I feel like Bo fucks you like he's trying to get a baby in there.
Lester feeds you and gives your the tourists jewelry so you don't remember that you could leave.
He stopped locking the bedroom door and chaining you to the bed so you forget that you're trapped. The only way out is through the basement, and you're not getting past Vincent.
You're definitely not leaving with a big belly full of twins and Louisiana cooking. How could you leave when you can barely walk with two more Sinclair boys growing in you.
You can't leave when two tiny little baby boys cry in unison, and curl their tiny hands in unison, when they wake up at the same time, when they hum when their daddy holds them.
You've got a family here in Ambrose now, you're a Sinclair.
Imagine getting bent over by bo somewhere and realizing Vincent is watching. Bo doesn't even know he's there but you lock eyes with him in a closet or something and start moaning louder just for him. Would definitely stroke Bos ego too lmao
[This is the HOTTEST fantasy I have with them- just short of a full 4 way with all 3 brothers. Vincent is highkey a big ass PERVERT]
<C.W: GN reader, NSFW, mention of cum, masterbation, voyeurism >
~Our Secret~
●Part of you felt sad that Vincent never had the courage to join in, or even take you by himself. But by now, you had learned his idiosyncrasies- and found out what he was really into. For now, this is as close as you'd get to being intimate with him
● Vincent stuck his face thru the parted clothes- mask blending in with the fabric of lightly worn outfits, long discarded by victims. If it weren't for the sound of your screams and the pounding of your cum filled hole- his breathy whimpers might have given him away. One hand pressed to the closet wall, keeping him from falling over as he spilled another load into your previously discarded underware. His other hand pumped vigorously at his cock- squeezing it raw- his previous drippings beginning to dry up
● Even thru the small slit in his mask- you could see the blue of Vincent's eye- glazed over and locked completely on you. You had finagled yourself to face the closet, just as Bo had pounced on your previously sleeping self. Your clothes were promptly ripped off and tossed away as Bo used the spit from your cock gagged throat as lubrication for your pounding. Your fingers grasped the edge of the bed hard enough to begin to rip open the mattress- the bedspread coming loose and bunching up in your mouth as Bo shoved your face down. He was much too deep inside you to notice Vincent- he chases his own high: fingers digging bruises into your hips as he plowed into you at a relentless pace
● He took no breaks between cumming, and you lost count of how many times you had. Sweat tickled your back as it dripped from Bo's forehead, and everytime he slapped your ass, droplets shot off into the air. You kept your eyes locked on Vincent- watching his chest heave as the shudder of another orgasm left him. You bit your bottom lip, knowingly, as your own finish washed over you- and into you, from Bo
Title: The Ambrose Summer Vacation, chapter 3: Strange Harvest.
Chapter 1: 45 Miles To Go. Chapter 2: Malda.
Summary: On vacation in southern Louisiana, a friend is seduced by a handsome southern man to visit his museum in a small town called Ambrose. The vacation lasts longer than intended. During her stay, Katyusha tries her best to get a hold of the Sinclair brothers, to understand what is going on, and perhaps to claw her way to freedom. Their receptiveness to her soon causes a complicated predicament and her struggles grow as she gets in over her head.
Contents: Vincent x OC and Bo x OC. OC is female, named, but has otherwise little specified backstory. Slower burn than my usual stuff, and it is dark. It is a poly fic, but no threesomes and the brothers aren't involved with each other.
Enjoy! I had great time writing this, thing are happening after the set up of previous chapters, and I'm so glad I can share this with you after days of working on this part <3. It's also a bit longer than previous chapters.
Ao3 link. Link to masterlist.
Divider by @/firefly-graphics.
The tourists didn’t show up that day, and it felt like a waste to have been so on edge the whole time. The ‘watching Katya’ shift changed, and Vincent took me upstairs to the bedrooms. I’d been there often enough before, to clean. Bo had the big bedroom, the one I suspected used to be their parent’s. They must’ve shared a room, the one that’s now Vincent’s, but there was barely anything there to remind of Bo’s presence. I liked the small bathroom best, though. Despite the guestroom that always sat untouched, neat, with the quilt thrown over the foot end of the bed and the curtains closed, they never let me sleep there. Perhaps because Vincent made so little use of the upstairs, preferring to work, sleep and eat in the basement whenever possible.
That evening, he went straight to his room, making sure I followed. Leaving me to stand awkwardly by the door, he fiddled with the record player, until something jazzy, with lazy vocals, something rhythmic and seductive, filled the room. I dared a few steps inside. He walked around me, movements swift, overly familiar with the space, and opened the adjoined bathroom, the sage green one. Gestured me inside, handed me a razor and pulled at the waistband of my skirt. I raised my eyebrows in confusion. Pulling my hand in between us, flattening it, and using the end of the razor to write something letter by letter.
‘Shave. Down there.’
“You want me to- what?”
He sighed and retrieved a sketchbook from his nightstand, with a pencil. “I need a nude model. So I’d like you to shave there.”
I blinked. “I’ve never shaved before.”
We stared at each other for a beat. He handed me a tub of shaving cream. It never occurred to me that he’d shave, or perhaps have a beard underneath the mask. “Go against the grain. Take your time.” And with that, he shut the bathroom door.
.
After shaving, showering, and drying myself off with a threadbare towel, I stood still, staring at the door. Since he had specified to shave down there, I left my legs and armpits hairy as they were. What would be worse; coming out nude, or undressing in front of him? The power he had over me made my head swirl.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I ignored his eye on me and headed to sit on the bed, as he usually drew me sitting down. He sat in the only chair in the room, by the room covered with old toy cars on the window sill. He flipped the page he was working on over, starting a new one as soon as he saw me. Perhaps he did art at university. Perhaps he was very used to seeing nude women. He stood up as I tried to sit in a somewhat modest position, and leaned his knee on the bed. He loomed over me, even more frightening than before, and I willed my hands to stay on the duvet. To not react with fear or defensiveness. Gentler than before though, his hand pushed my shoulder until I leaned back, and he helped my legs up on the bed until I laid down. A shudder travelled through me from the warmth of his hands. It was still September, but the evenings cooled down considerably. He noticed, his gaze quickly shooting up to mine, before resuming his movements to position me. His fingers slid along the skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Shoulder to elbow, to wrist, then onto hip, over the roundness of me there, his breath hitched, and it was then that the movements could not be considered professional by any stretch of the imagination. He kneaded hip and thigh, digging in his fingers, testing softness, firmness, where the bones were hidden. The mask showed nothing of his expression, but his breath was heavy as it echoed against the wax.
In a desperate attempt to distract him, to place something in between us, to do anything at all, I leaned up and reached for the sketchbook. At the same time as I brough our faces closer by reaching for it, it occurred to me, clear as day, sharp like being pricked by a needle. Those wandering hands, that heavy breathing; I could use it. I could survive this place. At least until others come, until I steal the keys to Bo’s truck – until something goes well for me. The thought was quickly squashed as Vincent gripped my wrist with a large hand, stopping me from flipping it over to the side he was drawing on, and it was just as clear that if he wanted anything, he would have it.
“Can I see your drawings? You’ve drawn me almost daily, but I’ve never seen any of those,” my voice was thin, the lisp worsening as my mouth felt foreign and dry so close to him. Close enough to smell the wax, his heat, to see the coarse white dog hairs on his t-shirt. “Please?”
He searched my face, eventually sat back, tucking his legs underneath him. He grabbed one of my legs to throw over his lap, then picked up the paper with a last look at me, and flipped through it until he decided on a good one. Holding it out for me to take and I did.
It was me, yes. One of the earlier days, I wore the same clothes as I came there with, my hair in a single, messy braid – must’ve been the first week. Why did that stick out? Vincent’s style was naturalistic, realistic, but seemingly more lifelike than I was in all my flesh and blood. My expression was serene, looking away from the spectator, eyes averted, face relaxed, almost smiling.
“Do I really look like this?” I mumbled. It wasn’t a judgement, of either his art or of me, just the realisation that he has had opinions on my body since the moment he set eyes on me. “Sorry. You’re really good. Do you have a formal education in art?”
He shook his head, watching my reactions. He flipped to another page, one by the window in the kitchen, the light illuminating my figure like a baroque painting. His warm hand returned to rest atop my knee after each time he flipped a page. Another, one where I had no idea he drew me; more of a sketch, also in the kitchen, reaching up to take something from a cabinet. A homely scene. Another in the basement, on his table, this time with an incredibly detailed background, including Jonesy at the foot of the workbench.
Couldn’t help a fond smile at her head laying on her paws, “you’ve drawn Jonesy too.”
On I looked, and as he flipped through the pages, more confident as I commented idly as he did so. Me, me, me. Page after page. Some had details. Pages of just my hand with my rings, of just eyes, eyebrows, different positions sketched out quickly and messily. The ones where you could barely tell it was me were my favourite.
“The way you draw me, the shadows… It reminds me of Rubens, or was it Caravaggio? I believe it’s called chiaroscuro, the contrast.”
His eye shot up to mine, fingers ghosting over the page. He nodded slowly. A new page, he pressed hard on the pencil as he wrote something down. “How do you know?”
“I took a lot of art history courses back home,” I said, feeling the memories of my previous life choking me. Yet it felt like I could speak more freely now that he’d shown an interest in hearing what I have to say. “It feels strange to see myself drawn… Like I can view myself from your eyes. See what you see when you look at me, even if you try to be objective.”
He flipped to another page, an intricate one, a portrait. His hand didn’t return to the warmed up spot on my knee, instead he traced the features of my face on the paper. Eyebrow to nose to lips. With a certain hesitation he brought his other hand up to my face, and touched me, featherlight, following the path his other hand invented.
Even without words, that spoke of something, a feeling, so instinctual that it preceded language entirely. I averted my gaze. He traced the outline of my lips, letting his thumb linger after his pointer finger had already left to feel my jaw. A sigh escaped me, he shuddered, pressing his eye closed briefly, the blue disappearing between dark lashes, and pulled away suddenly – leaving me cold on top of the duvet. Grabbing the sketchbook and pencil, he briskly walked out the door, letting it clatter noisily against the frame. I slept uneasy, not daring to leave or wander about. Awoke with wrists tied to the bedframe without any sign of either of the brothers.
.
Bo was right about the visitors that were coming. They came just after lunch the next day, during which I was barely able to eat, stomach filled with dread instead.
First, they lingered outside, exploring the town, then the gas station. When we heard them come nearer, Bo looked up from the hood of the car and smiled at me, his crow’s feet made it feel genuinely reassuring. Just follow along. Breathe deep.
“Hey there, we’re looking for a mechanic? Could you help us?” The man that stepped forward was young, in his early thirties at most, dark hair, wore pilot sunglasses. The sleeves of his light blue button up were rolled over his elbows, showing hairy underarms.
“Ya found one,” said Bo, straightening up and turning to him. The look he sent me was intoxicating. “What do you need?”
The man came closer, taking off his sunglasses and clipping them to his shirt pocket. “Hi, yeah, our car broke down, just down the dirt road from the 35.”
“Do y’know what’s wrong with it?” asked Bo, he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands clean, before tossing it.
“No, not very car savvy,” said the man. “It just won’t start. We weren’t having any trouble before, and we always check up with the garage before going on long trips.”
“Guess we’ll have to check it out then,” said Bo, looking back at me with a grin. “Darlin’, will ya mind the shop while I’m gone?”
With the most casual nod, he threw me the keys. The trust, the familiarity, how was he so good at this? It made me lightheaded. The other people had gathered and we went outside. They were just a young woman, and another young man.
“Yeah, he can help us,” said the man in the button up to the rest.
“Name’s Bo, by the way.” Bo leaned on the door to the garage and motioned to me. “And that’s Katyusha, my assistant at the shop.”
The visitors looked to me and made their own introductions. There was the first man, Thomas, the woman’s name was Sylvie, the other man, blond, was Baxter.
“So, you’ll take me to your car, then?” Bo asked Thomas. “See what can be done to get you on your way.”
Thomas nodded. Sylvie grabbed his arm. “Don’t you want me to come along, baby?”
“No need for that, honey,” was all he said. Bo sent me a look.
I spoke, clearing my throat. “I can take you both up to the house for something cold to drink? It’s hot out here.” To punctuate my point I wiped the sweat from my brow.
Baxter was quick to agree. “Yeah, sounds good. It’s not far I hope?”
“Not at all.”
And so we split up.
.
Once at the house, I let the two roam, to get ice from the fridge and glasses from the cupboard.
“The town seems nice,” said Baxter, lingering in the kitchen. “Quiet, though.”
“Yeah,” I answered with my back to him, “most folk are out of town at this time of year. But we like it just fine.” I handed him the cold glass of lemon water with a smile. Condensation made the glass slippery, or was that the sweat of my palms.
We moved to the living room, where Sylvie snooped around. She was looking at the various stuff stacked on the drawers and the coffee table. At least it was all clean and neat. I set the glass down for her too, sank into a wooden chair, leaving them to sit on the couch.
“So, you and the mechanic guy, you two together?” asked Baxter. He seemed younger than Thomas. Sweet face, freckles, blond curls.
“No, not at all. I just help out at the shop sometimes, so he can do his thing. But it’s not like we get many customers out here.” The glass was chilly in my hand. I should do something, anything for this moment to stop and for my nerves to calm down. Unfortunately t was much easier to keep my voice steady, than it was when dealing directly with the twins. “Where were you three headed?”
“Just on a journey to see as much as possible. We have all taken as much time off as we could get.”
“No destination?”
“We’re going east, to the coast. We’re visiting some landmarks. Planning on going via Baton Rouge too.”
Sylvie nods. “We heard about a festival up there? Perhaps we’ll check it out. Is there a bathroom here? Excuse me.”
I pointed her the way and she disappeared. Baxter shifted closer on the couch, our legs were almost touching from how wide he spread himself out.
“What’s that on your wrists? Are those scars?” he asked, even daring to point. Reflexively, I rubbed the marks.
“They’re old,” I said, but immediately knew my tone was off. “The heat makes them… seem worse again.”
He gave me a look that very much felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff, but whatever he said was interrupted by a scream. He shot up, and I pressed my eyes closed for a second before getting up too.
“Was that-?” he asked.
I shrugged, holding a wrist tightly, to soothe the memory of the ropes. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along the hallway to where he saw Sylvie go. He tried a door, then looked back at me. At that look, his posture fell.
“What is going on?” he asked, disbelief and fear settling over his features. I realised then, how my face was scrunched up in fear. He grabbed my hand and looked closer at the marks, and I could not help myself. Tears filled my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” was all I was able to say, voice barely a whisper. Baxtor released his grip on my hands, instead pushing me to the wall by my shoulders, gritting his teeth.
“What kind of trap is this?” he hissed. I only shook my head, shocked by the quick change in his demeanour. Despite knowing better, despite it being a bad idea, the hope that these tourists could be my rescue dissipated like a drop of water on a hot pan. The door behind him opened soundlessly, but when he noticed my stare, it was too late. A blade pierced his chest, stopping short of mine by just five centimetres. I wiped my tears, clearing my vision and found myself face to face with Vincent’s chest. He hummed softly and rubbed my arms. The rough texture of his jumper against my cheek was comforting. Safe. Shock overwhelmed me and there was little to do but cling on to what I knew – who I knew.
.
Waking up was painful. The room was a proper bedroom, Vincent’s. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, a note underneath. The sheets smelled like him, like wax and the particular way Vincent smelled like a man. Vaguely of laundry detergent. The curtains were drawn, but the bits of light that shone in through the cracks were enough to make my head pound. Quickly scribbled letters read: ‘there’s breakfast in the fridge, I’m in the basement. Avoid Bo.’
These words were casual, but at this time, it was best to take them as instruction. Breakfast was a banana, and even that felt like a terrible decision, and down the stairs I went. Bo was nowhere in sight, thankfully.
Vincent was working on a sculpture. He heard me approach and looked up. Hands darting to pen and paper. His handwriting was as familiar as the sound of my own voice.
“How are you feeling?”
I shrugged. “Headache, but I’m fine. Didn’t see Bo. How… how did everything go?”
With a bounce in his step, he moved over to a cabinet with medical supplies, took out two bottles. He handed them to me, and I examined the labels. Painkillers.
“Thank you,” I said, took one out of each, put the bottles back. “Is there some water?”
He was writing again. “Bo kept the girl, but she stabbed him. He’s in a bad mood. Other than that, all is well.”
At times like these, his masked face was frightening. No emotion. The warmth of our closeness on my skin as he guided me next to him at the workbench. It was Baxter.
Vincent continued writing. “He was going to hurt you.”
“I tricked him. Them. Bo- he took me to the shop to help.” The desperation in my voice made me sick. Did Vincent know of Bo’s plan to use me to draw victims like a spider in a web?
His hair tickled my shoulder, he pulled me closer, away from the sedated man. His hand on my chin to make me look at him, but I closed my eyes instead. Another tug. Fingers moved to my throat, grazing the pulse points. I shivered, then opened my eyes.
His blue one looking directly at me. He was braver than the day before. The kill, or the sculpting, seemed to invigorate him. We were closer than I thought, I was almost pressed against his woollen jumper.
“You did well,” he wrote on the little scrap of paper from his pocket. The way his fingers trailed over my cheek, lips, neck, could almost be considered affectionate. He drew letters on my underarm, “You were so good, for me.”
And I saw it without even seeing his face, his eye was enough. Pupil blown wide with desire. And I felt it too, as something that crawled under the skin where he touched me. Perhaps it was there the day before, as it seemed to have warmed him considerably too. His gaze so lazily taking me in, lingering on my lips just too long. The little movement of his head, forward, closer, his hand curling around my neck. I whimpered. That one little movement, instinctual, of baring my neck, of angling my head, that little glance at the wax lips – it was all he needed. Slammed me into a cabinet nearer to the bed, hips grinding. His apron was gone in an instant. Scrambling behind me to get something from the cabinet. A syringe. He was quick to grab my arm to hold me still. Fuck-
“No, please, Vincent, you don’t need to do that. I’ve been so good, I’ll be good for you…” Wrong words. The neediness in my voice sickened me. “I know you want to touch me, I want to touch you too. To feel your hands, your skin… Please, Vincent.”
The syringe clattered to the floor. Immediately his hands were on me, he was panting. Fingers dug harshly in the soft skin of my hips, he kneaded his way up to my breasts. I pressed myself to his chest, experimentally trailed my fingers under his jumper. His skin was feverishly hot. He pulled a leg to his waist, leaning me back against the cabinet. Breaths against my ear. His groin pressed against my heat. He was hard as he moved against me. I hiked up my skirt, hissed at the harshness of his zipper. The hand I had around his neck for support, he pushed down, fingers digging so hard they’d leave bruises. Papers scattered around as he pushed me on the surface, legs spread around his hips.
He whimpered when my hand found the button on his jeans. This is what he wanted, right? This is what he kept me for. The pounding behind my eyes made it hard to think. I wrapped my fingers around his cock firmly. He was painfully hard, velvet length leaking precum. His broad hand angled my head up to his, looking him in the eye. The pressure on my throat increased as he gripped it tighter. Eyebrows scrunched together from desperation and guilt.
His hips and my hand created a rhythm. I licked my dry lips, not daring to look away from him. The fierceness in his eye scared me more than the tightening hand around my throat. Hard to tell which moans and pants came from which throat. His eye fell shut and his hips stuttered, before a mess of cum spurted over my bare leg. It dripped lazily on the floor and the wax nose of Vincent’s mask bumped my cheek. His hand on my neck stayed, although its grip loosened with each of his shuddering breaths. I stroked him through the aftershocks until he softened. He released my neck, took hold of my cum-slick hand and intertwined our fingers.
“Did that feel good? I just want you to feel good,” I breathed and another low grumble escaped from under the mask. Jolts of something new sparked through me. I pleased him. He pet my hair, made soft sounds and rubbed his mask against my cheek. I did well. That thought, both exhilarating and sickening, carried me into the night.
.
The new wax statue found a place in one of the houses. The other victim was not deemed worthy, for whatever reason. They sent me to clean the old lady’s house, check the mechanism, dust the knickknacks on the cabinets and coffee table. Bo’s fury was resolved when his stab wound healed. It was shallower than he made it out to be.
A threshold had been crossed when it came to my involvement. They let me out more easily, some nights Vincent took me up to his room. He found it difficult to keep his hands off me, even at the most domestic of times; greeting me with a squeeze of the shoulder or a hand on my back. Bo got more physical too, but he preferred to shove me out of his way, to back me into cabinets, to grab me and to yell when he had his moods. Secretly, I thought he did so to scare me on purpose. To not forget my place, and perhaps to indirectly protect Vincent. To make sure I wasn’t a disappointment.
The nights when I brought Vincent to orgasm with just my hands and his shallow breaths and whines still resounded in my ears, it felt as though my power in the dynamic grew. The desperation of him gave me a high unlike anything else, but I still had to be careful, to show myself in ways they liked me to appear. Daydreams of getting out of Ambrose seemed far away, but Vincent’s hunger for affection was a light that illuminated the path to escape.
The amount of pride the brothers would get if you got jealous of the attention they'd get while out to swim. Typically it's them getting jealous over you, collecting a fan club of men who stare and catcall and girls who shyly give you their number and compliment your outfit.
You're hot, and during the hotter days your charm seems to double, all the brothers have noticed. They keep a careful eye on you while you walk, catching people stare at your pretty chest or your ass, not even realizing why your grip on their hand tightens. You're attracted to them--of course you are, but they're so focused on you they don't realize other people also seem to lust over them.
The surprise on Vinny's face behind his mask when you go from cuddling his side to literally straddling him while he lay when a cute girl looks over. The way you would pull his face to your chest when the lifeguard is checking him out while the two of you swim around.
Les would be super gitty when you cup his face and pull him down into a kiss in line for concessions. It's be impossible to hide his smile when you lace your fingers into his while you walk, using your other hand to squish his arm against you since you can't seem to get the idea of someone looking at him out of your head.
Bo would be especially smug when he notices your jealousy, a smile curving at his lips when he sees the way you refuse to leave his side. If a guy came up to Bo to ask for his number he'd get a not so polite turn down from you before Bo could even speak. When you pull him around a corner without explaining and get on your knees in front of him your frustrated face would be especially apparent. He'd give you smart remarks and ask "Awe, are ya' really frettin' over me? I did'nt know you could get jealous." While you're licking his tip on every upstroke between your cleavage. He'd leave a couple hickies on your neck and let you scratch at his back when he takes you before the two of you go back to the public area.
-💙
Oh they would eat up your extra attention and jealousy. Just gobble it up.
Vincent would love for you to climb into his lap when someone looks at him for too long, gladly letting you guide his head to your chest while you give a knowing glance to the lifeguard watching him. That’s your man, not theirs.
Lester is always happy with PDA. He’s always felt inferior and way less attractive than his brothers so when you’re all over him in public it makes him feel really good, especially when you’re kissing on him and pulling him close to you.
Bo would be so goddamn smug. Especially because ladies tend to flock around him, and seeing you get all riled up over it will have him amused. You know he’s all yours but you still want to prove it, and he’s all too willing to slot his dick between your breasts and thrust 😌
How would the Sinclair brothers react to you sleeping on their chest?..
Bo: It depends on his mood: if he's horny, lonely, or in a good mood- he doesn't mind it. Cuddling on the couch or in bed after sex- he absentmidendly plays with your hair and traces circles in your back- listening to your breathing: it helps him fall asleep (although he'll NEVER admit it) but the feel of someone clinging on to him, feeling safe around him- it's filling the hole in his heart. When you're asleep on him, he feels wanted, loved.....human. If he's in a bad mood, he likely doesn't want to be touched and won't even sit still enough for you to fall asleep
Vincent: The living rendition of the -when your pet sleeps on you, you're not allowed to move- meme. He wants to make sure you're at the highest comfort level once you settle down. He loves watching you sleep to begin with- but to be able to do so upclose and personal is the hight of his day. He's already mapping out art pieces based off your breathing patterns and the sounds you make. The fact that you feel comfortable enough to fall asleep on him is rewiring his brain, and he's melting (pun intended) at the thought of being the last thing you saw when you fell asleep, and being the first you'll see when you wake up
Lester: Let's be honest, he usually falls asleep on YOU first, so the fact that you managed to finagle it the other way around is a win! He has to keep reminding himself not to talk too much/too loud and to stop fidgiting so much (because you're actually trying to sleep.....) but it's hard for him because he's just so excited. If it was a planned thing, he was probably reading to you, or making up a story to lull you to sleep. It feels great to have someone to cuddle up with, instead of his usual cold, lonely nights. It makes him realize he really is worth of love, and that someone enjoys being around him. But panic eventually sets in when he remembers what a small bladder he has.....
A fun poly Sinclair idea I’ve had is that due to Bo and Vincent being (previously) conjoined they share a soulmate (idk how people usually think of the soulmate stuff but let’s imagine this is how it works), so when reader rolls into town they realize that not only does the red string (or other soulmate indicator) lead to the handsome mechanic but also to the masked artist👀
{That would be really hot 🥵
(side note lol this made me think of one of those 70s dating shows where the bachelor's are hidden and you just ask questions to get to know them)
But I absolutely LOVE that both of them would look at each other, knowing exactly what the other one was thinking and they're both like: this person is 'the one'}
● When they were young, Vincent had an obsession with drawing a specific someone. Little did they know that the person in the drawing was you. When Bo and Vincent met you, years later/as adults: the resemblance was uncanny. It took them both by surprise
● The two of them were determined to get you to stay in Ambrose for as long as possible- the complete opposite of how they normally operated. It took a lot of behind the scenes work- Bo thought of every possible scenario, having stable excuses for every time you tried to leave. He poured his charm on thick- trying to keep the air of nonchalant so you wouldn't grow suspicious
●All the while, Vincent was setting up the perfect spot to keep you- something that was cozy enough for a living person's (again, keeping someone without intent to kill was much different than their usual MO) but still secure enough so that you couldn't escape. They knew eventually you would try to leave, so they had to be ready
● Eventually Vincent was introduced to you, and you were actually more interested in staying in Ambrose than either of the brothers had anticipated. You felt drawn to both of them: something akin to feeling like you had met before, yet knowing you never had. They each had their own charm, and you found yourself smitten: blushing and giggling in conversation- flattered at their overt kindness and hospitality. Maybe they wouldn't need to kidnap you afterall.....
● While each brother enjoyed the attention you gave to them, they both also made sure you gave the other one attention as well. Bo was thrilled someone wasn't put off by Vincent's physicality (tho you haven't seen his face yet, Bo knew the concept of someone in an expressionless mask would be unsettling to most), and Vicncent saw the importance of someone giving affection to his brother (who was starved of such since childhood)
● At some point tho, they had to decide if they would allow you to leave Ambrose, returning to your previous life but with the promise of continuing a relationship with them, or keeping you captive- but risking your genuine companionship.....
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live with the Sinclair brothers-
To learn their individual idiosyncrasies
To learn their individual love languages
To have quiet moments with each of them- making memories and forming deep bonds
To let them see the real me- letting down my walls for them
.....but then I remember that it sould just be nonstop Limp Biscuit and Axe body spray while the smoke alarm goes off and I get sent to buy more natty daddy
Summary: On vacation in southern Louisiana, a friend is seduced by a handsome southern man to visit his museum in a small town called Ambrose. The vacation lasts longer than intended.
During her stay, Katyusha tries her best to get a hold of the Sinclair brothers, to understand what is going on, and perhaps to claw her way to freedom. Their receptiveness to her soon causes a complicated predicament and her struggles grow as she gets in over her head.
Contents: Vincent x OC and Bo x OC. OC is female, named, but has otherwise little specified backstory. Slower burn than my usual stuff, and it is dark. It is a poly fic, but no threesomes and the brothers aren't involved with each other.
Warnings: Kidnapping, canon-typical violence.
Wordcount: 1283 words.
Divider by @/firefly-graphics
Ambrose was never on the list of places to visit that summer, yet it is where we eventually went. The wind was warm that day, and it was almost unbearable in Johanna’s car with the broken AC. We made fans out of magazine paper to have at least a bit of breeze. Visiting a small town’s wax museum had seemed stupid and frivolous even then, but Maxim had decided on going. Nico and I were not big fans, but what could it hurt? It was after a handsome man gave Maxim the tip and the directions, and we all knew how Maxim could not resist that southern accent…
When the murders started, I was asleep in a bedroom at the old Sinclair house. Stupidly, stupidly asleep. A migraine had made it impossible to be in the sun any longer, and the handsome man had offered to walk me to his home, so I could lay down for a bit. Maxim went with me, becoming the first to be caught in their grasp.
After waking up, taking another dose of all possible painkillers I had on me and drinking a good glass of water, I felt better. In my hazy, romantic mood, I was touched by the kindness the stranger had provided us. Southern hospitality. I found the kitchen, with a plan taking form.
To bake something sweet, sand cookies; the way I made them when I was little. And to leave some cash for the ingredients, which were only flour, sugar, milk, cinnamon. I shaped them with a chipped beer glass and pressed the edges with a fork.
A voice sounded from another room deeper in the house, Bo’s. Something was up. My movements halted, but then the cooking alarm beeped, and I was spurred into action. Shut off the alarm, finding oven mitts.
“I told you to take care of her,” Bo said, deep, almost hushed but much too loud. Something mean to his tone. Getting closer. “Well, if she’s not asleep, where is she? Should’ve been too easy. Just surprise ‘em like you always do, what do you mean you don’t-”
Pushing the oven door open, I squatted and quickly took out the baking tray. Plating the cookies I put so much love and gratitude into, hissing at the heat of them.
And when I turned around, plate in hand, I came face to face with Bo. Next to him stood a masked man with long, black hair. The energy in the kitchen had shifted. In every way, the men demanded attention, intimidating me with their broad shoulders and tall postures. The table in between us provided little sense of safety, as the men blocked any possible exit.
“There she is,” Bo smirked, the smirk that had caused us to come here in the first place. I cursed his face inwardly. “And what have you been up to, darlin’?”
With eyes like that of a deer caught in the headlights, oven mitts still on, I wondered if this would be the end. “I-“ Voice croaked. “I baked cookies, as a thank-you for being so kind. Were you… looking for me? Where’s Maxim?”
I held the plate out to both men, neither made a move to take one, so I put the plate down on the table, threw the mitts on the counter. They shared a look. The masked one signed something, the other one shook his head. I wiped my hands on my skirt, fisting the material to ground myself.
Bo shifted his attention to me. “Change of plans, sweets. It seems Vincent has taken a liking to you, so there’s a few options.”
“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” I mumbled, then raising my eyebrows to let them know how to continue. Vincent signed something, looking at me. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak American Sign Language. Can you perhaps write it down?”
With fast scribbles, he did so. ‘I would like to draw you’, was all it said as he held up the small sketchbook. I leaned forward, hands on the table, to read it.
“Alright, that should be possible, certainly,” I said slowly, still unsure. A glance at Bo unsettled me even more. “But what was that before, what-“
Bo answered, smirk growing wider. “Perhaps you’ll find out soon enough. Now, off you go, Vince’s workshop is in the basement.”
Basement? That did not bode well. Vincent grabbed my arm before I could protest, and without thinking, I grabbed a few cookies - determined to enjoy my last moments on earth - and followed him. His grip was strong enough to bruise.
The workplace was dark, lit only by candles. Shadows flickered over the walls. There was a bed in the corner, on it laid a dog. She perked up her eyes when she spotted her master.
There was a wooden table in the middle of the room, with all sorts of stains, and workbenches against two of the walls. The man let go of my arm, pinning me in place with a stare instead. He sat down on the stool by the workbenches and pushed his hair behind his shoulder. He found a pencil, larger papers. I set the cookies down on the edge of the table, instinctively wiping the crumbs off. Vincent gestured to the bench, assuming I needed to sit down, I hopped on it, dangling my legs. With anxious eyes I followed his every move.
He studied me. Endlessly, before putting pencil to paper. Attempting bravery, I met his gaze. Quickly I grew used to the white mask and its expressionless face, framed by the long hair. Suddenly he stood, putting paper down and his hands were on me again. Positioning me. Close enough so I could feel his overbearing warmth, his masculine smell. He made me pull up my legs into a tailer’s sit, to lean back and look away from him. Somewhere to the right of the basement. His hands lingered as he positioned my chin. He pulled away, sat down again.
With a glance at him, I asked: “Can I talk still?”
Only a nod. He started sketching.
“The dog, what’s her name?”
On the top of the paper, he wrote ‘Jonesy’, before bending over the paper again.
“Thanks. She looks very sweet.”
Silence. Just pencil on paper. My throat felt dry. After this… What then? ‘Surprise ‘em like you always do’, as Bo had said?
“Is your back okay like that? Wouldn’t it be better to rest the paper on the table?” I asked, scratching my head, then resuming position again. He barely looked up, but did adjust his posture.
It didn’t take long for anxiety to make me visibly restless. I wonder how many people he has drawn, whether he was used to such a jittery subject. Standing up once more, he stood in front of me. Towering over me despite the height of the table. One of his eyes was dark, as if it wasn’t there, hidden deep behind the mask. Warm hands kneaded my biceps, made me feel caged. Then up, to the back of the neck, the other hand on my shoulder. My hair, pushing fingers into my scalp. I bit my lip. What is he doing?
A scream sounded in the distance. I jolted, although that caused me to lean into Vincent’s grasp, bumped my knees against his hips. More screams, different ones.
“Johanna!” I gasped, then pressed my hand over my mouth. With a last look to me, Vincent stepped away. I pushed myself off of the bench, looking towards the hallway behind me. How long was that corridor? Overcome by panic, I ran. A hard hit to the head ended that quickly.
