetic as it seemed, you were desperate to have him inside of you — it didn’t matter for how long, or how much. You wanted to scratch the itch, to have the brothers fill the void within you. “Bo, fuck,” Your voice ran ragged, high-pitched and needy. “Please, Vince.”

Vincent purred — a sound akin to the low rolling of thunder. His fingers deftly swept across your shoulder, sweeping tresses aside as one hand loosened his belt. It made your heart skip a beat, stomach sloshing with anticipation.

“What d’you think, Vince? Should we let her have it?” Bo smirked — wolfish, a true mastermind as he toyed with you, as if you were nothing more than fodder for hungry predators. “She’s real needy.” He uttered, digits caressing along your cheek.

The jingling of an unclasped belt caught your attention, followed by the feeling of Vincent’s cock nestled against your rump. Gooseflesh tore across your skin like a tidal wave, and you swallowed the growing lump within your throat — he wasn’t shrewd by any means.

Bo let out a derisive snort, lip curling in a sneer. “Guess yer goin’ first,” He wasn’t thrilled, but at least he could take his time with you afterwards — torture you a little. Instead, his mouth lowered to the column of your throat, teeth playfully nicking sensitive flesh. “Mm.”

Vincent was less practiced, and twice as vigorous as his twin — his cock found its way to your cunt, and without warning, he thrust himself into you. A strangled whimper left you, devoured by Bo’s hungry kiss. Wax-laden palms clasped the curve of your hips, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he began to fuck you.

It was rough — you half expected Vincent to be sluggish, but his excitement and adrenaline had contorted him into nothing more than an avatar of lust. His cock smacked into your cunt with a plethora of lewd noises, stretching and filling you in a way that Bo couldn’t.

“Fuck,” You groaned, body glued to Bo’s. He was keeping busy, lips lowering from neck to collarbone, and then to your breasts. He was bent at an awkward angle, but as soon as his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, it was pure bliss. “Bo, Vincent.” A whine left you.

Vincent’s grunts resonated just beside your ear, then. Every inch of him was consumed by your cunt, tight around him as he continued to fuck you. It was hot and messy, his pace sometimes scattered and erratic, as if he didn’t know what rhythm to adopt.

You would’ve given anything to stay static within the moment — within them. The voracious way in which Vincent clawed at your flesh, fucked you as if it would be his very last, kept your head spinning around in circles. Bo handled you as if you were molded from obsidian — unbreakable and precious, lips greedily sucking at your breast. The sensations you experienced were prodigious — you felt worshipped, no — coveted.

Wax had shuffled aside, spurred by Vincent’s yearning to just taste you — even if it was brief. Goosebumps prickled across your shoulder as roughened, misshapen lips graced your flesh, unusually gentle. It was a stark contrast to his animalistic thrusts, cock buried deep inside of you whilst his mouth treated you like a princess.

Ragged breathing fanned out across your skin, staggeringly warm, coming in erratic spurts to match Vincent’s sporadic thrusts. It was where he’d always wanted to be — next to you, tangled within you, and now, his opportunity had become reality. His hips snapped forward again, swiftly recoiling to spill himself on you.

Ropes of sticky cum lay glistening against your rump and back. He obeyed Bo’s wishes, despite every fiber in his being urging him otherwise. Vincent watched with silent glee as your legs trembled, rattling like leaves. You hadn’t come again, but Bo was about to leave you unable to walk.

“How’s about another,” Bo crooned, teeth gently nibbling along your earlobe. You scrambled for the correct words, to beg again, but it all died within your throat when you felt Bo’s cock slide against your slick heat. “There we go.”

Vincent’s warmth had left you, his figure retreating away, far enough for him to watch. He had been deprived of watching your countenance when he’d fucked you — his own obsessive tendencies kicked in, a dark and twisted thing. Now, he wanted to see — wanted to hear you, let the memory linger.

Bo was being beyond generous, a sentiment that waxed and waned. If his brother was content with being an observer, he was going to put on a little show. His lips curled into a devious grin, swiveling around to push you up against the sofa, placing high enough to wrap your legs around his hips.

“Want you t’beg for it,” Bo snarled, playfully nipping at your lower lip. “Let m’brother hear whose cock you want.” It was lewd — filthy expletives leaving his mouth in ragged strings. You felt a twinge of guilt, prepared to give Bo exactly what he wanted, but your relationship was, admittedly, much closer.

“Yours, Bo,” Instantaneously, your voice climbed in octave, reaching a pitch of desperation as you haplessly clawed at Bo’s arms. You clung to him, grappling for his shoulders. “I want you, Bo, please!” You whined. “Fuck me!” You weren’t very shy about the volume, either.

Satisfied, Bo thrust himself into your tight cunt, gritting his teeth at the familiar sensation. One hand kept you steady, poised against the curve of your waist, the other finding purchase around your throat. Calloused digits sat snug just underneath your jaw, occasionally applying spurts of pressure.

Your lips fell slack, head lazily lolled backwards as Bo began to fuck you, his pace steady and somewhat sloppy. He’d been waiting, he’d been patient — he wanted what was his. For a moment, your gaze flickered toward Vincent, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken his eyes off of you whatsoever.

It made your body burn, flesh crawling with an incendiary heat. Vincent wasn’t focused on the act itself — he was fixated on you. The fluctuations within your visage, the hooded glaze of desire that danced within your eyes, and the supple curves of your form — that was what Vincent reveled in. He cared little for his brother’s antics, but you made it all worthwhile.

Bo’s mouth tangled with yours, effectively tearing your attention away from Vincent altogether. It brought you back to now, to the scent of sex, the growling, bodies all wrapped up within one another. His fingers pressed against your neck, lips all-consuming and ravenous, teeth and tongue and boastfulness.

His cock battered away at your cunt, thighs quivering from the amount of stimulation you’d already been subjected to, enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bo!” You squeaked, nails digging into the jean fabric of his button-down, holding onto him for dear life. “Bo, I — m’close.”

“Gettin’ shy?” He teased, pressing a kiss against the side of your face. Bo was borderline ruthless, picking up his pace from steady to needy, staking his claim, festering with a desire to cum inside of you. “Jus’ a little more, sweetface.” Bo murmured.

Every fiber of your being was set ablaze, and to the brothers, you looked so beautiful like this — succumbing, all ensnared within your own lust, just laid bare.

You felt euphoric, legs trembling as he fucked you senseless, about as rough as he could be without really hurting you. Precum slathered his groin, tendrils of it shooting into your cunt, his cock pulsating and throbbing with warmth. He pounded into you like a man possessed, letting his hand fall away from your jugular, slithering in between your thighs instead.

As soon as his thumb circled your clit against, you cried out, and it was over for you, then. Your body jolted and jerked, reduced to putty within his grasp, cumming on his cock without any warning. Vincent savored the blissful look you bore — eyes nearly closed, lips agape, head rolled back.

Bo grunted, snapping forward once more for good measure, cumming in-tandem with you. Virile ropes of cum flooded your cunt, all inside of you, just as he wanted. It was the rapturous aftermath that allowed the both of you to settle, chests heaving with exhilaration. Perspiration had built up upon Bo’s brow and along the valley between your breasts.

Once he pulled out of you, messy and sluggish, your feet wobbled as you landed upon solid ground. Vincent had stood up somewhere in between, lingering around, as if awaiting commands.

“Fuck,” Bo sighed, unable to wipe the affectionate smirk away from his features. You appeared pleasantly disheveled, but the unusual tension had soon settled in. “Y’should clean up.” He stated, as if he played no part in your current state.

“Asshole.” You grumbled, tone jocular as Bo planted a kiss against your mouth. You squeezed Vincent’s hand in-passing, the gesture enough to catch Bo’s attention. His heart clenched within his chest — the realization that you loved them both was beginning to settle in.

Both of the brothers watched you awkwardly clamor up the stairs — disrobed and flustered. Bo almost felt a sliver of pity, seeing as you could barely walk, but it was partial amusement, too.

Vincent stood at his side, casting a sidelong glance toward his sweaty twin, who was busy basking in all of his post-fucking glory. “We could share.” He signed, a proposition that Bo knew was inevitable. Of course, it was your choice — a choice that he’d have to live with.

“Yeah,” Bo pondered aloud, but his thoughts soon drifted into perverse territory. The way you looked, wedged in between the two of them, was too tantalizing to pass up. “We could.”

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