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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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Protection (Vincent Sinclair x Reader)

Again with me writing very self-indulgent things. I hope you enjoy this at least! I've been meaning to write for Vinny for a hot minute anyways...

Vincent Sinclair x gn!Reader

Summary: Settling into life in Ambrose was easier than you had anticipated. You'd grown close with Vincent Sinclair, bonding over art together. Things were going very smoothly until a rowdy group of victims wandered into the brothers grasps and found you before Vincent could. (Warning: violence, deaths of minor characters)

Brushing your hair behind your ear, you sighed to yourself in the mirror. Since moving to Ambrose, you hadn't been able to get a proper haircut. As fond as you were of the Sinclair brothers, you had seen once before how Lester cut Bo's hair and you were suddenly aware of why exactly Vincent kept his hair long. Lester was probably more of a hazard with scissors when they weren't being used to kill someone. It was almost impressive.

So, your hair was longer than you were used to. Brushing past your ears and brushing your shoulders now.

Seems the masked man spying on you from the doorway to the bathroom seemed to like it at least. Vincent loitered within your line of sight in the mirror, watching you through the dark eyeholes of his mask. With the cloudy day out and no lights on in the house, he seemed scarier than he was.

But you knew Vincent. He'd been scary at first, terrorizing the friends who'd left you to die to let them escape in the car. They hadn't known Bo had slashed their tires and allowed the twins to pick them off one by one. Leaving you: their lone survivor. But rather than kill you, Vincent had wanted to keep you alive. While Bo had been harder to convince, one plate of your garlic bread and he was persuaded.

So, here you'd stayed. Under Vincent's protection, mainly, though Bo and Lester had grown fond of you during your time in Ambrose. You helped them take care of the town, keep it looking alive despite how very not-alive it was.

Vincent helped make it pretty, in his own way, you thought.

"Hey Vince," you said softly at the mirror, watching him watch you in the mirror, "what's up?"

Vincent gestured over his shoulder. "People passing through. Stay in the basement until we are done." He signed slowly so you could read. You were still learning sign but you'd slowly gotten the hang of most words.

"Bo wants me to start helping, y'know," you called to him as he turned to leave, stopping him in his tracks. "Wants to show me how to shoot so I can help." You felt a bit anxious saying it aloud. While you knew it was only a matter of time before the eldest Sinclair put you to work helping them get new... subjects for the wax figures, it still felt odd to consider yourself part of the whole thing. Planting fake plants, keeping house, and playing peacemaker between the brothers was easy, let you live in your little fantasy. But the idea of actually participating was... daunting to say the least.

The taller man turned slowly to you, his good eye surveying your face. Maybe he saw the terror in your eyes before signing, "Not letting him. You're important."

You snorted. "Important? Vince, I grow fake flowers, I doubt that's really important.

He shook his head, insistent, and stepped more into the bathroom, closer to you. "Important to me." Now that certainly made you pause. "Go downstairs. Please."

Swallowing, you nodded as he left the room. You heard the front door to the Sinclair house open and close in quick succession. Vincent was likely headed to loiter around the House of Wax, try and separate the group quickly. Straight to business, you chuckled to yourself as you made your way down the stairs to Vincent's basement. Much warmer than the dark, cold bathroom, it was a wonder Vincent could stand wearing so many layers.

You settled on Vincent's bed and picked up one of the sketchbooks he'd given you. When you'd first been made a citizen of Ambrose, Vincent tried to connect with you via art, encouraging you to draw and create in a similar fashion to him. You'd taken to it easily enough. Nothing you made was ever as great as his stuff, you thought, but you were proud of it. Though the masked brother seemed to adore anything you created.

Settling comfortably, you picked up a sharp pencil and went back to work on a sketch you'd been working on before needing to get lunch and use the bathroom, where you'd noticed your hair.

Typically the brothers took care of visitors to Ambrose quickly and Vincent would be in and out of the workshop. You should have noticed something was very wrong when he wasn't back after half an hour...

Setting the book down to crack your fingers, you took note of the empty workshop. Odd, you thought. Standing slowly, you wondered if Bo had gotten shot with a crossbow again. You snorted at the memory as you crept up the stairs. Or maybe there was no visitors and Vincent had mistaken Lester's car? Got wrapped up in something like he usually did. You smiled fondly as you recalled how focused the masked man could be when he was really invested in a project. How he didn't see or hear anything beyond the wax he molded once he was into it.

Pushing open the trapdoor and poking your head out, you were met with a dark, still house. The sun had long since set and you wondered how long you'd really been down there for...

Then, just as you shut the door with a soft thud, you heard the front door swing open.

"Hey!" A stranger stared at you with wide, panicked eyes. Judging by the panic in his eyes and the blood staining his jeans and white shirt, he was one of the victims. Must be on the run from Bo, if the fact he was still alive was anything to go by.

Bo always did love a good hunt.

"A-are you one of them? O-or did you get c-caught too?" He stuttered, running his hand through smooth, short brown hair. You swallowed, struggling to find the words to explain yourself.

"I'm- I- Uh-" Thankfully you didn't have to say much as a girl with bright, neon green hair and an undercut pushed her way into the house after the boy. A large gash stretched across her cheek to the bridge of her nose and she had a limp. The puncture wound looked like Vincent's knives.

"Aw hell Jakey, leave em alone. Chances are they're as freaked out as we are. Maybe they just escaped those freaks too." She slurred, limping her way to the couch to sit. "Name's Paige, thats Jake. We, uh, got caught by the mechanic guy. Thought we could take him till he fucking shot Aaron in the-"

"With a gun or a crossbow?" You interrupted, earning a strange stare.

"Crossbow... why?" Jake asked. You swallowed before shuffling over.

"Umm... he shot my friends with a shotgun. Was just wondering, since I didn't hear it." You mumbled, fidgeting with your hands. Times like this made you wish the Sinclairs believed in radios.

Paige gave you a pained smile. "Aaron got shot, we can't find Kelsey and Leslie... this whole place seems like a deathtrap." Oh she didn't know how right she was.

"Does the phone work?" Aaron asked, checking through the curtains for Bo and Vincent. You shook your head quickly.

"It's, um, why I haven't been able to call for help," you lied, softening your voice to sound more helpless, "I've been stuck in their basement for a long time..." You sniffed, shifting from foot to foot. If you could just stall long enough, they might notice where these two had run off to.

Your mind flashed to the light switches in the basement that you could use to call them... but you didn't want to risk these two damaging any of Vincent's things. You'd just have to hold out.

God, if you didn't get killed you were going to make them carry phones...

"What's your name?" Jake asked, which you answered hesitantly. He gave a slow nod before looking out the window and panicking. "Mask dude is coming, hide!" He whisper-yelled before grabbing you and Paige by the arm and hauling ass out the back door and to the backyard. You heard Vincent open the door just as you were yanked out with a swift yelp, Paige and Jake practically yanking you down the street.

"C'mon, cmon, theres gotta be somewhere in this town we can hide!" Jake called into the night sky. Your heart stuttered for a moment, empathizing with them. They were just two people fighting for their lives. They didn't know what you did, didn't have the brothers protection. Weren't even aware they were prey.

At least, not until an arrow lodged into Jake's shoulder, pulling a scream from his throat and a cry from Paige. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Vincent standing at the back of the house wielding a crossbow.

You didn't have to see his eyes to know he was pissed.

Marching towards the three of you, you panicked. Did he think you were trying to escape? Was this where he killed you?!

Instead, Paige saw the look in your eye and saw Vincent's focus entirely on you and seemed to connect the dots. Pulling out a small knife from her pocket, she held it to your throat. "Stop right where you are!" She called to Vincent, who did freeze. "C-come one more step and I'll paint the roads red!" Your heart froze at the words and you stared at Vincent with terror in your eyes.

Jake looked pained and confused before Paige spoke to him. "This one's their bait. We can use em to bargain... might even get out," her voice was hushed as she spoke, eyes still on Vincent. "If you let us leave," she called to him after a moment, "we won't hurt your little honeytrap here!"

You knew better than to struggle at this point, the knifepoint too close to your throat for comfort.

Vincent nodded to the two of them slowly, signing just as slow. "Bo coming. Stay calm." Seems your two captives didn't understand sign enough to know what he was saying, which you were momentarily grateful for. Though a pathetic part of you found it sweet Vincent was trying to reassure you, likely knowing how freaked out you were.

Paige walked backwards through Ambrose, heading towards the edge of town, keeping her eyes on Vincent. Jake was struggling behind her and kept wincing in pain when his shoulder moved, the arrow still lodged in. Vincent followed close, not letting you out of his sight. If Paige thought he was too close, she'd hold the knife to your neck tighter and make you tell Vincent to stop.

It was horrible.

And you'd watched your friends die before.

The closer you got to the edge of town, the more your eyes were scanning for Bo. If he was coming, you wanted to know which way to run at least. But as you came to the end, you still hadn't seen him. Vincent seemed calm though. Or perhaps he was simply faking it for you.

Paige motioned for Jake to get in their car as she walked you backwards towards it, tightening the grip on her knife. As soon as Jake opened the driver side door and Paige was close by, she kicked you hard in the back away from her before hopping into the car and slamming the door behind her.

You didn't even spare her a glance as you ran straight into Vincent's arms, who held you tightly, one arm around your waist and the other hand tight in your hair. He was mumbling incoherently but you could tell from the tone he was relieved you were okay.

The real surprise came when the car blew up, a quick but powerful burst of fire and glass as Vincent turned to take the brunt of the impact and keep you safe.

Seems Bo had rigged the car to blow as soon as the engine started. Just in the nick of time. Bo pulled the two of them out of the wreckage, Vincent still needed his art supplies after all.

Hauling the two bodies to his truck, Bo let you and Vincent climb in for the drive up to the house, the masked brother not letting go of your hand for even a moment. As soon as the car stopped, you were headed directly to the house, Vincent on your heels. Bo could unpack the bodies, he knew what to do. In the meantime, Vincent herded you downstairs to his workshop, breathing heavily all the way.

In the light of his shop, you took in his appearance. Hair a bit messier, his eye wide and frantic with the adrenaline, and his hands and overalls stained with fresh blood. He paced the room anxiously, gesturing wildly to himself. "I'm sorry," you finally choked out, causing him to look up at you. "I know you told me to stay but... you hadn't come back, I was worried. I wanted to go looking for you."

The long haired man stared at you for a moment before signing. "I protect you." It was plain but effective. It made your heart hurt. "Don't worry about me."

"But who will protect you? Bo? What if you're both hurt and Lester's not here! What if they'd had guns instead of a knife and really hurt you! What if-" You were cut off by Vincent pulling you to his chest in a hug, letting him tangle his hand in your hair again as he pressed his forehead to your temple with a soft inhale.

You wrapped your arms around him and just stood there with him for a bit, listening to the soft crackling fire heating the wax Vincent would use for his latest figures.

Speaking of figures, "You two done?" Bo's voice cut through, "Or can I just leave these somewhere so I'm not standin' around?" He raised an eyebrow at Vincent, who shot him a look. "Hey, don't gimme that shit, ain't my fault it takes 'em nearly dyin' for you to realize you-" Bo was quickly shut up by Vincent roughly pushing him towards the stairs. "Alright, alright- quit pushin'!" You heard Bo's voice echo as he vanished down the tunnel towards the stairs.

As your protector shuffled back into the room, head hung in embarrassment, you giggled to yourself. "Alright Vince, how about a deal then," you cooed to him as he lifted his head, tilting it curiously. "I'll let you protect me, buuuut" you drawled, stepping closer and closer towards the taller Sinclair until you were right up to him. "You have to let me protect you sometimes."

He looked ready to protest till you leaned up and kissed his masked cheek, blushing when you watched him reach up to touch his face with the tips of his fingers. "Deal?" You asked him softly and got a gentle nod in response.

Vincent would make quick work to kiss the smug look off your face right then and there.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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No thoughts, only seeing the Sinclair trio + Mikey without any clothes (maybe right out of a shower or just changing) and making a teasing comment about how small their dick is when it's not happy just to see if they'll try and fuck you into an apology.

-💙

Lmfao you’re in for it after that. They all have something to prove 😜

Michael would just look at you with a quirked brow before grabbing you, and pushing you to your knees. Go ahead and make him hard, and he’ll fuck your throat just to show you how big he is. You aren’t about to forget.

Vincent would probably roll his eye, then advance. You’re not gonna get away with that comment, he’s gonna show you just how big he is. He’ll bend you over the nearest surface and hold you firm by the back of your neck to keep you in place. He’ll be teasing until you apologize.

Bo would immediately get dressed, then drag you to the garage basement. You’re gonna go in the chair today and he’s going to edge and tease and be mean until you apologize.

Lester would probably be a little stunned you said that at first, but he’d change your mind. He’d get dressed, then offer to take you on a drive. Then he’ll drive the two of you to one of his favorite spots, and deadpan, he’ll tell you to run. He’ll come and catch you and take you near savagely until you’re apologizing for what you said because he’s actively wrecking you.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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Brian Van Holt as Vincent Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 01/??

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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ok i feel the need to be obnoxious somewhere

i think you've been seeing the creep vincent stuff too? anyway, i just love the idea of you kinda... confronting Vincent

and Vincent being kinda... like, embarrassed about being caught? and then you tell him that actually you've known he's been watching you and how it turned you on even more, that you've either watched or at least thought about him jerking off to fantasies about you, and that you've been thinking about his hands, how they'd feel on (and in) you, and that you can't help but stare and have inappropriate thoughts every time you watch him work or sketch/draw

yes i have a thing for hands

- 🔪

Feel very free, im always glad to hear thoughts to fill my brain

and creep Vincent thoughts are good thoughts ;;

here is just a little bit of my very early morning take on this idea, on Vincent, hope you enjoy <3

You'd feed his ego so much if you said that to him, he won't ever hold back. Outside of the bedroom, he'd exagerate his movements and give you a look which shows he knows very well what he's doing.

He was being careful at first, with the peeping, a little ashamed, but ultimately, he was the golden child, and what he wanted he would get. Same applies to you. If you say that you enjoy it, that you've been thinking about him; he may at first retreat to mull it over. Your words affirm everything he's dreamed about, but it feels too good to be true. He won't stop though. If you spot him peeking through the crack of the door (or you suspect him, he's probably there anyway) and call out to him, he'll gladly show you what those hands can do.

He's impatient though, even despite his stamina, so he'd be panting and desperate, and his cock is so hard it hurts. He needs to be inside of you. He won't even notice that his free hand is squeezing himself, nor the drops of precum on your sheets.

Even after that first entwining of your bodies, he won't be able to think of anything else. If you thought his peeping would stop, you're wrong. He needs more of you, even if the two of you are together for most of the day. Vincent himself doesnt understand exactly why he still does it, when he can have you in the flesh, so he calls it a 'bad habit'. Something tells me you don't exactly mind, so it'd continue well into the relationship.

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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Brian Van Holt as Vincent Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 02/??

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

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I'm pretty sure my ask got eaten the last time I tried to send this I had completely forgot about it too before I saw my face reveal post my Internet was a little werid when I tried to send it though if you do have the original or your requests are closed just ignore this 😅

If it's not too much trouble I was wondering if you could write a little something for mine and Vinny's bookshop date please 💜

Here it is my love! I hope you enjoy it, I think it's super sweet!

The Dusty Shelf

Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

2.5k words No CWs, just fluff! Reader is described as shorter than Vincent and with brightly colored hair to match the lovely @fluffy-little-demon

There was this place.

It was a secondhand bookstore a few miles out of Ambrose, in a town small enough to be left to its own devices but big enough to have shed some of that small-town suspicion of strangers. You’d been desperate for just such a place when you found it, somewhere cozy, where time stopped for a coffee and a flip through a book of poems about cats. Ambrose was many things. Cozy was not on the list. But the Dusty Shelf was the epitome of close, quiet comfort.

You made an effort to make it out there at least once every couple of weeks. Saturday mornings had this intrinsic promise to them, the feeling of a day open for anything. You’d get a coffee from the shop down the street and lose yourself amid the shelves, almost always leaving with a book (or two, or three) you never knew you needed.

They had this delightful exchange program where you could bring in used books and trade them for ones that were new-to-you. Victor Sinclair had an extensive dusty collection of medical texts and historical novels and not one of the boys had any opposition to you putting it to good use.

At first, you shyly asked Vincent if he wanted to see what you’d brought back. It was an art book, an anthology of sculpture through the ages, and it reminded you of him. He was so enthralled that you let him keep it. You’d sort of intended it for him anyway. After that, if you didn’t come straight downstairs to show him your spoils, he’d seek you out, ask you what you found.

This time, as he thumbed through a well-worn anthology of Greek myths, you ventured an invitation.

“You could come with me next time, if you want.”

He looked up at you, brow furrowed. “I would love to,” he signed, “but…I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not comfortable,” you said quickly. “But…there’s almost never anyone there, and Mildred - the owner - she’s basically blind. So you…you’d blend in just fine, I think.”

You watched him consider, weigh the lifelong fear of being perceived against the deep-seated desire for the normalcy of a trip to the bookstore.

“Can I…get back to you?” he signed.

“Of course you can. I would love to have you with me, but I’m also more than happy to bring back the best parts of it for you.”

You let it be through the week, until Friday night when he approached you in the kitchen. He touched you lightly on the lower back and when you turned, you found yourself looking at his bare face - half of it, anyway. The other half was covered by a waxen half-mask, the seam blended expertly across his skin.

Your eyes widened. “Vince, did you just make that?” He nodded. “That’s amazing, it looks so good!”

“The symmetry was hard,” he signed. “It looks okay?”

“Yes! You did a fantastic job, of course you did.”

He smiles his tentative ghost of a smile. “I thought it might be…easier to go out like this.”

You lit up. “You want to come with me tomorrow?” He nodded. “I’m so glad! It’ll be really fun, I promise. And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can leave right away, it’s okay. We can take it a step at a time.” You pulled him into a hug that it felt like he was hoping for, because his arms found their way around you without hesitation.

Just before bed, you found yourself alone in the living room with Bo. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stood from the couch, started towards the stairs.

“Hey,” he said in a low voice. You turned and met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable. “This is a big deal for him.”

“I know,” you said humbly.

“‘S good, I’m not denyin’ that. Great even. But I just wanna make sure you realize. ‘S been years since he’s been outta town.”

You nodded. “We’ll take it at his pace. Whatever he wants.”

“I oughta come with you, but I’m not gonna do that. He’d be pissed at me.” Bo stared at you for a while before adding, “You best take care of him, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

You nodded again, the weight of his trust making you stand a little straighter. “I will. I promise.”

Saturday morning broke with cloudy skies and an insolent wind: the perfect day to spend in a bookstore. When you met Vincent in the front hallway you realized you’d both chosen plaid button-downs open over t-shirts. Yours was red and his was black.

You laughed and he cracked a crooked smile. It was priceless to you to be able to see that smile with the new mask. “I’ll go change,” he signed.

“No, no. We match! It’s cute.”

His eye shone. “If you say so.”

On the drive, you reached across the armrest and took his hand from its place on his leg. He looked at you with a flash of unguarded vulnerability, just for a second. “You’re gonna stay close to me, okay?” you said. “If you want to leave, you just squeeze my hand.”

He gave you a thumbs-up with his free hand, squeezed your fingers with the other.

“Mildred is really nice, I think you’ll like her. There’s hardly ever anyone there, even on weekends. And even if there is, they’re probably going to be distracted by my hair and won’t even notice you.” Your hair, incapable of remaining the same color for more than a month, was currently green.

Vincent pulled his hand away to sign, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d dye mine sometime,” and then quickly laced his fingers back through yours.

“You mean it?” You beamed. “I would love to.”

As per usual, the street that was home to the Dusty Shelf was almost completely empty. The little café around the corner was the busiest establishment on the entire block. You parked the car on the curb nearby. Vincent eyed the constantly swinging door with apprehension.

“You can wait in the car if you want,” you said. “I can grab us both drinks and then we can drive up the road.”

He thought for a second. “No. Let’s both go in.”

“You sure?”

Vincent nodded.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

You rounded the hood of the car and took his hand. He was already reaching for you. You gave him a minute to gather his courage, waited for him to give you a nod, and then with your fingers woven through his, you led him up the two concrete steps into the café.

Inside was a cacophony of sensory input. Was it always such a spectacle? You’d never thought about it before. The smell of coffee was pervasive. Old country classics played on wall-mounted speakers beneath the clink of mugs and the even hum of a dozen conversations. An impossible number of people filled the small space, queuing at the register or sitting at a handful of high-top tables. You glanced up at Vincent, who bore a marked resemblance to a very large deer in the headlights.

“Okay?” you murmured loudly. He flashed you another thumbs-up without looking at you, too preoccupied with the insurmountable task of taking in everything at once. He examined the crowd, the menu, the entire space with his head lowered, peering up through his thick lashes. You gave him a minute to get his bearings, then indicated the line. He nodded and shuffled forward.

“Do you know what you want? Or do you want me to pick for you?”

He pointed at you.

“Got it.” You didn’t even bother reading the menu board; you knew what you wanted and you knew what he liked.

The line moved quickly and you were at the register in no time. You ordered the drinks and the cashier barely looked at either of you as she punched the buttons. Vincent watched the exchange like a biologist studying some exotic species. You sidestepped away from the register to wait for your order, smiling up at Vincent. He looked almost puzzled, but when you squeezed his hand just to check, he answered with a slight shake of his head.

The girl called your name, handed you both drinks.

“By the way, I love your hair.”

You flashed a polite grin. “Thank you!”

She bid you a good rest of your day with a quick, courteous glance at Vincent. Her gaze skated over his face, didn’t linger, and she was on to the next customer. With your hands full, you offered Vincent your elbow and led him out of the shop.

Outside, he breathed a visible sigh of relief.

“How was that?” you asked anxiously. “Are you okay?”

He stared at the ground thoughtfully before replying. “Yeah. I don’t think she even noticed.”

“Probably not.”

He furrowed his brow. “Nobody…even looked at me.”

A tentative smile crept onto your face. “Yeah. Everyone is always kind of…preoccupied with their own thing.”

“That’s not how I remembered it,” he said, and the hurt in his eye when he met your gaze was a knife in the gut.

“Well, let’s go make better memories then.” You handed him his drink. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” That phantom smile was back. “I’m okay.”

“That was the hard part.” You took hold of his hand again. “Let’s go get cozy.”

The bell over the door wasn’t a bell, it was a string attached to a set of windchimes. They tinkled overhead as you entered. A garland of multicolored scarves draped low just inside the doorway; Vincent had to duck to get through.

You watched his face as he took it all in: the colorful glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the bright green carpet, the mismatched assortment of armchairs and loveseats arranged in little groups like families. And the shelves.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves held up the walls and a maze of chest-high shelves filled the majority of the space, every one crammed to bursting with books. Heroically, the shorter shelves also bore the weight of a hundred years of antiques arranged haphazardly across their crowns. The entire place smelt of patchouli and paper, and somewhere a blues record was playing.

Vincent’s eye was wide, flitting from one thing to the next like a hummingbird in a garden of honeysuckle. His grip tightened on your hand and you frowned.

“Do you…want to leave?”

He shook his head quickly. “No! No, it’s just…amazing.”

You broke into a grin. “Yeah…I think so.”

From behind a shelf, a tiny old woman shuffled into view, dressed head-to-toe in a truly devastating mix of colors and patterns. She wore itty bitty gold-rimmed spectacles dangling with a beaded chain and was still squinting with all her might.

“Can I help you?” she said in the voice of a chainsmoking squirrel.

“Hi Mildred,” you said brightly. “It’s me.”

“Ohh, hello dear.” She peered up at Vincent. “Didja bring a friend or didja find a bear?”

You bit back a laugh and shot a glance at him. He was transfixed with her. “A friend. He doesn’t talk much, he signs.”

“Well, we could all stand to talk a lil less.” She abruptly changed course, moving just past you to the worn desk near the door that served as a checkout counter. “Make yourself at home, honey.”

“Thanks, Mildred.” You gave Vincent’s hand a gentle tug. “Let me show you my favorite spot and then we can browse, okay?”

You led him back to the back corner, to an oversized burnt orange loveseat flanked by Tiffany lamps. There was a low walnut coffee table nearly pushed up against the couch, sporting a truly impressive assortment of coasters checkerboarded over its surface like a turtle’s shell. From underneath the table, a skinny black paw stretched out towards your feet, and then another, and then a handsome tuxedo cat emerged, blinking his golden eyes.

“That’s Shep,” you said. “He’s either very friendly, or very rude.”

Vincent knelt slowly and offered his hand. Shep gave him a sniff and then a cuff of his cheek. When Vincent stood back up, the cat meowed at him and leaned against his calf.

“You’re a charmer,” you said. He smiled shyly.

You wandered together through the stacks, pointing out books with odd titles, pulling ones with pretty covers to admire them better, tucking a few under your arm to take back to the orange couch. Vincent retrieved a few that were too high for you to reach, playfully signing, “Little.”

When you’d amassed quite the collection, you returned to the corner. You sat on one side of the loveseat and Vincent sank rather stiffly onto the other. He flipped a few pages, then leaned casually back. You flipped a few pages, then crossed your leg and scooted just slightly in his direction. He pretended to read for a while before stretching his arm along the back of the couch behind you. You abandoned all pretense, stuck your thumb in the pages to hold your place, snuggled in against him with your leg hooked over his, and resumed reading. He let out a soft, suppressed sigh of contentment and you smiled to yourself.

The morning passed in delightful, companionable quiet. When at last the growling of Vincent’s stomach broke the silence, you proposed a quick return to the café to grab lunch. Mildred let you eat in the bookstore if you promised to be careful and brought her back a sandwich. Vincent agreed and you went to let Mildred know you’d be back.

“I know you close at two on Saturdays,” you told her. “But…he doesn’t get out much, and he really likes it here. Could I convince you to let us stay just an hour or two past closing time?”

Mildred regarded you shrewdly. “It’s gonna cost ya.”

You considered the volume of junk in the Sinclair house, in particular the gadgets in Victor’s old office. “How does an antique sex toy sound?”

“Horrendous,” she said. “I’ll take it if you throw in the rest o’ that encyclopedia set y’brought last time.”

“Done.”

You shook on it. When you turned around, Vincent was examining antiques with Shep perched on his shoulder, drinking in the new vantage point with greedy yellow eyes. Vincent turned to you and he looked…well, he looked relaxed, possibly for the first time ever.

“Do you want to stay here?” you asked. “I can grab lunch and come right back.”

He shook his head. “I want to be with you.”

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating from you as you took his hand again. “Good. I want to be with you too.”

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

Note

Can I ask for some soft smut fic for Vincent taking the virginity of his S/o? I really crave me some Vincent crumbs🥺🥺🥺

┊ 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭.

┊ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓/𝟏𝟖+! 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭!𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱 (𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

┊ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝟔,𝟒𝟕𝟗.

┊ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭! 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬! 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬, 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭! 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲’𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! ❤️

A clap of thunder rumbled across black, starless skies, accompanied with the flash of lightning. Rain slammed against the windows with a torrential force, waking you up from your deep slumber. With a strangled gasp, your heart leaped into your throat as another surge of thunder shook the night. The curtains that framed the dingy windows would flutter a time or two, a cloud-covered moonlight striking the glass, pooling through into your room.

Sluggishly, you moved into a sitting position, sheets bunched around your hips. The mattress you slept upon was cushioned enough, though strewn across the wooden floor without much to support it. Your rugged, barebones conditions were something you’d grown used to over the past months, ever since you’d been taken by a pair of brothers, in addition to the third sibling, who harbored themselves in an abandoned town.

When you were taken, you were lost, taking a wrong turn somewhere and ending up in Ambrose. A part of you had become grateful, given what circumstances you were running from in the first place, attempting to flee from your old life. At first, you’d traded one cage for another, but as time progressed and trust with it, your captors became your friends, more or less. Bo was still on the fence with you, somewhat indifferent, but you didn’t blame him — he was like that with most people.

Lester was unusually chipper, typically humorous and pleasant to get along with. He often rambled and talked about a variety of different things, tacked onto winding stories which had no point nor an end. He was never vitriolic like Bo, less violent than his older brothers. He was often out in the woods anyway, which meant that you didn’t see much of him, but his appearances were welcomed nonetheless.

Bo, the eldest, happened to be at-odds with you when he’d snatched you up after your car accident. He was keen on letting you succumb to your injuries, but with time, he slowly began to grow used to having you around. He’d tease you sometimes, his remarks often accompanied by a sly grin and a flash of pearlescent teeth. He was usually in his garage anyway, or glued to the television with a beer in his hand. You learned to be mindful of him if he was in a sour mood.

Vincent was the enigma, though he happened to be the one who saved your life. He never spoke, communicating through writing or sign language, sometimes a myriad of sounds that were never formed into words. Of the three brothers, Vincent was the one you’d become close to, oddly enough. He would tend to your wounds while you were on the mend, unlock your door in the dead of night when Bo was asleep during the first few weeks of your capture, and ensure that you were being properly fed.

After you’d become comfortable and Vincent was no longer wary, you would sit in the basement, watch him mold and form intricate sculptures from wax. It was almost a nightly routine, a pattern that you found great enjoyment in. Many times, Vincent insisted that you talk, speak to him about anything — what you liked, what you disliked, your habits and hangups, what life used to be like for you. You would often fall asleep in the chair, waking up to a blanket draped around your form.

You’d become curious about Vincent, especially what resided underneath his wax mask. It was an itch that often bubbled just beneath the surface for you, but you understood his underlying insecurities, his desire to always keep that false visage on. Bo explained it to you one night after you came up from the basement, quietly murmuring about the surgery and his scars, about how he hated to look at himself.

It was something to keep in mind with each interaction as your empathetic nature clung to Vincent. Each night, you ogled his mask, pondering what he might’ve looked like underneath, fantasizing about his appearance. If he was anything like Bo, you considered him handsome, but it wasn’t a bold comparison to make. Vincent’s personality was nothing like Bo’s, which was what drew you to him — no suave, manipulative charm or a volatile streak.

Gingerly nudging the covers aside, you moved off of your bed, bare feet drifting toward the vanity situated along the wall. Your disheveled, sleepy appearance was something you weren’t concerned about, but you did pull on a robe over yourself. It provided a bit of warmth, especially with the nightgown you wore — comfortable, though certainly not crafted for the chill that drifted throughout the house.

Creeping toward the door, you twisted the knob, the creaking echoing throughout the hallway. The thunderstorm raged outside, enough to make you jump again as a rancorous clash of thunder crackled throughout the night. As you quietly made your way down the staircase, you could spot Bo’s slumbering shape on the couch, hat over his face, a beer bottle situated on the floor next to him.

As you padded across the corridor, the basement door was left slightly ajar for you, a softer illumination pooling from the crack. You nimbly skirted inside, making sure to shut it behind you. The sound of opera music drifted throughout the basement, even carrying to where you stood. Wax covered the walls to form intricate shapes and designs, candles stacked and piled upon each step. It was warmer down below as you made your descent, being mindful of where you stepped.

Grogginess began to wear off as you fully awoke, slipping into the massive basement. Jonesy came to greet you, tail wagging and whining with excitement. You immediately stooped to give him plenty of scratches, behind his ears and against his chest. “Good boy,” You mused, kneeling down against the cold, concrete floors. “Where’s your owner?” You inquired, hands falling into your lap as Jonesy dashed off in the other direction.

You followed at a slower pace, quietly admiring the sheer amount of artwork that was contained within this space. There were finished wax figures kept off to a cleaner side, awaiting their placement in the museum. You passed by the wax boilers and the dreaded chair, crossing into another room, one that was a little less frightening or daunting than the rest. In this next wing, unfinished silhouettes of wax figures remained scattered about, akin to a silent audience.

Vincent was situated at a spacious desk, which was littered and piled in pieces of parchment and canvas. Half-completed sketches and grayscale landscapes were tacked to the wall above, fluttering with the basement’s draft. Some of his art supplies were scattered across the surface, everything from the simplest of colored pencils, watercolors to oil pastels, to sculpting tools and materials. He was drawing something, moving his pencil across the paper with a steady hand, dark tresses hanging to obscure his face.

He was keen enough to detect your presence, stopping his sketching in order to straighten himself, turning towards you. Swiping the sleeves of his sweater aside, he began to sign, ‘You couldn’t sleep?’ Granted, Vincent was nocturnal, more or less. He was often drawing or caught within the various stages of creating something if slumber evaded him, especially on a stormy night like this one.

Both Vincent and Bo had taught you sign language, from the moment you were taken, to making sure you stayed knowledgeable about it in the present. It was fascinating to learn, and thankfully, you were sharp enough to catch on very quickly. Rubbing at your blurry eyes, you softly cleared your throat, humming as you took a moment to compute what Vincent asked. In awkward signing, you replied, ‘No, not really. Thunderstorm woke me up.’ You forgot he could actually hear you speak sometimes.

A throaty noise escaped Vincent, akin to a scratchy laugh, as his one eye briefly fluttered across your form. You were usually a little more clothed than just a nightgown and robe, which elicited something of a flustered reaction from him, even if you were oblivious to it. He was thankful for the mask in that moment — the one side of his visage happened to be tinged with pink. He turned within his seat, covering some of his drawings with a sketchbook or two before signing, ‘Sorry for the mess.’

“No, no. That’s okay, I love seeing everything here. You’re extremely talented.” You chimed, offering Vincent a smile soon afterwards. This menagerie, this shrine to art and to creation was always such a fascinating environment, and with each visit to the basement, you always noticed something new. His knack for the arts was impressive, especially his meticulous attention to details. “What were you drawing before I interrupted?”

Elusive to your inquiry, Vincent wouldn’t dare admit to his growing pile of drawings, all of which happened to be of you. When you occasionally fell asleep, he took charcoal or pencil to parchment, sketched your slumbering form or the pleasant, serene expression upon your face. Other times, it was all from memory, each curvature of your body or visage, sometimes you were smiling or turned away from him.

‘People.’ Vincent signed, hoping the answer would suffice to satisfy your curiosity. It was vague, though judging from your reaction, you weren’t about to pry any further. If he had Bo’s level of charm or charisma, he might’ve been bold enough to show you the drawings, but that was far-fetched.

Pacing around the room, you moved toward a wax figure of a woman, still in the middle stages of completion. Even when doused in wax, she was alarmingly beautiful, sparking a deep-rooted feeling of both envy and insecurity. Your fingertips ghosted over her smoothed forearm, eyes fluttering across her form — she was flawless, you realized. Vincent was surrounded by these people, immortalized perfection, and for some unknown reason, it made you jealous.

“This one is beautiful,” You whispered, idly chewing upon your lower lip. These sculptures would never succumb to age — they were all frozen in time. Even with the grisly deaths they might have faced, Vincent certainly did his best to ensure their long lasting perfection. It was completely and utterly foolish to be envious of someone entombed in wax, but it was your own lack of confidence speaking for itself. “It reminds me of those statues you see in Greece.”

Vincent watched you from his seat, able to recognize the inklings of self-doubt and defeat as you traced your hand along the wax piece. He was familiar enough with your demeanor to understand and empathize with your insecurities — he had plenty of his own, too. He wished he could make you understand your own worth in his eyes, your piety and beauty. As you became preoccupied with the statue, Vincent rifled around within his stack of drawings, fishing out the ones he enjoyed the most.

Despite his initial hesitation about admitting to drawing you, his perspective shifted slightly when he recognized your downtrodden demeanor. Vincent never wanted you to feel lesser as it stood — those wax statues paled in comparison to what lived and breathed before him. Sliding from the chair, Vincent moved toward you with light footfalls, having the advantage of height as he gawked down at you.

Instead of explaining away his antics, Vincent simply nudged the handful of sketches into your hands, anxiously awaiting your reaction. If you found it in poor taste or you became uncomfortable, he would discard them all immediately. He would rather you be indifferent instead of wary or unnerved, at the very least. His one eye remained glued to your visage, which flushed with a scarlet pallor as you closely examined each drawing, lips twitching into a flustered smile.

“You drew all of these?” It was astounding, the amount of care and life Vincent had poured into these pieces of art. He didn’t glorify you, he didn’t alter you in ways that he saw fit or erase your imperfections. Instead, Vincent was entirely authentic to your appearance, yet it was saturated by his personal touches, the way in which he viewed you. Photographs paled in comparison to what you held, and you realized that Vincent saw you in a way that you never saw yourself — perfection.

Struggling to contain your wash of emotions, your attention was fixated upon a certain piece. You were facing away in this one, your side profile captured in such an immaculate manner. You were a masterpiece in these, your own Mona Lisa, and it flattered you beyond comprehension. You wondered how long Vincent had been sketching you before you noticed some of the dates scribbled in the corner, most of these had been made after you started spending more time with him in the basement.

‘You make an excellent muse. Beautiful, exuberant.’ Vincent signed, hoping that his transparency would sink in for you. ‘Perfection.’ His hands receded into his sweater, slowly recoiling to his sides as he watched your reaction blossom from disbelief to one of pure emotion, pure exuberance. The way in which you openly displayed your feelings was a very precious thing to him, something he didn’t take lightly. In your vulnerable state, Vincent fell into your presence as if he were sinking into velvet — encapsulating and soft.

Tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill over as you hastily attempted to compose yourself, unable to comprehend Vincent’s line of thinking. You felt unworthy, but you wondered if his own thoughts mirrored yours. Salty droplets trickled down your cheeks no matter how hard you fought them off, a gasp escaping you as Vincent’s fingertips ghosted across your visage, collecting the tears upon the pads of his digits.

You flushed at the contact, though it left you yearning for more. Vincent’s brief caress only awoke something inside of you, a brazen want, a surge of affection for him washing over you. It was like fire, searing through and burning you completely, a consuming spark that wouldn’t stop once ignited. You wanted to chase after his fingers, keen into his embrace, but you were terrified of scaring him off or making him uncomfortable.

Leaning forward, you opted to sink into his embrace, cheek nestled against his chest. Vincent became rigid, feeling your supple form press against his body, the drawings still clutched tightly within your left hand. Unused to such displays of affection, he was hesitant when returning the gesture, but it left him yearning — it left him burning for you. His arms tightly wound around you, hands hovering over your back and hips, afraid to fully touch you.

“Thank you, Vincent.” You whispered, teeth nibbling across your lower lip. Scarlet settled within your features, residing across your skin. You weren’t sure if it was because of the basement’s humid warmth, or because you were becoming smitten. Nonetheless, you wanted to stay like this, stay within Vincent’s gentle hold. “They’re wonderful, I love them.” A soft mumble left you, accompanied by a sigh of contentment.

Deep within the darker fantasies his mind produced, Vincent was desperate to worship you, to touch you — drown himself within your perfection. Of course, nervousness overrode such desires, a fear that you would recoil or react with displeasure if he tried. His slight inexperience came into play, but Vincent wasn’t troubled over it — he could learn quickly. He was far more concerned with disappointing or upsetting you, truthfully.

That plunging neckline of your nightgown exposed the canvas of silken flesh, a canvas that Vincent wanted to mark, place his calling card against your skin. It wouldn’t be possible if he wore the mask, and he wasn’t ready for you to see his face just yet. An inkling of an idea crept into his mind — make you keep your eyes shut, blindfold you, perhaps. As long as you didn’t see what a horrific visage he possessed, it would be enough to quell his pang of anxiousness.

Vincent shivered when he felt your digits gently peruse through his tresses, dark locks slipping against your fingers as you played with his hair. A soft noise escaped the back of his throat, hands finally slipping against your silk-clad figure. Your supple, enchanting form fit beautifully into his palms, as if he’d molded you himself. He ensured a gentle grasp, fingertips gracing your ribcage, dancing across the swell of your hips. Everything about you was completely and utterly captivating.

You were far more divine than any piece of art — in fact, you were a masterpiece incarnate, a goddess worthy of his complete devotion. Vincent coveted you, he wanted you all to himself. The ways in which to seal this bond were far from pious or innocuous, but he was far more subdued about his lust when compared to his twin brother. Those capable, calloused hands, the hands of an artist, continued to caress and knead into you, the pad of his thumb languidly swirling patterns into your clothed flesh.

“Vincent?”

A saccharine utterance slipped past your lips, gaze drifting from his chest to countenance, fingers still toying with his tresses. You shuffled backward within his arms, just enough to glimpse his masked visage fully. His singular eye was entirely fixated upon you, hanging upon the precipice as he nodded, encouraging you to continue to speak. The words seemed lodged within your throat, stuck and frozen as your lips parted.

Absentmindedly, you were leaning up and inwards, and Vincent began to tilt toward you ever so slightly. Time felt still, warmth and heat crackling between the two of you, a tension hanging heavy within the air as you pressed your lips against the mouth of his mask. Vincent’s hands poised themselves upon your body, a shudder traveling up his spine, sending tremors throughout his entire form as you embraced him in such a sensual manner, one so very foreign to him.

Vincent was desperate to kiss you back, reciprocate your tenderness, but the mask certainly hindered many things. A low, throaty whine escaped him when you pressed a myriad of kisses against his jaw, gently shuffling the fabric of his sweater aside to plant a kiss upon his neck. His hands scrambled to readjust themselves, one palm splayed across your hip as the other drifted upward, digits pressing just underneath your breast.

“Is this okay?” You whispered, realizing that neither of you had really confirmed anything, only fell into the heat of the moment. You were aching now — filled with a wash of desire, even adoration. You wanted Vincent to touch you, but it was difficult for you to fully voice such lewd thoughts without becoming embarrassed.

Bringing his hands up, Vincent began to sign, ‘Completely. Do you want this, too?’ He needed to know for his own peace of mind, but it did establish a sense of mutuality — he wasn’t alone in his feelings, and his obsession and coveting of you wouldn’t feel too outlandish anymore. He watched you nod your head several times over, which prompted his next string of signing, entirely unfiltered. ‘I want to touch you.’

Your breath hitched within your throat, a pang of excitement coursing along your body. It was anticipation that swelled within your gut, coupled with a growing arousal. A stirring warmth pooled between your legs as you nodded again, attempting to vocalize your approval of such a thing. “Yes,” You mewled, shuddering when Vincent’s hand began to skirt underneath your nightgown. “I want you, Vincent.”

He found that difficult to believe, and even during the throes of passion and amatory wishes, his shattered confidence crept through. It would take him time to fully trust your words, but he wanted to set aside the self-doubt in order to worship you in the way that you deserved.

With another noise of approval, Vincent hastily signed, ‘Close your eyes for me.’ His fingers lightly ghosted across your cheek, feeling the heat that exuded from you. Watching you closely, your eyes fluttered shut, feeling his face nestle near your shoulder.

If he meant what you thought he implied, you were determined to keep your eyes shut. Of course, there was always such a longing to see his face, no matter what he thought of himself, but you would never pressure him like that. In fact, you were surprised that he was willing to remove it at all — as far as you were concerned, the waxy veil was his true countenance. Nonetheless, you became giddy, flesh prickling with goosebumps as his roughened lips made contact within the crook of your neck — his real mouth.

The texture was different, somewhat chapped and uneven. There was a cautionary way that Vincent went about kissing your flesh, as if he were carefully drawing his brush upon a canvas. Even then, it was passionate and adoring, never forceful nor invasive.

You tasted saccharine underneath his lips, smooth and flourishing with a pleasant heat. With what little experience Vincent possessed, his mouth came to press along your neck, still slow and exploratory as you rocked against him. Soft moans escaped your parted lips, one arm twined around his torso whilst the other stroked at his hair.

Vincent lightly suckled near your jugular, his first mark to make, one that Bo would absolutely see. Branded as shy and reserved, such labels were carelessly tossed aside as he left a vibrant hickey upon your neck, mouth moving to do the same underneath your jaw. You gasped, face blossoming with a feverish heat as you squeezed against his body, fingers idly massaging into the material of his sweater. “Vincent,” You breathed, eyes still clamped shut, “Could you kiss me?”

Daunting was an understatement — Vincent’s hesitation was evident as he pondered whether or not to kiss you. It wasn’t a matter of his desire for you, but rather his own fearfulness and lack of self-worth. He was terrified that you’d find him disgusting, cringe or recoil from his mouth, and that would be the end of him. Steeling himself, Vincent knew it would be worthwhile to at least try — that’s all he could do.

His heart began to race a little faster as his mouth sluggishly drifted from your soft jawline to your plush lips, quivering breath fanning out across your visage. Goosebumps continued to collect along your flesh, lower lip trembling slightly as you waited for Vincent’s decision. You wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t want to kiss you — he was doing so much already, and it would be cruel of you to keep asking things of him.

Roughened, scarred lips slowly embraced your waiting mouth, and you nearly melted. Your hands slid to rest against his chest, one loosely draped across his shoulder, digits lightly massaging through his dusky tresses. The kiss was feather-light and intentionally experimental, almost exploratory in nature as Vincent tested the waters, searching for a reaction from you. He was pleasantly surprised when all he received was a soft, needy whimper as you reciprocated the kiss.

Your eyes were still clamped shut as you continued the kiss, feeling something rigid wedge itself against your inner thigh. An incendiary heat spread from head to toe as you realized what that might’ve been, though it only served to further your arousal and excitement. Vincent’s thumb brushed across your hardened nipple, grazing the sensitive nub through the silk of your nightgown, eliciting a gasp from you.

Instead of carrying on in front of his sculptures, Vincent whisked you off of the ground, carrying you to his spacious desk. With one arm, he moved his piles of artwork and supplies to either side, clearing enough room for you to sit. Nudging his way in between your legs, nightgown riding up to pool around your hips, his sudden spur of giddiness prompted him to kiss you again, hand poised against your bare thigh. Your eyes were still closed, something you wouldn’t waver on.

Curious, careful hands clamored across your scantily-clad form, unbuttoning the lengthy string of turquoise buttons that held your nightgown together at the front. Vincent was enamored, wildly eager to see your unclad body, keen to let his mouth do some of the exploring next.

Of course, he sluggishly inched the silken fabric from you, his skin growing hot, becoming enlivened with the more he saw of you. The only article of clothing that remained happened to be your panties, which were marked with a splotch of moisture between your legs.

Biting down upon his knuckles, a throaty, husky noise emerged from him, one of pure elation. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, the most gorgeous woman to ever exist. Enthralled and enraptured, Vincent had reeled back to admire you, all flushed and heated. You were his prettiest muse, living perfection that sat before him. The expression he wore was a faint smile, one that was plastered to his visage, one that you couldn’t see.

Weaving closer until he could go no further, his palm enveloped one of your breasts, kneading at the soft, supple flesh underneath. His other hand wrapped around you, digits tracing all along your spine, producing goosebumps in the process. You felt like velvet, smooth and enticing as Vincent’s fingers sensually wandered across your skin, aching to feel every inch of you.

Careening into his sensual embrace, you felt his mouth find yours again, sealing your lips in a passionate, feverish entanglement. It drove you mad with desire, drunk upon the feeling of being adored. Your hand blindly searched for his, covering the one that dutifully groped at your chest, encouraging him further. Your aquamarine gown had sat in a limp heap around your hips, which Vincent happened to disregard for the time being. A string of needy moans were evoked from you, accompanied by Vincent’s own little groans.

With a gentle retraction, Vincent’s lips sought your neck again, pressing tender kisses into the side that wasn’t littered with hickeys. Tracing his thumb around your nipple, he shuddered whenever you whimpered or mewled, only making him sink further into his lust. His mouth graced your shoulder, and then your collarbone, before it hovered over the breast that was left without a lick of attention.

Your head rolled back slightly, a gasp escaping you as callous, scarred lips pursed around your nipple, kissing and sucking, drawing out each speck of pleasure from you. Your fingers were swift to stumble around once more, finding his head of pretty hair, digits lightly perusing and caressing.

Vincent’s eagerness and enthusiasm swelled, desperate to worship you as he paid close attention to your breasts. A myriad of husky, guttural noises left him in droves, vocalizing his own bliss and pleasure.

“You’re so perfect,” You mumbled, which could’ve come across as some lust-drunk rambling, but you meant it wholeheartedly. Vincent physically tensed up beneath your hands, barely comprehending the string of words that left your lips.

He forced himself to push through the shock, continuing to dutifully suck and press adoring kisses all along your breast, shuddering when one of your hands slid against his shoulder blade, dancing across his spine. “Vincent.” You breathed, mewling and moaning his name, feeling his mouth tangle against your ribcage, leaving behind a trail of marks.

You were the perfect canvas, the unblemished plane of beauty, his muse. Every single facet about you drew him in, tangled him up in this web of adoration. Vincent wanted to ensure that you were very well-cared for, in every aspect of your blossoming relationship. He felt so very fortunate that you embraced him as you did, your touch seeping with love, both true and amorous. He was beyond elated that you kept your eyes tightly shut throughout this whole ordeal, too.

Plucking his hand off of your breast, you gently settled his palm against your abdomen, guiding his fingers toward the dainty, frilly waistband of your panties. Vincent’s mouth ceased, breath hitching around your torso as he felt that wash of heat that exuded from you. You wanted him to feel exactly what he did to you, ensuring that his confidence would be boosted in the process.

Unable to fight curiosity, Vincent’s nimble digits wormed their way past the seam of your panties, nestling against your core. You were soaked, a searing mess as he nudged your legs apart a little more, his index finger brushing over your clit. A wanton moan tore past your lips as you involuntarily jerked into his hand, his intimidating stature looming over you.

Vincent’s thick fingers began to explore your cunt, wet from your slick as he rubbed them in steady circles around your clit, watching you quiver and arch forward. He would drag them against your slit a time or two, feeling all of you before his thumb encircled your clit instead.

“Vincent,” You whined, desperately rocking your hips into his hand, needy for friction as his index and middle fingers toyed and teased you. Clinging to him, you felt his mouth push against your neck again, sensual and soft as he pressed kisses into your feverish flesh. His pace began to mount, gathering speed as his digits ground themselves around your entrance.

Tilting you back, he firmly wedged himself between your legs, spreading them around his hips as he rolled his thumb into your clit, sending tremors of pleasure up your spine. His dark tresses swept against your skin, mouth preoccupied with savoring every inch of you, and that was when he had an idea.

Pushing two digits inside of your tight cunt, Vincent listened to you mewl and moan, unable to shake the sensation of you clenching around his fingers. He was a little slower, his pace intentionally sluggish and lacking any roughness or haste.

You were clamoring to keep up, reveling in the sensations of his fingers pumping in and out of you, thumb still flicking and dragging over your clit. Vincent’s mouth tore away from your neck as he stooped down, pressing several kisses against your chest and stomach, making his way toward your hips.

The sudden ceasing of his digits made you moan, wondering why he stopped. Before you could get a word in, his fingers were replaced by his mouth, and that made you cry out in delight. Vincent was on his knees, face settled between your thighs instead, tongue lasciviously lapping and swiping at your cunt.

It was arguably better than his fingers, making you slump backwards, feeling his hands knead into the pliant flesh of your rump, pushing you into his mouth. You could feel his scars, the uneven pattern of his face pushing into the left side of your inner thigh. Vincent lacked sloppiness, but he retained eagerness, that much was for certain.

Splitting past your folds, his fingers coaxed you forward, hot breath smoldering across your nethers as he fucked you with his mouth. You could hear his throaty noises, the soft little grunts as you careened into his tongue, choking on a moan that bubbled within the back of your throat.

You were melting around him, surrendering to his fire, hand blindly fumbling to lightly tangle into his hair. The sinful noise that he made sent you reeling, the heat of his mouth making you break out into a hapless string of moans and whimpers. You felt his tongue worm against your clit before it was captured by his lips instead.

Vincent wanted to taste you like this for an eternity if he could, never wanting to leave this spot. As you bucked and jolted into his face, he pursed his lips around your clit, sucking and lapping at the bundle of nerves to try and drive you into an orgasm. Your scream of delight evoked a purr from deep within his chest, feeling you quiver against him.

Between mouth and fingers, you were seeing stars, cumming onto his tongue without any good forewarning other than a string of slurred, unintelligible words. You were panting, making a mess as Vincent dutifully cleaned you up, tongue lashing at your soaked cunt a time or two, swiping around your inner thighs before he returned to lightly sucking at your clit.

The wave of overstimulation made you squeal, chest rising and falling at an accelerated rate as you tugged on his hair a time or two. Vincent let out some grunt of protest, but you almost had to physically pry him away, damp with a layer of perspiration as you tried to sit up. Your legs were shaking so bad that if you tried to stand, you knew you’d topple over.

“No more, Vincent. Little much,” You mumbled, embarrassed as could be. Vincent obeyed, licking at his lower lip before wiping off his chin with the sleeve of his sweater, fingers caressing the curve of your jaw. “Don’t want your brother to hear me.” That much was true. You didn’t want to make things awkward.

Vincent hummed, kissing the side of your face, nestling against you as his erection pressed against your thigh. Placing his hands against your hips, he turned you around, gently bending you over the edge of his desk. You felt the caress of his lips drag all over your spine and shoulders, the sweep of his hair sending goosebumps across your flesh.

Unbuckling himself, Vincent freed his cock, unbearably hard and throbbing as he dragged it against your slit, letting out a deep-pitched whine. He wanted you so terribly, your back flush to his chest, faces nearly pressed together as he ground his hips into you, showering your sweet skin in kisses, all over your shoulder and neck.

Using the desk as a crutch, you felt him shove your nightgown up, letting it pool around your waist, lazily sliding his cock past your folds as it pressed against your cunt. With a shove of his hips, his cock slipped inside of you, much bigger than you imagined. With a wanton cry, you moaned, all breathy and high-pitched as Vincent pushed into you, face situated within the crook of your shoulder.

“Vincent,” Your amatory whine made him shudder, allowing you a moment to adjust to his size before he rolled his hips forward, gradually filling you with his cock. His ironclad grip upon your hips was so snug that it would certainly leave bruises behind, but the rest of him wasn’t as rough. He handled you perfectly, rocking you down onto his length as he attempted to find his pace.

The friction between the both of you was intoxicating, feeling his strong, sinewy form all huddled against you, forehead pressed into your shoulder as he stooped and slouched. Vincent began to find a suitable rhythm, nearly dragging his cock out entirely before pumping himself back into you, a steady pace that lacked force or roughness.

Your cunt was tight, clenching and snug around his length, but it served to make the sensations far more pleasurable. With a soft moan, you moved with him, gently gyrating your hips in a downward motion, meeting his thrusts halfway as his cock sank into you with a lewd clash of flesh. Vincent’s hand slithered upward, grasping at your torso, feeling your body underneath his palm.

Ropes of precum slathered his cock, his breathing husky and warm, lips burying themselves into your shoulder. Vincent couldn’t imagine any better feeling than you, quivering and burning underneath his hands, huffing and moaning in the process. He was still fully clothed, out of his own insecurities, but he felt far more comfortable about their removal now that he was with you.

Vulgar sounds emanated from the both of you, accompanied by his groin clapping into your rump, cock pistoning in and out of you. He maintained his pace, only beginning to increase in speed as he neared his orgasm, nudging your legs further apart as he pounded himself into you, as deep as he could go.

It was a visceral, passionate entanglement, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Vincent’s sensual way of fucking you made your stomach do flips, head spinning and wrought with desire. He rutted into you at a slower pace, each thrust rattling your insides, cunt throbbing around his thick cock. You moaned, feeling the unscathed half of his face nestle into your cheek, kissing at your neck and behind your ear.

“You’re so perfect,” You whimpered, feeling his teeth lightly sink into the crook of your neck, dark tresses disheveled and framing his visage. Vincent bore a look of absolute bliss, driving himself into your cunt with a furtive need, digits massaging into your hips. He brought you down onto his cock, flush and buried inside of you. “Cum in me, Vincent.” You gasped, listening to him groan and produce a myriad of throaty noises.

His chest pressed into you, bending you a little more at the hips as he hastily rutted into you a time or two, chasing after that blinding sensation of his orgasm, and so did you. Vincent was panting, covered in a thin layer of perspiration as he stuffed you with his cock, muffling his grunts into your shoulder as he filled you with his cum, holding onto you as if he’d drown.

Trembling and rattling like a leaf, you followed suit, back arching slightly as he careened into you, peppering you in light kisses. He stayed inside of you for several moments, the both of you breathing heavily, coming down from your high. Your eyes were still clamped shut, staying true to your word about keeping them closed for Vincent.

As he pulled out of you, a sticky gush of warmth coated your inner thighs, leaking from your cunt, but you elected to ignore it, hastily inching your panties back up, fixing your nightgown back into place. You could feel Vincent’s fingers trace along your skin, retrieving his mask as he spun you back around, draping you in his lengthy cardigan.

‘You’re perfect.’ Vincent signed, keeping an arm looped around your hips. His free hand soothingly roamed your form, caressing across your body before cupping your cheek, thumb skirting over your cheekbone, over your lower lip. Your exuberant smile made his heart flutter, keening into the embrace of his hand. ‘Will you stay?’

“Of course,” You whispered, placing your hand atop his, pressing a kiss into his palm. “For as long as you want me to.” You confirmed, noticing that flicker of adoration that danced within his eye, the sickly-sweet gaze of a man enthralled.

‘What if that means forever?’

You swore that your heart skipped a beat, words sticking within the back of your throat, a coagulation of so many unspoken feelings. However, you had a notion that you didn’t need to say anything at all — Vincent already knew how you felt, and vice versa. As you kept your hands together, cradling your cheek, you tilted forward, surrounded by him.

“Forever it is.”

411 notes · View notes

sinclair-annie · 2 years

Text

Magnetic

If you only knew how much he wanted you

Perv!Vincent has been living in my brain rent free everyday since @cypressnmarigoldsss blessed us with that post

Fem pronouns and genitals used!

Vincent knew from the moment Bo brought you inside, even though you were shaking and sobbing, he was in love. You were Aphrodite incarnate, a goddess.

You graced this realm with your presence. You brought light and life to this town. Like Demeter, bringing the gift of a bountiful harvest to your people.

And he was but a ugly mortal, cursed with the face of a monster, who was blessed enough to even be in your light.

He was Hades and you were Persephone.

He was obsessed. Absolutely obsessed.

Everything about you was a masterpiece. Your skin, your eyes. Your smell.

He worshipped you from afar, prayed at the alter of you. His pictures and others small trinkets of yours were a far cry from what you deserved. You deserved a chapel, a cathedral, a pantheon.

He stayed up all night, craving your likeness. Out of wood, stone and clay. And all his days was spent watching you. Watching you as you go about his day, unaware of the piercing eye following your every single move.

He'd wake up in cold sweats, chest burning and his cock throbbing at the very thought of you.

He wondered what your pussy looked like. It was crude, he knew, but his gaze more often than not would drift down to the crux between your thighs. The glorious treasure hidden away from him by meager pieces of cloth.

Bo's magazine showed women with thin stomachs and giant breasts, with pussy lips small and almost flutterey. But victim he had seen, some had more robust lips, thick, meaty.

He didn't care what it looked like, it was yours. It had to be beautiful.

Vincent knew the house inside and out. Every nook and cranny, every hidden corridor. He hadn't meant to, but his feet soon led him to your room, his hunched figure hidden behind the wall.

There you lie, he could make out your figure spread out on the bed. Vincent, in some part of his thoughts, knew that you were waiting for him. One hands, splayed against your breast, fingers brushing against your nipples.

The hand that caught his attention was finger deep inside your cunt. Fingers thrusting in and out, your wetness pooling underneath you. Vincent couldn't pull his pants off fast enough.

Vincent choked back a gasp as his hand wrapped around his shaft. Matching the pace of your fingers, he jerked his cock. He could almost feel the plush, warm wall of your heat pulsing around him.

You'd beg for him to fuck you. To fill your pussy to the brim with his seed. Fuck you so hard that you think you won't be able to walk. Make you scream so hard that Bo, his handsome brother, knows that it's his cock making you cry out.

Vincent saw the heavens when you came, your breath ragged and stuttering. You looked beautiful when you were so blissful. He came as soon as you withdrew your fingers from your cunt and slipped them into your mouth.

His cum stained the wood. Vincent leaned back, fighting to catch his breath. He watched as his cum dripped down the wall, hitting the floorboards.

Hopefully, he thought, that wasn't as close to you as his cum would ever be.

796 notes · View notes

sinclair-annie · 2 years

Note

OH! OH! REQUESTS!

Bo and those hands 🥺

-imbleedin-out

I started trying to think of how I would do this, and then I just got way out of control and wrote not one, not two, but THIRTEEN vignettes about Bo's hands. I like some of them more than others, but I didn't want to omit something someone might enjoy.

The protagonist became indigenous somehow, it kind of just happened.

Here's the order:

Bo holding your thigh

Bo after work

Bo choking (NSFW)

Bo petting Jonesy

Bo handling something delicate

Bo putting pressure on a wound

Bo braiding hair

Bo sewing something

Bo trying to play guitar

Bo rubbing you when you're sick

Bo fixing something you broke

Bo reading a book

Bo with busted knuckles

Enjoy!

Masterlist

***

The radio was blasting, the windows were down, and the old Chevy was pushing seventy down the first paved road for a couple miles.

The music was Marilyn Manson, you thought, but it could just as well be Skinny Puppy—you were only vaguely familiar, given Bo listened to the alternative station off and on throughout the day. The beat was intense, and it had your boyfriend driving like it was his job, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

You gazed at him. You didn't mind the music, but you knew it was what he listened to to focus, not relax. There was no need to focus; there wouldn't be many other cars, and you had all the time in the world.

After a moment of consideration, you reached out and turned the dial on the radio. It only took a few clicks to find your preferred country station and a crooning Willie Nelson.

Bo glanced over, annoyed for a second and bemused the next, then, finally, grinning at you. That grin, warm and genuine, meant everything. He glued his eyes back on the road but took one hand off the wheel, covering your thigh and squeezing affectionately.

You put your hand over his, relishing the way his skin moved over his knuckles, and closed your eyes against the summer breeze.

The sun beat down on the pavement as you approached the garage—the first nice day after a couple of heavy rain. You'd woken up alone, but the smell of gasoline and the thump of bluesy rock had led you to where you'd find Bo.

Sure enough, the garage door was open. You couldn't help but smile when you saw him with his back to you, digging around in the hood of a beat-up Honda.

"S'cuse me, sir?" You smiled wider when he straightened and turned in a hurry. "Any idea where I can find a mechanic?"

After a beat, he matched your grin, adjusting his hat. "Well, you came to the right place, beautiful. I can do whatever you need done."

You held up the brown paper bag in which you'd packed his lunch, shaking it around. "Thought I'd bring you a little something."

His eyes brightened slightly at the thought of food, and he forgot all about the Honda, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. You couldn't help but admire them, strong and rough and currently covered in a layer of black grease. The rag didn't cut through much, but he didn't seem to notice, gesturing for the paper bag.

You shook your head, holding it away. You'd seen him eat with mostly blackened hands before—he'd do it if you let him. "Soap and water?" When he scowled, you added, "Please? For me?"

"Fine." In a huff, he took off his cap and chucked it onto the nearby workbench. "Wouldn't want anyone ta see you bringing lunch to some dirty redneck, wouldja?"

You sighed. His tone would have you believe he was being lighthearted, but there was an edge to his voice that you recognized. It wasn't the first time he'd projected his insecurities onto you, so you were quiet as he brushed past to go to the bathroom.

When he came back, you held the bag away again, instead reaching for his hand. You brought it to your face, nuzzling into it before placing a lingering kiss on his palm.

"I love these hands," you murmured, watching him through your lashes. "No matter how filthy they get."

A grouchy expression remained, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.

With a snort, you added, "Let's just try not to ingest any motor oil, all right?"

"Fuck— Bo—"

Your breath hitched as his tongue skimmed over your nipples, followed by his thumbs. The rough pads created the most beautiful friction, sending sparks through your torso and down between your legs.

"Yeah, I love that," Bo whispered, pinching your swollen nipples deeply and firmly. "Love watchin' that pretty mouth say my name."

The sight of his fingers toying with your buds, of his hands running over your chest and squeezing, drove you so wild you couldn't help but groan. His tendons flexed, knuckles shifting, fingertips making indents in your soft flesh.

He saw you watching. He glanced, following your gaze, and when he realized what you were looking at, he grinned wickedly. "You like that, huh? Like watchin' what these hands're doin' to you?"

You did. Fuck, you did. You couldn't understand how hands that were capable of so much hurt—hands that had hurt you—were also capable of making you feel more pleasure than you ever had in your life.

"Tell me," he grunted, apparently unsatisfied with your nod. "Say it, tell me."

"I lo-love the way your hands make me feel. I love watching you play with me..."

"You wanna taste 'em? Huh? Betcha do."

A shameful thrill shot through your body, pushing your answer out in a gasp: "Yes!"

"Okay. Good [ girl / boy / baby ]." He couldn't hide his own excitement as he raised his hand to your lips, breath heavy. "Go on."

He splayed his fingers, and you started there first, licking up and down each digit, taking them between your lips and sucking slowly. You licked between his fingers, too, running your tongue along his knuckles, then lapping at them like you were starving for him.

He chuckled, watching you kiss and taste every inch, every groove. "Look at you ... worshiping those hands. The hands tha' killed all your li'l friends. Such a slut for them now."

You gave a throaty groan, the flat of your tongue paused over the delicious tick of his pulse on the back of his hand. Those words were so wrong, so cruel and hateful, and yet they stoked the fire in your core, making you throb.

Bo inhaled deeply through his nose, bracing himself as he shifted you slightly. Without warning, he shoved two fingers in your mouth, two in your entrance. Then a third joined the ones in your mouth, hooking downward so he had a hold of your jaw.

You had no choice but to hold it open for him as he finger-fucked both your mouth and your slick, needy hole, murmuring praises all the while: "Such a soft, pink tongue in there. Such pretty lips. Look at you droolin' all over me. My hands really taste that good, sugar? Make ya drool like a braindead li'l whore..."

You sealed your lips around him, grunting and shaking uncontrollably. Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he removed both hands. You tried to focus your vision, gazing up at him, and met blue eyes beaming with a cold intensity.

"Stay still." His hands locked around your throat, thumbs overlapping, and he squeezed—gently at first, progressively getting tighter. "Good. Stick your tongue out. Goooood. Lemme see that..."

He didn't let up, and your vision turned to static, pulse thudding against his palms as he choked the breath from you. He watched with a terrifying mixture of fury, fascination, and affection in his eyes as you began to struggle, tongue quivering...

"Jonesy! You stupid mutt, don't roll in— that, fuck!"

The yelling was undeniably Bo, and the exasperation in his voice made you giggle. Whatever Jonesy had just done, your poor boyfriend clearly didn't have the time or energy for it.

You wiped your hands off on a nearby dishrag and headed out the front door, figuring you'd have some mercy on him. He wouldn't hurt the dog—you'd never seen him give her anything more than a hard shove or a smack—but it was in everyone's best interest to avoid a grumpy Bo.

As you rounded the house to locate man and dog, you could hear him firing off a string of curses—"Jesus Christ gahdamn fuggin' dumbass"—and the jingling of Jonesy's tags. The way his accent came out when he was pissed was always so cute, despite everything.

By the time you found him and the dog on the other side of the house, he'd already stripped off his shirt and connected a hose to the spigot near the cellar door. You stopped and watched as he tried to wrangle Jonesy, who thought dodging him was the funnest game she'd ever played.

"Git— back here! Yer covered in shit, ya li'l— bitch—"

His back was to you as he feinted left then dove right. Jonesy was still able to get by him, however, and ran to say hi to you, a big doggy smile on her face.

"Hey, baby." You scratched her on top of her head. "Did you get stinky?"

Bo's grip on the hose tightened, face twisted bitterly, but he looked too tired to be too furious. "Will you bring 'er over here?" he asked impatiently. "Caught 'er rollin' around in some deer shit."

Now that you were looking, she did have some awfully suspicious stains on her white fur. You hooked your fingers through her collar and led her over to Bo. "All right, baby girl, you need a wash."

With a grumble, Bo leaned to open the tap, then turned the hose on the dog unceremoniously. The water pressure wasn't great, but Jonesy tried to bite what spray there was out of the air, wagging her tail.

Bo still looked like something had crawled up his ass and died. "Musta got it deep in her coat, it ain't all comin' off."

"I'll get it," you offered, kneeling so you could scrub your fingers through the dog's short, bristly fur.

As you did, Bo straddled her back legs, trapping her haunches between his knees so she couldn't bolt if she changed her mind about the water. "Just sit still," he murmured, with a hint of desperation but still much gentler than you expected. "Good girl."

You watched his hands as he patted her back, scratching her exuberantly behind both ears, slapping her flanks like bongo drums. Jonesy was loving it, her eyes little slits, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Bo brushed his calloused thumb her between the eyes, then turned off the hose and gave her a final vigorous rub-down.

Watching him love up on the dog, watching him handle her, made you wonder how he'd do with a kid.

He didn't get it at first. You supposed you shouldn't be surprised—after all, he was white as Wonder Bread and not known for being very reverent of other people's belongings.

But, as you eventually found out, Bo was nothing if not sentimental. Hadn't thrown anything of his parents' away, kept more than just trophies of his victims—the junk stored in the mill proved that—treated heirlooms like they were sacred objects. So it didn't take him too long to come around to the idea of your star blanket.

In Lakota culture, quilts with the Morning Star pattern were one of the most valued gifts you could give someone, often gifted for major life events. Your maternal grandmother had made yours to signify your birth, with vibrant red and yellow diamonds making up the eight points of the star, and you'd slept with it almost every night of your life.

It reminded you of the home you and your parents had left behind when you were a kid, and was important enough that you'd begged Bo to let you send for it. Just your luck you hadn't packed it on your ill-fated road trip.

"No one's s'posed to know you're here, sweetheart," he'd said the first time, a sneer. "You're off the map, baby. Might as well not exist. Now you want me givin' out my goddamn address?"

But it hadn't taken him long to bow under your pressure, especially when you talked at length about it, and when you could barely sleep at night without it. He'd finally consented to have the blanket—and a few other things—sent to a P.O. box in the next down over.

With the few things you'd requested, instantly, you'd felt much more at ease in Ambrose. Bo must have noticed, too. Over the past few months, he'd let you send for a bunch of other stuff from your parents', and not once had he complained about the extra quilt on the bed. Not a high bar, but something you'd gotten from white partners before.

Still, you had no idea how seriously he took it until you walked in on him one morning.

As unpredictable as he could be in so many ways, Bo was a creature of routine. He got up every morning between 7:00 and 7:30, made coffee and something to eat, showered, brushed his teeth, got dressed, then made the bed. Always in that order, or else he was in an ass mood the rest of the day. That was how it was every morning, so you'd gotten used to it. And though he didn't expect you to get up at the same time as him, you always found yourself rising about fifteen minutes after he did.

Usually, you showered after him, and the bed was already made—with your star blanket folded at the foot of your side—by the time you came back. Today, though, you'd woken up with horrible stomach cramps, and had decided to get something to eat instead of showering right away.

When you came back upstairs, Bo had just gotten out of the bathroom, but you decided to skip the shower for now. You went to the bedroom instead, to at least change underwear, but stopped dead in the doorway.

Bo hadn't noticed your presence yet. He had just finished laying out the sheets and duvet and had two handfuls of your star quilt. Normally, you wouldn't have thought anything of it; he touched it all the time, to move it around the bed or pull it back or place it somewhere else. But...

Something about this moment, the way he was folding it, gave you pause.

He whistled softly to himself, some jaunty tune. But his strong hands were steady and slow as he took care with the blanket, folding it along its familiar creases and gently, as though he was swaddling a baby, patting and smoothing it out.

You'd never noticed before how perfectly square his folds were, but that jumped out at you now. Where most people—including you, admittedly—would have just underhand chucked the folded quilt to the end of the bed, he framed it deliberately.

That was when he finally noticed you in the corner of his vision.

"That was quick," he commented, moving onto folding another quilt—much more casually than he had yours, you noted.

"Huh? Oh." You shifted. "I didn't shower. I'll do it later."

"Suit yourself." After a second, Bo paused, frowning up at you. "What're you starin' at me for?"

You weren't sure what to say. You didn't want him to stop handling your things with care because he was embarrassed you'd pointed it out. "Nothing." When he continued to frown at you, clearly not buying it, you added, "Thanks for being so ... respectful of my blanket."

He looked bemused for a moment, then averted his eyes, shrugging. "Not a big deal. S'your stuff. Not like I knock your shit around for kicks on a regular day."

"I know, I never said that, it's just— Well, you asked."

He had already turned to the dresser, grabbing the Sinclair family ring and slipping it on his finger. He flexed his knuckles, tendons twitching, as he considered it. "You said them blankets are for weddin's 'n' whatnot, yeah?"

"Yeah. It's usually draped around the shoulders of the couple. Why?"

Bo shrugged and brushed past you. "No reason."

You were already lightheaded. God, it had only been a matter of seconds and you were already lightheaded.

That thought alone sent adrenaline pulsing through your veins, heartbeat speeding up—not exactly the ideal condition when you were bleeding out.

You hadn't even seen it coming. The crossbow bolt that had split your shoulder open had been meant for Bo, and then, like an idiot, you'd acted on instinct and pulled it out. Now ... Christ, you weren't sure how much longer you could stay conscious.

Bo had gotten you on the ground quick, in the grass, kneeling above you. The guy who'd fired the shot was ... you didn't even know where, and you found you didn't care, only able to focus on Bo and his voice.

"Stay with me now," he breathed, fogging the night air. He bore down, pressing all his weight against the wound, his gaze heated. "Come on, stay with me, keep those pretty eyes a' yours open—good [girl / boy / baby]."

Still, despite his efforts, blood spurted between his fingers, staining his square knuckles ruby. With a curse, he shifted and pressed harder, scowling. Sweat poured down his temples.

As darkness closed in on you, a stray thought floated by: after everything, this wasn't such a bad way to finally have your blood on Bo's hands.

"Don't— Stay awake, Y/N, come on! Don't leave me. I can't— lose— you..."

"I fucked it up again." Bo grunted in frustration and tugged gently on your hair, undoing the work he'd done so far on the braid.

"It's okay. Just try it again." You spared a smile back at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

When you'd discovered that Bo didn't know how to braid hair, you'd been a little shocked. You had honestly been under the impression that everyone knew how to braid hair—but, as he'd explained, he'd never had any sisters or little girl friends, and he didn't have a kiddo to learn for.

Now was as good a time as any, you figured. It was a rainy morning and neither of you had anything to do. More importantly, you found yourself ready, even excited, for him to touch your hair. It was a big deal in your culture, something only spouses and immediate family were supposed to do.

Plus, you had ulterior motives.

"Remember to think good thoughts," you reminded him. "I'm gonna be carrying them around with me all day, and I don't need more negativity than I already have, okay?"

"I'm tryin'," he mumbled, separating half your hair into three sections like you'd taught him. His nails scratched lightly against your scalp, rough fingers stroking your strands delicately and rhythmically, as if he was playing a harp. You could feel all the bumps and mistakes he was making already but said nothing, sitting patiently.

"Fuck. Dammit." With a growl, he combed his fingers through the braid again, undoing his work.

Poor guy. "What'd you think of this time?"

"Just some ... stupid shit I forgot ta do like a idiot. Wax stuff. Forgot to tell Vince—"

You didn't turn, but you reached over your shoulder to squeeze his hand. "You can tell him after we're finished, okay? I gotta have my braids."

He held your hand limply. "Why's it such a big deal I do it? You're better at it than me—you oughtta be ... you do it."

You were better at it, by a lot. But you weren't about to admit this exercise was more for his benefit than yours. "I like how you do it better. It's annoying when I do it by myself; the position is all weird. Plus, touching my hair is a big step. Like a step above being my boyfriend."

Nothing like stroking his ego to get him to do what you wanted. With a grudging sigh, he gathered your hair again.

"Okay, now just ... clear your mind. Forget about all the stuff you have to do. Just think good things with me."

Again, he sighed. Then, within a few seconds, he began to braid, strong hands twining your hair slowly and deliberately. You held your breath as he neared the end of the braid. Would he actually finish this time?

"Fuck— fuck it!"

You hesitated. "What was it this time?"

"I thought about Enya."

You sighed. Well ... it was a work in progress.

You probably should have seen something like this coming.

Something frustrating always happened when Bo tried to put the tent up by himself, but like hell you were gonna try and help him. The only person you'd ever seen successfully help him pitch a tent was VIncent, and even with the same brain, they'd bickered the entire time. Best to just stick to the fire pit than get between Bo and that thing.

So, you were disappointed but not necessarily surprised when he trudged up to you, hat pulled low over his scowling brow, and asked, "You bring a sewin' kit?"

You glanced up from your attempted fire, over one shoulder. "Yeah, why?"

"Rip in the tent. Somethin' musta chewed through it durin' the winter." He exhaled in a puff and began digging through your bag.

He could be telling the truth, but he just as easily could have torn that hole himself on accident. It was sometimes unbelievable, the random things he lied about.

You turned. "Here, let me." It only took a moment to find the kit—you knew right where you'd put it. "Do you want me to do it?"

He paused. "Naw. Give it here."

You placed it in his extended hand but couldn't hide your skepticism. "Do you know how to sew?"

"Enough to mend somethin'," he replied defensively before disappearing behind the half-pitched tent.

You watched for a few moments before turning back to your fire. It wasn't long, however, before whispered curses coming from behind the tent caught your attention. You hesitated, but ultimately decided you couldn't stand seeing him struggle over nothing, and went to join him.

"Bo?" You paused, surveying the scene before you.

It wasn't a big rip, but it was definitely big enough that you'd wake up covered in mosquitos and spiders if it didn't get fixed. It was also obviously fresh, made by one of the tent poles. Bo looked up and froze like you'd just walked in on a crime scene.

He recovered quickly, though, shuffling closer on one knee to begin stitching a patch onto the canvas. "I'm fine," he said with a big helping of annoyance. "Just go work on the damn fire."

Well, he had managed to thread the needle, but his sewing skills were clearly rusty. Each stitch was small and calculated and clustered—it was almost comical, watching his large hands do such finnicky, detailed work.

"It doesn't have to be so precise," you offered. "It's just a temporary patch."

He shot a glare sidewards. "Will you let me do what I need ta do? Go do your job." No sooner had he said it than he slipped, pricking his finger deep. "Ow! Shit."

Instinctively, you went to him, taking his hand in yours. He tried to pull away once, but gave up at your insistence, simply frowning. He'd poked himself bad enough that a bead of scarlet blood already formed.

"Let me get you a band-aid."

"I'm all right," he grumbled, pulling his hand away more gently and sticking the finger in his mouth.

His fingers had been in your mouth plenty of times, but there was something so cute—and maybe a little hot—about seeing him sucking on his own finger. He must have caught you staring, because he paused for a moment before popping the finger out of his mouth and offering it to you.

"Wanna taste?"

Cheeky bastard.

The guitar had been sitting in its case by the door for a while now, unused. It'd been a gift from your father, and though you were decent enough, you rarely played anymore. In fact, the only reason you'd brought it roadtripping in the first place was to impress one of your friends and ... well, there would be no impressing them now.

You'd seen Bo eyeing it, though. He glanced at it often on his way in and out of the house, and every few days, he seemed to really scrutinize it from across the room, like he was scoping someone out from across a bar.

Those were looks you knew well. The first thing, in your experience, people did when they saw an instrument was try to play it badly. But Bo was more careful than that. You almost wanted to use the word shy, but it sounded so odd when applied to him.

In the end, it was you who brought up the subject, one night when you were both a couple drinks in.

"Do you play?" you asked, gesturing to the case.

He blinked at you as if he'd never considered it before. "Uh ... not much. Haven't tried in a real long time."

You took another sip of beer and shrugged. "Why not try now?"

He looked between you and the instrument, loosing one of those incredulous laughs of his. "Yeah ... I try not ta make a habit of embarrassin' myself."

"It hasn't been played in a while ... I'm pretty rusty myself." You offered a boozy smile. "So either you play it or I do. C'mon, you know you want to."

He shook his head and breathed another laugh, but after a long draw from his bottle, he stood. "Guess I could see how much I remember."

Your smile only grew as he crossed to the guitar case and unlatched it, carefully withdrawing the instrument. It was an acoustic guitar with a golden varnish, well taken care of. Bo schooled his expression, but you could see a little shine in his eyes. You'd been right; he did want to play it.

It looked a lot different in Bo's large, calloused hands than it did in yours. He sat, half-facing you on the couch, and shifted until the guitar was resting on one knee. The way he looked down at the frets bordered on ... reverence, you thought for a moment, before realizing it was more like bashfulness. Despite his cool-as-a-cucumber expression, he was avoiding your gaze.

He strummed a few notes, mouth twitching into a frown. It didn't sound great.

"Sorry, it probably needs a tune-up. Here, let me..." You scooted closer and fiddled with the pegs. "Try now."

Wordlessly, he strummed a perfect C, then a G, his brow furrowed in concentration. G, A Minor, C ... G, A Minor, C, G ... he struggled like that for a few harrowing moments, trying to remember the chord progression he wanted before, like a baby deer taking its first steps, he began to play for real.

His brow never smoothed, but he mumbled the lyrics, or what he seemed to remember of them anyway. An old Judy Collins song, you were pretty sure, probably something his parents had liked. He had a beautiful, deep, rich voice with a nice twang, though you could tell he wasn't using it to its full potential here.

You watched his fingers as they moved along the fretboard: right hand pressing the strings, shifting with each new chord; left hand strumming using his nails and fingertips. You could see the strength in his hands, in his movements, but the way he played was so timid and careful, like he was afraid someone would laugh at him if he messed up a single note of "Both Sides Now."

Eventually, Bo struggled his way to the end of the song, now red from his forehead to the unbuttoned collar of his flannel. As if the guitar was suddenly boiling hot, he set it aside quickly, leaning it against the recliner. "Told ya it's been awhile."

You only smiled, looking from the guitar to his hands before taking another swig of beer. "You should play it again."

10.

The Sprite was not the miracle cure Bo had advertised it as. Now, not only were you sick to your stomach, you were sick to your stomach and filled with burps.

To his credit, when it came to illness, Bo wasn't the worst boyfriend you'd ever had. He'd frowned when you'd told him you had a headache, given you some pain meds, and set you up on the couch with a pillow and blanket. When it had become clear you had a stomach bug, he'd even fetched you a bucket and that Sprite.

"Don't even know where you coulda got it," he mumbled, standing above you with his hands on his hips. "Supermarket or somethin' ... you better not be playin' possum."

You glared at him. "Yeah, Bo, I made myself puke just to cause a problem for you."

His expression softened. "Well I didn't mean..." He trailed off with a sigh, throwing his hat onto the pool table before sinking onto the couch beside you. He stared at the TV for a few seconds before looking over and gesturing wordlessly.

"What?" you asked, barely able to look at him for your pounding head.

"C'mere."

"Why?"

He frowned and insisted, "Come here."

It was too damn late and you were too damn sick to argue with him. You crawled out from under your blanket to get closer to him and, to your surprise, he opened both arms to you, letting you crawl into his lap.

"I'm gonna get you sick," you mumbled, staring up at him in confusion.

"Naw. I'm healthy as an ox. Get on up here."

Bo nudged you, forcing you to rest your head against his chest, and turned his attention back to the glow of the TV. You watched from the corner of your eye, head below his chin, floating in and out of consciousness every few seconds. You hated being sick. Sitting around was the worst part, but what else could you do?

The TV was looping re-runs of Quantum Leap, and after about an episode and a half, you were aware of pressure on your stomach. A gentle, steady warmth that calmed your thrashing innards just a bit. It wasn't a sensation you felt often, probably not since you were a little kid.

Someone was ... rubbing your tummy?

You opened your eyes to glance down. Bo had wrapped one of his arms under yours, hand braced against your stomach. He moved it up and down slowly, then in circles at intervals. Eventually, he was still except for his thumb, stoking rhythmically just under your sternum.

A chill shot through you, and you snuggled closer.

"You a'right?" When you didn't answer, he nudged you. "Need another Sprite?"

"No." You groaned, despair weighing you down as you began to salivate like crazy. "Bucket."

11.

It had been an accident.

You'd told him it was an accident, of course, but that didn't change the fact that the damn thing was broken. And it certainly didn't change the fact that he was beyond pissed.

It was just some knick-knack: a blue and white ceramic figurine of a little Dutch girl holding a yoke and buckets, not exactly something you'd expect a guy like Bo to care about. You weren't even sure of its significance, just that it had been his mom's—but apparently that was enough significance for him.

You'd said sorry but had removed yourself from the situation before you could say much more. It had been quite a while since Bo was this angry at you, probably since you'd first come here. But even then, that hadn't really been anger so much as predation.

This? This was directed at you, for something you had done.

If you'd learned anything, it was that Bo was a stewer. He didn't want to be around anyone when he was truly emotional; he just wanted to be left alone to think. Eventually, he tended to come to the right conclusion, which was usually to apologize to you for some horrible thing he'd said, but it took a while if it happened at all.

This time, though ... it had been your fault, you thought as you lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't yelled or said anything hurtful beyond a few curse words. You'd apologized and left the room before he could. But maybe your apology hadn't been quite adequate. If he broke something of yours, said a quick sorry, and ran away, you'd be even more pissed off in the long run.

With a sigh, you rose from bed and crept down the hall, standing at the top of the stairs. You thought you heard a drawer opening in the kitchen and so, as quietly as you could, you descended to peer through the doorway.

Bo stood with his back to you, hunched over the counter. In front of him, the broken ceramic girl sat in pieces on last month's newspaper. To his right, the junk drawer was pulled almost all the way open. It looked like a very localized tornado had gone through it, but Bo had found what he was looking for: a small bottle of superglue.

He had it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, fingertips white trying to keep it steady. With the other hand, he worked slowly, painstakingly, picking the shards up piece by little piece and trying to put them together just like they had been before.

He was zeroed in on his task completely, breathing steady and slow, like he was defusing a bomb or something. You could feel the anger rolling off of him—intense enough that you had second thoughts about coming down to apologize.

"I ain't angry."

His voice made you jump. So ... he'd heard you come downstairs, he'd simply chosen not to face you. You were unsure how to respond, especially to such a blatant lie.

"You oughtta be more careful with other folks' things."

Awfully rich for him, of all people, to be saying such a thing—Bo Sinclair, who broke pretty things for fun all the time. You ground your teeth to bite back your initial reaction.

His tone became just a touch softer. "This was Momma's. All I got now are things."

All I got now are things. You glanced back at his steady hands, eyes catching on his scarred wrists.

All he'd ever had were things, 'cause he certainly hadn't had her heart. No wonder this whole town was cluttered with old junk.

12.

"You're an animal," you said through laughter as you watched him open his book.

It was a paperback of Stephen King's Salem's Lot, and boy was it ... well-loved. That had always been your mom's polite way of saying beat-up. The spine was almost completely white from cracking, the cover was veined and torn, and the pages were so soft they felt more like cloth than paper.

"What the hell're you sayin' that for?" He'd paused in the middle of unfolding the dog-ear in his page, though dog-ear was generous. The page was practically folded in half.

You grinned. "What's the big idea, treating it like that? What did Salem's Lot ever do to you?"

Bo rolled his eyes, smoothing out the page. "Don't tell me you're one a' them. Books are tools. Tools are meant to be used, no?"

"I guess so. That's a hell of a lot of use, babe."

"I've read it a lot." He shrugged defensively, the bridge of his nose pinkening as he looked down at the page. "Now, if ya don't mind..."

"Right, right. Sorry." You opened your own book, crossing your legs and leaning back so you wouldn't have to crane your neck to read.

Minutes passed. You tried in vain to focus on the page, but you found yourself reading the same paragraph over and over again, way more interested in what was going on across from you.

Sometimes it was fascinating to just watch Bo, and this was especially true when he was reading. There was no question as to how the book had gotten as mangy as it was. When he read paperbacks—which he preferred—it was like origami, with him folding them completely in half. He held this more compact shape in one hand, other palm pressed against his mouth, a focused scowl on his face.

Every so often, he'd remove his hand from his mouth and pull his focus back slightly to turn the book over or flip a page. It was during one of these times he caught you staring at him, and raised a brow.

"Why don't you go 'head an' take a picture, darlin', it'll last longer."

13.

It had been a bad fight. You could tell because he refused to talk about it, simply stewing on the toilet seat as you knelt in front of him, cleaning his hands. His skin was red from the shower he'd just taken, veins standing green against it, and he hadn't quite scrubbed all the blood from under his fingernails.

His knuckles were raw. Raw in a way that you knew meant there'd be so much puss and scabbing that he wouldn't be able to clench his fists properly for a while. As you dabbed hydrogen peroxide over the wounds, it foamed, and he issued a deep growl. His fingers twitched, tendons in the back of his hands jumping.

You dared to break the seething silence. "What did you punch?"

"Some asshole," he snapped initially, before cooling his tone. "A couple assholes. A car door, a window. Dragged myself up off the pavement..." He raised his other hand to wipe at his nose. A little blood still crusted one nostril.

You said nothing in reply, giving his knuckles another pass with the hydrogen peroxide solution before smearing on bacitracin. His fingers continued to twitch as you wrapped his knuckles, every little movement warning you how strong he was. Tonight alone, he'd killed at least one person before Vincent could get to them.

These were the hands of a killer, and yet you knew them as so much more than that. These hands could do normal, everyday things. Beautiful things, even.

It wasn't until you were in the process of wrapping his other hand—he held them out so readily for you, so astonishingly willing to be vulnerable with you now—that you spoke.

"I hate this."

It was a simple statement; not a request, not a complaint, not a plea or a nag. Simply the truth.

He raised his eyes to stare at you. For a few moments, you could see him trying to be angry, brow drawn tight. Then he gave up, nothing but exhausted.

"I know."

***

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sinclair-annie · 2 years

Note

Smut prompt 110 with Vincent my love? He’s so hhhrrrnnngg Yknow

"For your safety, I'll be gentle."

Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

Thanks for this, Vince and I have hit a new level in our relationship. 😁

1.6k words

Smut, Vinny gets rough, mild choking, marking, biting, manhandling, creampie

Waking up in Vincent’s workshop always felt like melting out of one dream and into another. The flickering of the boiler, the sweet, deep smell of wax and earth, the quiet, crackling sound of Vincent playing Chopin or Metallica through his little radio speaker with the volume turned way down so as not to disturb you. The man himself, bent over his sketchbook or a canvas with his gorgeous long hair like a curtain shutting out everything but his own thoughts. It was like a fairy tale, some alchemist’s lair.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. You remembered what came before. So did your body. The dopamine hadn’t quite faded from your veins, even after a few hours’ sleep. You’d never been with anyone quite like Vincent Sinclair. He had an uncanny knack for picking up on every detail of your pleasure, every muscle spasm, every gasp. And he remembered it all, recited it like a litany with his mouth and hands whenever you let him.

It was unquestionably the best sex you’d ever had.

You rolled onto your side on his cot, adjusted your legs gingerly around the pleasant soreness between them. He was sitting staring at a canvas, hands on his knees. Examining his own work, making notes, finding flaws no one else could see. He was still shirtless, wearing a pair of sweatpants that was holding onto his hips for dear life. He was maskless too, a recent and monumental milestone in your relationship.

You watched him for a while, the way he chewed his lower lip with concentration, the way his hands could not keep still for even a second, long fingers tapping and flexing on his thighs, scratching at a spot of wax in the fabric, rubbing his thumb over his cuticles.

“Vincent,” you said softly at last. That sole, precious eye flicked over to you in a sudden realization that you were awake. The suggestion of a smile graced his lips.

“My love,” he signed with one hand. “Come here?”

You stretched and pushed aside the thin blanket, padded over to him. He gave the canvas one last look before turning his full attention to you, guiding you into his lap and wrapping his lithe arms around you.

“You feel good, beloved?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” you sighed. You gazed up at him. “You’re…quite the lover.”

He had this adorable twisted, close-mouthed grin that appeared whenever he felt genuine mirth. “I'm telling Bo you said that.” You laughed out loud.

Your fingertips traced the invisible lines between moles on his arm. “I feel like it’s always about me, though. I want it to be about you. I want to make you feel good, Vin.”

Vincent looked down at you with his head cocked, a silent request for more information.

You ran your thumb over his collarbones. He still wouldn’t let you touch his face. “It feels like you’re…holding back sometimes. I want you to let go.”

He considered you for a second, leaned down to kiss you sweetly. “But you are what’s important,” he signed close to his cheek.

“You’re important.” You could feel his heartbeat under your hand. “I want you to take what you want, Vincent.” His expression was inscrutable, wary. You kissed him again, stroked his chest, his arms. “That would make me happy,” you whispered, a breath away from his lips. “If you used me.”

His brow was furrowed, but you felt his cock jump against your thigh. You couldn’t fault him for being reluctant; he took a lot of convincing when it came to doing anything for his own benefit.

When he finally released you, his pupil was blown, his eye glittering with something besides the candlelight. His chest rose and fell with the effort of restraint. “Are you sure?” he signed sloppily.

You circled his nipple with your thumb, rocked your hips innocuously to coax up his erection. “I want you to use me, Vincent. However you’d like.”

You kissed him again, the tip of your tongue teasing at his lip. He hesitated for only a few seconds before meeting your persuasion with hunger, pushing your tongue aside to make room for his own. You loosed a soft moan, arched against him when his hands fell to your hips and squeezed gently. He took your lip in his teeth, bit and sucked on it.

You nodded, alight with anticipation. “Please. Show me what you need.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was stealing your breath again, kissing you with a fervor he had often brought out of you but never shown himself. His hands were all over you, under the shirt you wore, groping and grasping at your flesh. With little effort he repositioned you so you were straddling him, fingers digging into your ass, grinding your bare sex against him. You gasped when he pulled away from your lips to suck on your neck, hard.

“Vincent,” you breathed.

Immediately he stopped, head snapping up to look at you with a mix of concern and craving on his face.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m okay. I’m…god, Vincent.” You laced your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull and brought his face back to your throat. You felt his tongue on your skin, goosebumps rippling down your entire body. He was gripping you tight enough to leave bruises, rocking you against him with increasing urgency. Those sweatpants were fighting a losing battle.

He lifted his head again, a pretty flush on his cheek. You opened your mouth but he cut you off before you could speak.

“I’ll be gentle,” he signed quickly. “For your safety.”

“I – okay.”

In one fluid motion, Vincent stood and lifted you onto the workbench at the same time. He shoved the sweats to the floor, erection springing free, the tip glistening with his arousal. He pulled you against him, hitched your legs over his hips, his cock prodding at your entrance.

There was a beat, a pause. He kissed your forehead. Then his hand was on your throat, pushing you back and pinning you against the wooden tabletop. You instinctively locked your ankles behind his back. He eased himself into you slowly, deliberately, his head falling back, teeth bared. You let out a soft whine, arching your spine against the tabletop. His grip on your neck tightened and for a moment the basement was filled with stars.

You gasped, your windpipe jumping against his palm. He gave a few experimental thrusts and you felt your sore muscles part around him. The tender sting gave way quickly to an irresistible heat.

His hands found your wrists and trapped them against the waxy wood at your sides. He ramped up his pace rapidly, fucked you hard in the shadow of every canvas he’d ever made, his grip almost crushing, his eye blazing. His hair fell over his face. He paid it no mind. You couldn’t tear your gaze away; he was beautiful and terrible, the lust on his face raw and unguarded.

Without warning he released your wrists and pulled out of you, took hold of your hips and yanked you halfway off the tabletop, easing you to the ground. He circled his finger in an unmistakable sign.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed, panting, faced the table and bent forward. He grabbed your hips to position you where he wanted you, then pushed halfway into you with a single thrust, drew back slowly, did it again and again until your ass was pressed against his stomach and he was buried inside you to the hilt. It felt like being coveted, being claimed, being conquered.

Then he stopped, left you quivering and clenching desperately around his length. You twisted to look back at him. He was drinking it in, the sight of you doubled over and helpless in front of him, with a ravenous expression on his face. He ran one broad hand up your spine, grasped the back of your neck, squeezed firmly.

A snap of his hips made your breath hitch in your throat. “V-Vincent,” you whimpered. He did it again and you cried out.

The heat of his firm chest pressed against your back. He laced his fingers through yours, stretched your arms out long in front of you, splaying you over the table. The angle of his thrusts was indescribable, deeper than you thought possible, and you were powerless to do anything but choke out his name.

You came apart as he laid kisses down the back of your neck, the simultaneous brutality and tenderness too much to withstand. Vincent pounded through your climax, driving you into frenzied overstimulation, groaning low in his throat as you bucked against him.

When he hit his release, he sank his teeth into the crook of your neck, squeezing your hands as he came deep inside you. You could feel him breathing hard against your back. Your shirt was damp with sweat from both of you. Vincent nuzzled your ear before pulling away, his hands on your waist to steady you, or maybe himself, or maybe both.

You turned around and looked up at him. His face was flushed, brow knit with concern. “You okay?” he signed.

You grinned up at him, wrapped your arms around his bare torso and held him against you. “I’m so good, love.”

The relief on his face was quickly replaced with a smile – a real smile. He slumped forward, pressed his lips to your brow. You set your head on his chest and listened to his heart rate slow back to normal, overwhelmed with affection for this man who simply could not see how marvelous he was.

“You know, Vin? We oughta make you the priority more often.”

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