Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air is musty, that's for sure, but it's also accompanied by awful dryness and heat, creating bile that Anthony Smith has to swallow down every few hours, or minutes. For the past few months, it's nearly impossible not to soak the house he owns in vomit, with his twin brother's descent into degenerative madness. He shouldn't be too surprised, knowing the first seed of evil was planted when they were children, and maybe, there was no real way to stop this, especially when they were so attached to each other.

Horrifically, so—

"Please-" Anthony doesn't know what he's exactly begging for. Perhaps to put a stop to all this madness? To finally cease this disgusting act, and all the depraved fantasies that have rotted Tom's brain, and have sprung out into something nightmarish, something that has brutalized and ripped apart children, ending in torn families? Or simply, is he asking to cum? 

His hand slides up and down his brother's cock. 

"Shut up," he snaps back, the venom manifesting in spittle on his lap, pace fastening. "Don't act like you don't like this, Anth, you used to practically beg for it when we were kids." The words makes Anthony shiver. It's true, and the guilt in his gut increases, knowing that the sickness has always been there. As much as Anthony wants to believe that his brother is just confused, like a hurt, wild animal with its foot stuck in a bear trap, this behavior was also his fault, wasn't it? A twin happily obliging their twin, ending disastrously. 

"W-we aren't kids anymore, Tom," Anthony sniffs. He doesn't want to cry, he really doesn't, tries to hold back the intrusion of hot, stinging tears. That's all he seems to do nowadays. "W-we should stop, seriously. This isn't right," gulp, "and you know that!"

Anthony loves his brother, but sometimes trying to communicate with him is like talking to a brick wall. He doesn't listen, or truthfully, he chooses not to, craving blood and flesh of innocent children like he craves his brother's kiss, committing heinous act after another becoming worse with each one. He attempts to say something else, but before he can get it out, his twin brother leans in and presses his lips to his, still jerking him off. It takes every ounce of his self control not to vomit, ignores every urge to push him off. He doesn't kiss back, though. 

"Nngh," the serial killer grunts, hungry for skin, desperate for contact, jerks his hand faster and faster, going up and down, gripping his cock hard, possessively so. His kisses have always been hungry, as he glides his tongue over his brother's lips, and bites, addicted to the discomfort as he pushes and pulls him closer, like twins always should be. "C'mon, Anth, give your brother a kiss."

"No‐" Sticks his tongue in, swiping it around and tastes the sweet bile, reaching his tongue over as he explored the wet cavern of his brother's mouth ever since they were children, just two little boys attached at the side, now wounded animals stuck together. "Mmmmfh, fucking stop–"

It's hot, almost suffocatingly so inside the room, sat on the wooden floors of the manor, where children have bled out and been tortured, now endlessly roaming the walls, but Anthony represses that thought, doesn't want to puke all over his brother as much as he thinks he should. Thankfully, Tom pulls away, but continues his hand's movements, yanking on his twin's cock like he was trying to pull it off. And maybe, he wanted to, because that's just the kind of person his twin brother is. A disgusting, deplorable, sadistic asshole of a man, but that's still his brother. His twin brother, sharing the same womb and probably the same tomb aswell. Afterall, they're twins, and they must do everything together, no matter how filthy or horrible the other is, it's just who you are meant to be with your whole life. 

"Please, please-" Anthony begs, and he sounds so stupid too, as his cock twitches and aches, begging for release from every stimulating touch of his twin's hands, and it only worsens from every cruel sensation of Tom's fingers gliding up the flesh, decorating it in globs of spit that feels like blood from the last time they did this, and it's a fine addition with all the bruises, reminders of who he is. A moan fills up the air, and in his mind, he can the screams. Maybe of his brother's victims. Maybe that includes him, too. 

But they're twins, and maybe, they shared the same exact sickness.