.

.

Sara.

It's what his mind tells him over and over — like an persistent itch, creeping right under Michele's flesh. They're been home in Italy, sharing their old bedroom for only three days, and he wants her.

Mine.

He doesn't mean to stare so longingly, frustrated when his twin sways and hikes up her taffy-green chemise. Sara leaves him a wondrous flash of inner, amber thighs, along with the mound of her silky, dove-grey panties, before sitting down beside him. It's just…

A color like grey?

That's not good enough for her. It will never be. Sara needs to be in bright, eye-catching colors — the ones that already make her bold and vibrant, just like her nature.

Michele speculates the heated sensation, diving his hands underneath Sara's gown and yanking off that terrible thing, chucking it onto the floor. She's slept in the same bed, with no panties before — although hungover as hell, with an aftertaste like vomit when Michele pecked her lips soothingly.

Once he got rid of the panties, Sara would laugh, like a fairy's chime, bright, bright and happy. Michele would murmur her name, again and again. His fingers press back under her chemise, exploring the seam of her thighs, nudging them apart until he feels her hot, slick vulva.

Sara.

She would tremble, her laughter dissolving into bewildered, awed moans, rocking her hips into Michele's hand, his thumb circling and rubbing her clitoris. More of his fingers would open her vaginal lips, massaging her, reaching inside and stroking until Sara begs for something larger, for her brother's cock.

He has never fucked a woman, or anyone for that matter, but Michele thinks Sara would be the perfect fit. There's no better woman than Sara. To be honest, she would fuck him instead, undilating and bouncing on each roughly penetrating thrust. Michele has always imagined getting his teeth and mouth on Sara's breasts, nibbling, sucking hickeys, watching her scream when she orgasms.

Sara would keep herself upright, panting and gasping at getting fucked harder, until Michele joins her. He wants to ejaculate right against her cervix, into her womb.

Give them a baby. Twins. Sara would be considered a living goddess to him, with a huge, pregnant belly full of their own kids, arching herself into Michele's loving hands and blushing so sweetly. He would fuck her just like that, holding her close, filling her up with enough come to give her more of their own.

Mine.

The echoing thought lingers, just as the real Sara whispers goodnight, kissing Michele's cheek dryly and burrowing on the quilts. He hesitates before turning off the lamp, pulse racing, witnessing her taffy-colored gown ruck up to her hips, exposing the slim, muscular shape of her buttocks through her panties.

"You're gonna get cold," Michele says gruffly, tossing another quilt over her. He doesn't do anything more, and hears Sara whines drowsily. She never turns around to him.

"Mickey, you're so good to me…"

"Always," he whispers, touching the back of Sara's neck and squeezing gently. Michele hopes — somehow — that she can read his desires, his secretive, restless thoughts… but, they really are different now.

Sara.

Michele scratches at his forearm and clicks off their old, bedroom lamp, facing the opposite side.

.

.


This is the result of another one of those "I don't ship it... so why did I do this" moments in writing, but honestly life is too short to not jot down the wild and weird shit your trauma-addled mind comes up with. Or to not take fandom too seriously. No, really, don't take fandom too seriously. It's no fun if you do that. But also make sure you always tag and give warnings and be respectful when people ask you to. Fandom is for creation and sharing and love, not for being an absolute piece of shit. Also we are all gonna be dead soon anyway when Yellowstone erupts so I'm thinking why give a fuck right :) Just have fun, guys! Love ya! Prompt from yoikinkmeme: "Michele Crispino/Sara Crispino + NSFW" and I'm cramming this in quickly for the YOI bdays!