Hi, y’all! I like to upload self-indulgent thoughts, blurbs, and oneshots of my favorite HH characters, aka Alastor and Vox/Vincent. With that being said, I don’t typically take requests, so please keep your expectations low if you slide into my inbox. I take a while to respond + I write whatever I can. My brain isn’t always kind or cooperative with me, lol
I can't believe vincent the baby trapper whittman decided to just cum on her belly like that. unthinkable. unheard of. it must have been an impostor. or his twin brother, walter whittman. our vinnie would never leave us child-free
SORRYYYY it was supposed to be a one-and-done kind of thing for Vincent… baby-trapping wasn’t in the cards. I also don’t think he’d want to have a child with a practical stranger. Still, they had unprotected sex and we all know the pull-out method is unreliable as shit
𝐂𝐖: P in V, Fingering, Clit stimulation, Tongue Kissing, Nipple sucking, Slightly Dub-con, Drunk sex, Car sex, Manhandling, Mentions of stalking and drinking, Age gap (26 and 44), Period-typical sexism, Journalist! Reader, Manipulative! Vincent
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Under a male pen name, you write a damaging article about Vincent Whittman, the God of Entertainment. Your criticism isn’t taken kindly. In fact, he tries to set up a meeting with you to ‘clear up any misunderstandings,’ until he finds out your true identity. Cue accusations of stalking and drunken sex — which ruins your ability to investigate Vincent — and perhaps the start of an unlikely relationship with its slew of complexities
Vincent Whittman, the man the East Coast Herald had proclaimed the ‘God of Entertainment’ earlier this year — you couldn’t seem to escape him. Everywhere you looked, everywhere you went, he was there, staring down at you with a cocked brow and pearly white canines bared in a faux grin, silent and unamused. You were going insane.
He usually only spared you a few seconds of his so-called precious time to offer you a curt greeting. It was simple, a sickeningly suave and cadent “Oh, hello… again,” which issued from his lips, but you always left with your fists clenched in an unshakable rage. You knew all too well that his words were a thinly-veiled accusation.
It had to be. Why would he punctuate the end of his sentences with ‘again’ if he wasn’t trying to insinuate something? And, after bumping into Vincent many times in 3 consecutive months, he certainly thought you were staging these run-ins like some crazed fan desperate to experience their own meet-cute, though that wasn’t the case.
Vincent knew that, he had to. There was nothing pleasant about your meetings. It was always forced grins and pleasantries.
The man was no fool, either.
Did he have an overinflated ego that needed to be kept in check? Yes, absolutely. His head was far too big for his shoulders.
The man was a megalomaniac.
But even through the delusions of grandeur, Vincent had to know that your run-ins were happenstance.
You couldn’t be just another one of his infatuated devotees, not when you were the first and only journalist to criticize him since he replaced his late predecessor, CEO Robert “Bob” Sinclair, and bring into question how he could have climbed up the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, let alone at the suspiciously quick rate he had.
“Vincent Whittman, the so-called God of Entertainment, is someone the average American has familiarized themselves with since the TV became a standard fixture in the home.”
“He is also neither a God nor a revolutionary in a new form of media. After thorough investigation, I noticed that a lot of what he has presented to his audience is a regurgitation of the unfinished ideas of his predecessors — soulless slop.”
“But what’s actually worth worrying about is that Vincent is an evangelist, a televangelist with questionable credentials and a dubious history in the entertainment industry, who uses his notable features and unrelenting charm to push his theological agenda on you, his willful audience.”
As he slid onto the stool next to yours, donning uncharacteristically casual clothes and a rich, luxurious cologne that smelled expensive, Vincent Whittman was aware that you weren’t any closer to liking him since you suggested that he was nothing but a shady, surface-level individual. You were hardly subtle with your displeasure.
“No way,” You muttered under your breath.
Even when you tried to maintain a cool facade, your body gave you away in your discomfort and rage, and now was no different. With Vincent’s shoulder bumping yours and his head swiveling around to meet your gaze, it was obvious that you were doing everything in your power to not empty the rest of your beer on his face.
“No way, indeed,” That sickeningly suave voice of his repeated, forgoing his usual greeting. “What’s a pretty dame like you doing in such a dump?”
The corners of your lips tugged upwards in an incredulous grin.
Disbelief churned in your lower belly.
Alongside the two other beers you had helped yourself to, which kept you glued to your stool.
“I beg your finest pardon?” You barely managed through an unladylike snort, liquid courage driving you to entertain him.
A crazed fan, an infatuated devotee wouldn’t bother toying with the notion of committing such a blasphemous act, not towards someone they worshipped. Your disdain for Vincent Whittman was so palpable that it could become as tangible as the burning, glowing tip of the lit cigarette lodged in between his slender fingers.
“Come on, dollface, you and I both know that you don’t belong here,” Vincent gestured to the place with his free hand. “How did you find this place, huh? How did you know I come here to avoid —”
“What are you trying to suggest, Whittman?” You shook your head, hand gripping your drink. “Come on, spit it out. You’re not one to be shy.”
“And you? You’re not one to be dull,” Vincent shot back with a chuckle. “You know exactly what I’m trying to suggest. I mean, these run-ins, they aren’t coincidental. They can’t be.”
While there was nothing more you desired than for Vincent to leave, as you patiently watched him introduce the cigarette to his mouth, thin lips curling around the orange filter, you hoped he would unveil that offensive accusation. Because if he did, you could pluck the cigarette straight from his hand and snuff it out on his skin.
“No, I want you to say it,” You challenged him.
That way, Vincent could finally grasp just how deep your disdain for him truly ran as the burning embers of tobacco died on the pale flesh of his exposed forearm, leaving behind a stinging mark to testify to the reality of your situation — paths that continued to cross out of divine intervention, even if you weren’t superstitious.
“And to think you once didn’t want to talk to me.”
Vincent lowered his hand as he softly exhaled, cigarette smoke permeating the air, thin, cloudy wisps curling endlessly above your heads. You had no idea, not the slightest clue, but he was deriving immense pleasure from your exchange. If he could drag out the conversation just a bit more, perhaps everything would go to plan.
“Look, just because you feign sleep when you hear the missionaries knocking at your door in the early morning, does not mean that you are less susceptible to having someone else’s beliefs shoved down your throat.”
“Wake up, America, the most renowned TV network in the East Coast has taken a downwards spiral since the first string of tragedies occurred — all of which happened to be closely followed by misplaced promotions.”
“‘Trust me’ when I tell you that Vincent Whittman is feeding you news with a side of religious doctrine, and you are happily devouring it since he happens to be ‘a silver fox with striking green-blue eyes,’ as one random I interviewed on the street confessed to me.”
As peeved as Vincent was when your article was brought to his attention, especially at the offensive terminology you freely utilized, it wasn’t until you mentioned the ‘string of tragedies’ that followed closely behind every ‘misplaced promotion’ that he scrambled to arrange a meeting with you on the pretense of clearing his good name.
While you had no evidence to back up the coincidental nature of his predecessors’ deaths, the fact that a few of his followers had nervously asked for reaffirmation after your inflammatory article hit the streets — if they could trust him — was enough to convince Vincent that you needed to go instead of wasting his energy on changing your mind.
“Who does this prick think he is? Me, a nobody? Ha-ha, oh! He’s the fucking nobody! I don’t even recognize your name, pal.”
“These accusations, they are unfounded — and why the fuck is he trying to reduce me to eye-candy? I mean, I risked everything to get to where I’m at today!”
“Ethan? Ethan! Quick, get in contact with whoever the bastard works for. Tell them I want to set up a meeting as soon as possible.”
Vincent didn’t recognize your name. In fact, at the time, he assumed you were some amateur simply trying to gain a foothold in a highly-competitive field by attempting to investigate a bigwig like him, who’d garnered the love and devotion of the same Americans you were trying to inspire apprehension in. So, getting rid of you would be easy.
Or at least it should have been.
Ethan, Vincent’s assistant, had informed him that you refused to meet him — via your boss.
So, naturally, he decided to do a little investigative journalism of his own and drop by your place of work to inquire about you.
He needed to find out who you were and what you looked like if you wouldn’t ‘talk’ to him.
That way, he could follow you back home.
And above all, take care of you, because Vincent was certain that that wasn’t the first and last article you would write about him. People were starting to talk, raising concerns about the nature of his promotions, the strange disappearances of all the beloved TV figures before him — talk show hosts, news anchors, and producers alike.
Vincent had to silence you, and he sincerely thought that he could do that, because when had he struggled to take a human’s life?
Never. It came so easily to him, to wrap his hands around another’s throat and constrict.
But then the receptionist at the building your company rented at gave away your identity upon recognizing him, providing him your age, your actual name, and a detailed description of your appearance in hopes that he would entertain her.
Instead, Vincent had pushed himself away from the receptionist because a realization struck him.
That the amateur journalist with incredibly bold endeavors wasn’t a ‘he,’ but actually a ‘she.’ A goddamn she.
A 26-year-old woman working in a competitive, male-dominated field, using a male pen name to bypass sexist blockades. After all, it was 1951. In a ragingly misogynistic society, women had to work unnecessarily harder to be taken seriously, to prove that they could be more than simple wives, mothers, and homemakers.
Still, Vincent wasn’t prepared for his critic to be a woman, let alone one so young, fiery, and gorgeous. He hadn’t even confronted you, either. He had left the building, hopped into his car, and bided his time in the parking lot until he watched someone fitting your description appear with a man around his 60s trailing closely behind.
“Oh, fuck,” Vincent had murmured to himself, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. “That’s you? Wow. I’m… I can’t… wow.”
He swore his heart had stopped beating for a solid minute when you came into view. Even with the receptionist’s detailed account, there was nothing on this earth that could have prepared him for the sight of you, the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon, getting lippy with someone he could only assume was your boss.
If you hadn’t suddenly turned towards Vincent’s general direction, forcing him to duck out of your view, he probably would have missed the short-lived exchange between you and your boss.
“Drop it, won’t you? There’s nothing to discuss — I told you already, I’m firm on my decision!”
“I just don’t get it! You’re telling me that you want to investigate Whittman, but you aren’t willing to meet him? To hear his side of the story?”
“I’m investigating the possible skeletons in the man’s closet, Gene. Why on God’s green earth must we speak to each other? Can’t I investigate him through other means?”
“Sugar-pie, you can’t uncover the truth without taking a gander at every perspective — it’s your job, need I remind you. How can you convince your readers to consider your viewpoint if you’re going to start off on a biased foot?”
“First, I have a name. Second, we both know Whittman isn’t going to give me any ‘facts,’ take a look at what he preaches! And third, if my theory is correct, that he’s behind all these senseless deaths, meeting him would be plain silly.”
“Pardon my French, but I’m afraid you’re going to fuck yourself over. This is Vincent Whittman we’re talking about. Vincent Fucking Whittman. You’ve bit off more than you can chew —”
“Gene, you need to have some faith in me. I can do this. I will do this. I’ve worked hard to get to this point, and I will not disappoint you. I refuse to.”
“I do have faith in you. I never said I didn’t… we… fine! Whatever. Just don’t get us sued, all right?”
Huh, sued. Vincent hadn’t even considered the possibility of suing you or the company, but after he had watched you hop in your car, the option completely left his mind.
There was something so… attractive about you, and not just physically, though your appearance had indeed come as a delightful surprise. Vincent hadn’t lost sight of you during his pursuit of you, so brazen and utterly cocksure, with a fiery determination that mirrored his younger self’s. It would be such a waste to get rid of you.
You, the amateur journalist who had referred to his hard work as soulless slop.
You, the amateur journalist who had belittled his efforts and reduced him to eye-candy to explain away his devotees.
You, the amateur journalist who had inspired uncertainty in his followers with a mere article.
Vincent couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take your life, despite the severity of your disrespect. What a great loss it would be for the earth to lose someone as passionate and driven to prove themselves as you — but if he couldn’t kill you, and he refused to sue you for libel out of pure, utter laziness, he had to stop you from being able to do your job.
Unfortunately, journalism was an open and unlicensed profession. Vincent couldn’t do anything that would legally bar you from writing altogether. However, if you lost your integrity as a credible and objective reporter, who would listen to you? A trustworthy reputation was detrimental to the success of a journalist’s career.
Not a single American on the East Coast would be inclined to believe whatever you put out if you became an unreliable source.
And though it was an agonizingly slow process, trying to do just that, as you encouraged Vincent to accuse you with your pointed stare, perhaps it would finally happen today — on a cool Saturday evening. 3 long, grueling months after he recruited Ethan to help him capture a damning photograph of you, forcing him to always linger nearby.
He needed something that would exhibit a clear conflict of interest, personal ties with the very individual you were supposed to be giving an honest account of.
Vincent was hoping to get under your skin, but in a way that led the two of you to clash in a heated and passionate exchange. If his nervous-wreck of an assistant didn’t panic in his haste to snap a photo that would paint you as a scorned lover, he could go to bed without the anxiety keeping him awake for the first time in a long while.
There was no guarantee that anything of that nature would transpire, of course.
You could walk away just like usual, though in your slightly inebriated state, you seemed highly susceptible to do something you’d regret.
Months of following you around had led Vincent to believe that you were utterly lonely.
And, after whittling away at your resolve enough to get you to entertain him — even if it was in an argument — Vincent felt he could acquire his sickeningly selfish desire. A taste of you, which was something he found himself needing more than needing you to leave his skeletons forever sealed in his closet, especially tonight.
“I fear it may sound… inane if I say it out loud,” Vincent admitted as he took one more drag of his cigarette before putting it out in a nearby ashtray.
He had turned away, but your gaze continued to burn the side of his face, silent and daring.
“However, if you asked me to take a guess, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so silly —”
“Guess, then. Tell me your theory,” You eagerly accepted the bait. “Enlighten me, if you can.”
“Okay… if I had to take a guess,” Vincent drawled, biting back the urge to grin. “Well…”
His voice lowered an octave, and you unconsciously leaned in, shoulders pushing forward.
“Well, after all this time, I’m beginning to think that this is, like, a set up of some sorts. These meetings feel more artificial than natural, no?”
Months of winding up in the same room as the man you dreaded seeing over and over and over again had made you snap, no less after bumping into him in a shoddy, inconspicuous location — a seedy bar that probably hadn’t been renovated since prohibition was lifted in 1933, when you were but a girl. 8 years old, to be precise.
But this? This accusation that he finally decided to unveil, it was as inane as it was positively absurd.
“I’m sorry, but are you suggesting — no, accusing me,” You placed a hand over your chest to gesture to yourself, “Of staging these run-ins with you?”
Your other hand touched his bicep at ‘you,’ muscle flexing against your palm as he tensed up.
If your burning gaze wasn’t trained on Vincent’s face, you would have noticed the way the thick hairs on his forearms, exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, stood tall in attention.
You didn’t realize what you were doing, or at least you didn’t care, not right now.
“It’s just hard to believe that all of this is occurring naturally, that’s all,” Vincent was careful with his words, as if it mattered.
The damage had been done. He could see it on your face as he turned to look at you.
You withdrew your hand from his bicep and snatched your glass, introducing the rim to your lips before suddenly tipping your head back, downing whatever was left of your beer. It was a lot, more than halfways, actually. Some of it even escaped your mouth and trickled down the corners, but you neither flinched nor cared.
“The absolute gall — my boss told you I wasn’t willing to meet you,” You smacked down some money on the counter for the bartender, trembling with noticeable offense. “So, you should know very well that this, whatever this is, I didn’t arrange it.”
You slid off your stool, stumbling backwards in the process, but you managed to catch the wall beside you and swiftly anchor yourself.
“To accuse me of practically stalking you, it’s not inane, it’s absolutely ludicrous!” You wiped your mouth clean with your free arm. “And if anyone must be doing any stalking, it’s you! Goodnight and fuck you. Sincerely.”
You weren’t stalking Vincent, Vincent was stalking you. He had to be. Everywhere you looked, everywhere you went, he was there. There was no other plausible explanation as to how you could have bumped into him, a practical celebrity, at such an inconspicuous location. He could afford the ritzy and glamorous places you couldn’t.
And though you had no solid proof that Vincent was the one deliberately setting up these supposed meetings, these staged run-ins, you were at your wits end. The alcohol coursing through your veins was only exacerbating your anger, your paranoia, including your newfound wish — that you had never, ever written that article about him.
The strings of your fate had seemingly intertwined with his in a thick, ugly, untiable knot. It didn’t matter where your feet took you — at a farmers market, at a quaint little mom-and-pop shop, at a rundown bar in an undesirable part of New York City — Vincent Whittman would be there, mismatched eyes taunting and tormenting you.
“Well, excuse me for thinking that you didn’t know how else to grab my attention. I mean, you can’t blame me for jumping to that conclusion when you emphasized my appearance in your article!”
And, to make matters worse, Vincent was following after you, much like your boss, Gene, had a habit of doing when you left off on a sour note.
“You’re delusional, I tell you!” You huffed as you pushed past the front door, heels clicking with each angry stomp, immediately taking a sharp turn into the alleyway. “They were in quotations!”
Unfortunately, the parking lot was right behind the building. And with a man, who you were certain had his fair share of dark secrets, trailing closely behind you, anxiety started to gnaw at you. It didn’t help that the sun had also set an hour ago, figures mostly obscured by the darkness of the night due to the lack of available lighting around.
“Hey, wait —” Your pulse quickened at the feeling of a hand seizing your arm.
The conversation was going nowhere, but how much longer could Vincent keep watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike?
“W-What are you doing!?” You squeaked.
Your back collided with the alleyway wall, sandwiched between grimy bricks and a warm, taut body. You tried to push Vincent away with your free hand, a pathetic noise tumbling from your lips, but your wrist was seized, forcing both of your arms beside your head and leaving you completely and utterly at his willpower.
Your heart beat wildly in your chest, hammering almost violently against your ribcage, threatening to break through bone.
“Wait, please,” Vincent huffed, his own pulse quickening, breath picking up and ghosting over your face. “Just calm down, okay?”
All you had left to use to defend yourself were your legs, but the bastard thrusted his hips forwards, keeping you from squirming.
“Calm down? Vincent, what the fuck?” A furious heat crawled up your neck as his crotch poked you through your skirt. “Let go of me!”
As frightened as you were, terrifying thoughts about what such a powerful man could do to you unwillingly creeping into your mind and tears brimming your waterline, you couldn’t help but also feel overwhelmed by the intimacy of the position he had forced you into. It had been so, so long since you felt another’s touch.
You had a boyfriend at one point, yes, but that was 2 years ago. He left you because he felt that you were prioritizing your career over him — which you had done so unconsciously in your pursuit to challenge and perhaps even begin the process of dismantling what societal norms had encouraged in the workplace: blatant sexism.
“Maybe you aren’t stalking me, maybe this has all been a product of… divine intervention?” Vincent scrambled to say, hands flexing against your wrists. “I don’t know. I’m just freaked out by everything, and I’m sure you don’t feel any different.”
Still, Vincent Whittman was the one holding you hostage. He had you completely at his subjugation, in a grimey, ill-lit alleyway in the bad part of town, where most preferred to travel by car instead of on foot if they managed to hitch a ride. The possibilities of what he could do to you were endless, no less in your vulnerable state.
Vincent could wrap those large hands of his glued to your wrists around the column of your neck and squeeze until the light drained from your eyes. He could effortlessly carry your limp body in his arms towards his car to toss you into his trunk. You could become just another promising life presumably lost under strange circumstances.
“Vincent, pl-please,” You shakily whispered, pleadingly staring into green-blue eyes, trying to appeal to his humanity. “Please, don’t hurt —”
Or he could relinquish your wrists in exchange for your face, only to dive down and bridge the gap between your mouths to initiate a heated kiss, which was something you had neither expected or anticipated. Not from Vincent Whittman. Not from a man who was well within his right to detest you just as much as you detested him.
He was also well within his right to feel as if he could do to you what you had a sneaking suspicion his coworkers had suffered.
But with the alcohol coursing through your veins, lowering your inhibitions and clouding your better judgement, you found it easier to accept Vincent’s kiss than you would have sober.
You didn’t even catch the distant, unmistakable sound of a camera shuttering, nor did you catch the flash of light that briefly illuminated the alleyway.
Your eyes had fallen shut alongside your arms, much to Ethan’s relief. A happy coincidence in a poorly-timed moment, despite the guilt bubbling up in his throat, making him sick. It would have been infinitely better if he had captured the moment Vincent desired, but as he scampered off, he was certain a kiss would be enough.
Society wasn’t as kind or forgiving with women as they were with men. Anything beyond that would leave your reputation in ugly tatters.
A clear image of you, the brave, amateur journalist caught between a wall and Vincent Whittman, the God of Entertainment, the same man you had criticized, was sufficient. Not only would it damage your journalistic credibility, but everybody who saw the photograph would think you were going after a man you were involucrated with.
The public could paint you as a scorned lover.
Or the headlines could question if you made the shocking transition from critic to lover.
Either way, your critique would no longer matter.
And you, so blissfully unaware and drowning in the sensation of Vincent’s lips smoothing across yours, you didn’t know about his exceptionally cruel endeavors. Right now, the only thing you knew was that the hands on your face had latched onto your body, squeezing and kneading your waist, and you couldn’t help but encourage it.
“Fuck…” Vincent quietly groaned into your mouth, eyes fluttering shut, the muscles in his abdomen flexing with unfettered excitement.
He was doing his utmost to stop himself from grinning like an idiot as his lips trailed away from your mouth, to your jaw and the slope of your neck, sharp canines nipping wherever they charted. Of course, the sound or the light of the camera hadn’t escaped him. Vincent had maintained a watchful eye to make sure that Ethan was around.
But it had completely and utterly escaped you, and so Vincent felt comfortable enough to grasp your hips and escort you further into the alleyway, where both your cars were parked. He hoped to do what he secretly feared he would have otherwise missed out on if you had caught the camera, his body thrumming with arousal.
Unfortunately, with his lips no longer on you, and the sound of his car keys jingling as he hastily fished them out of his back pocket, you sobered up just a bit. The reality of what you had done suddenly came crashing down on you like a bucket of cold water, though the heat of the passionate exchange remained fresh, skin flushed.
You reeled back, away from Vincent and his car, rear bumping into a stranger’s old Chevy.
“Why… why did you kiss me?” You lifted a trembling hand to your mouth, chest heaving, fingers touching kiss-swollen lips. “Why did I return it?”
He wasn’t going to take you anywhere.
That was risky, too risky, to possibly be seen riding around with Vincent Whittman, even if it was dark. He knew that, of course he did.
He just wanted to take you in his car.
“Dollface, come on,” Vincent panicked, making his way towards you, touching a hand to your cheek. “We don’t have to go anywhere, we can just —”
You stared up at him, meeting green-blue eyes, but you weren’t really looking at him.
“What have I done? I don’t… even like you,” You shook your head. “I think… I think I should go home. Yeah, I should go home.”
“You’re drunk, just let me…” Vincent whined, breaking away from the charming facade you only knew of. “While you sober up a bit, yeah?”
“I’m too drunk to drive, but not too drunk to fuck?” You planted your palms on his chest, pushing. “Vincent, this was a mistake.”
The man in front you didn’t move, though. In fact, he hardly budged, feet firm on the ground.
“The damage has already been done, right? I mean, we kissed,” Vincent tried again. “It doesn’t have to end here, come on.”
It did have to end, here and forever.
To kiss the same man you were investigating, to be involved with him in any shape or form, it was unethical and extremely improper.
What a shoddy excuse of a journalist you were.
“It does — this is wrong, unethical,” You whimpered, but he dove down despite your protests, lips locking with yours once more.
His hands found your hips, too, tugging forwards as his legs moved backwards.
You didn’t even realize Vincent had unlocked his car and left the door to the rear seat open, back softly colliding with cool leather. You found yourself melting into the kiss again, the flames of arousal licking at you, but you still pushed against his chest. You couldn’t have sex with him, no matter how much your body yearned for him.
No matter how delicious it felt as he nestled himself in between your legs, the car door shutting behind him, your skirt collecting over your bare thighs in messy ripples.
No matter how delicious it felt as he grabbed your blouse and forced it open, buttons flying everywhere, baring your breasts in your lacey brasierre.
No matter how delicious it felt as his greedy tongue laved across your lower lip, asking for entry, begging to delve into your warm, wet cavern and explore it.
You had to resist. You couldn’t trust Vincent Whittman to keep his lips sealed. You couldn’t trust him at all, and you didn’t, but the feeling of a finger sliding underneath the seam of your panties and a calloused pad making contact with your needy, swollen bud, suddenly had your hands slacking on their efforts. It felt good.
“I won’t say anything, I swear,” Vincent spoke into your mouth, almost as if he could read the slew of panicked thoughts swarming your mind. “I promise I won’t utter a word about this, yeah?”
Vincent was an insatiable and unrelenting force, the warm muscle of his tongue tangling with yours as his finger circulated your throbbing clit, demolishing whatever willpower you had left in your body and replacing it with pure, unadulterated lust, your hands tangling in his silver-streaked hair and back arching off the leather seats.
“Fuck, when’s the last time someone touched you?” Vincent pulled away from your swollen lips, a string of saliva connecting your mouths.
You tried to respond, but you couldn’t fathom forming a single syllable as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, hooked nose and tongue simultaneously caressing your skin.
“Must have been a while, hm?”
A whimper issued from your lips as his sharp canines nipped you on his downwards descent, free hand pushing your brassiere over your chest, your breasts consequently spilling out.
“I think so. You’re so fucking wet.”
He latched onto a hardened peak at the same time as a finger plunged into your entrance, your hips twitching and your belly pulling inwards with a sharp intake of breath, overwhelmed.
“Vincent, please,” You mustered out, clenching around him, arousal dripping in viscous syrup. “Don’t make this longer than it has to be.”
It was pathetic, how effortlessly Vincent was able to make you unravel beneath his awkwardly hunched frame; but he wasn’t wrong, it had been long since you felt another’s touch. His mouth, his fingers, they almost felt as new and foreign as the first time you had fooled around, twitching and jolting at every little curious prodding.
Almost — because they actually felt worse. You couldn’t take it. He knew what he was doing, the tip of his tongue circulating your hardened bud, another finger sliding into your entrance to rub his calloused pads against your gummy walls. The fact that you were partaking in something forbidden only amplified the pleasure.
“Fuck me, Whittman,” You egged him on as your head tipped back, a familiar pressure already coiling in your lower belly. “If I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum around your cock, not your fingers.”
Disappointment flooded Vincent’s mind. He had hoped to taste you on his tongue, but as he unlatched from your nipple with a wet pop, he supposed he had pushed his luck far enough.
“Okay, fine,” Vincent groaned, hands retracting from you altogether. “Fucking fine, whatever.”
He lifted himself up, almost hitting his head on the ceiling of the car, fingers scrambling to undo his belt and slacks, hovering above you in a position that had his spine protesting in discomfort.
But you didn’t care, of course.
You only cared about getting sex with Vincent Whittman over with as soon as possible, thin rings of green-blue locking with yours as he shoved his slacks past his thighs, cock springing out.
“Oh… oh, fuck. You’re huge,” The shock tumbled from your lips, unbidden. “How is that… ?”
He leaned back in, one hand wrapping around the base of his length, the other unsticking your panties from your cunt with a filthy, wet ‘schlick’ before tucking it into your inner thigh.
“Don’t worry, dollface, I’m sure you’ll be able to accommodate me,” Vincent whispered to you, making you cringe. “Oh, just you wait, you won’t be looking at me like that in a second.”
You hated to admit it, but he was right. Once he felt as if he had sufficiently lathered his cock in your slick, guiding himself to your entrance, your senses were assaulted with the overwhelming need to push him away. He was girthy, far more girthy than the last one you took, your arms raveling around his back, fingers curling into his shirt.
Vincent’s forehead came in contact with yours, hooked nose meeting your own, open mouth gasping into yours. The stretch, it stung.
His cockhead eased past your fluttering hole, slow and terribly patient, holding himself back from the urge to impale you completely. Just like you, he hadn’t felt another’s touch, not since you wrote that wretched article about him. The sensation of your gummy walls clamping around his length with a soft squelch was oh-so delicious.
Still, you were tight, too tight for Vincent’s liking. He couldn’t fuck you if you remained tense.
One hand slithered down south, reverently pressing the calloused pad of his thumb against your sensitive button, rubbing soothing circles.
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Ohhh, such crude words for a pretty dame.”
“I have a name. Use it.”
Vincent chuckled, his other hand finding a singular breast, appreciatively kneading and squeezing the supple flesh in his large palm.
You merely stared into his eyes, focusing on the sensation of his hands working you.
Eventually, the burn of being split in two subsided, your fingers loosening their grip alongside your walls, thus allowing Vincent to continue easing the rest of his throbbing length in your awaiting cunt. And, soon enough, your bodies were slack together in an unexpected union, hips positioned upwards, legs spread eagle.
Vincent’s hands moved to grab ahold of your waist, subtle indents forming in the flesh where his thumbs pushed inwards, as if he was trying to feel the outline of his cock bulging against your belly — or at least that’s what you deduced from how pleased he seemed over your shock at his size. You hadn’t forgotten that big ego of his.
“Can I… I… is it safe to move now?” Vincent inquired, his back screaming at him with each and every unmoving second.
You hooked your legs around his waist, rolled your hips with a confidence he hadn’t seen since the start of the night, and moved a hand away to thread your fingers in the hair on his nape, crashing your lips against his. Vincent didn’t need any further encouragement, his brows furrowing and eyes falling shut with a debauched groan.
And, before you knew it, Vincent Whittman, the man you were once vehemently opposed to meeting was pounding you into the backseat of his car, parked in an ill-lit lot behind an inconspicuous bar you bravely decided to decompress at because you never expected to bump into him there, cunt squelching and ass rippling with every thrust.
You couldn’t quite wrap your head around it, as raw and real as the act you were partaking in was.
“Right there? Yeah? I-Is that it, did I find it?”
It was simply not something you ever imagined would unfurl between the two of you.
“F-Fuck, yes! Please, pl-please, don’t stop!”
Even with the unrestrained act of his length dragging against your walls.
“Look at you, singing me praises… so fucking pretty. N-never thought I’d read it, let alone hear it.”
With the unrelenting pressure of his cockhead kissing that special spot nestled deep inside of you.
“Oh God, don’t stop, but please do shut up!”
With the unadulterated slapping of flesh meeting flesh in a passionate exchange.
“Are you sure? Because you’re giving me mixed signals here, squeezing me like a good fucking girl.”
With the unmistakable sound of a car creaking as two bodies collided inside of it.
“Vincent, please, please, please, shut uppp.”
You sincerely thought your criticism of him would prove dangerous, if not fatal.
But in a wild twist of fate, you were stuck beneath Vincent in the most dangerous assault of body and mind, the first contraction of your orgasm wracking your body. Your mouth fell slack, eyes fluttering open, walls clamping down around the cock still sliding inside of you, your cries and mewls and his grunts and groans resonating throughout the car.
“Oh, oh my fuck,” Waves of pleasure crashed over your body, cunt pulsating and throbbing.
As you milked Vincent to his own end, hips hastily withdrawing and body lifting up from yours to pump himself to completion on your belly, you were certain he had altered your brain chemistry. Mismatched irises held your gaze through half-lidded eyes, thick spurts of a night well-spent painting your skin, but you didn’t flinch.
No, in fact, you savored the evidence of his enjoyment. Even after the fog of satisfaction receded, allowing you to actually see Vincent, who scrambled to grab the headrest of the passenger seat to anchor himself as he came down from his high, the post-sex clarity wasn’t what you expected it to be. Where was the guilt? The regret?
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t want to, well, you know… finish inside of you,” Vincent spoke through huffs of breaths, eyes darting down to your belly. “Don’t worry, I got napkins in the glove compartment.”
He let go of the headrest to tuck himself away, awkwardly hovering above you as he lifted up his slacks and briefs to his waist, over his softening length. Meanwhile, you could only look up at the ceiling of the car with a vacant stare, completely and utterly overwhelmed with disappointment at your gross lack of willpower.
“I’m gonna have to get out, Jesus H. Christ, my back,” Vincent complained through gritted teeth, reaching behind him to open the door, shuffling backwards. “The perks of being 44.”
All that time and effort you funneled into your job? Wasted. Your hopes and dreams of becoming a successful and renowned journalist, especially as a woman with neither the urge nor the desire to have a family, you just tossed them to the trash for a hate-fueled session with a man — and not just any man. Vincent Fucking Whittman.
Sure, he swore, he promised that he wouldn’t utter a thing, but you secured the fate of your career when you returned the kiss instead of pushing him away. That article about Vincent, it was supposed to be your one-way ticket away from nobody town, but you just had to treat yourself to some beers for the first time in a while and self-implode.
It didn’t even matter if Vincent was actually a man of his word, you lost your ability to be objective. The mind-blowing sex would forever resonate in your mind at the mere sight of his name. You were destined to a life in the cornfield, the boring and repetitive dead-end roles, where Gene sidelined every employee who disappointed him.
Thus, you couldn’t, in good faith, write another article about Vincent Whittman. While his shady history in the entertainment industry lingered in your brain, festering, pestering you, it would forever have to remain a sneaking suspicion. You had to move on, find another thing to report on, unless you wanted to risk ruining your reputation.
“He was right, I bit off more than I could chew,” You muttered, pulling your elbows inwards and kicking your dress down, sitting yourself up.
Vincent returned with the napkins, kneeling on the ground in front of you, patiently holding them out as you fixed your bra into place.
“I’m sorry, did you say something just now?”
You plucked the napkins from his hand and swiped it over your belly, eyes trained on your lap, refusing to meet the mismatched gaze observing you.
“My boss, he told me not to write about you,” You balled up the napkin and tossed it sideways, reaching for your blouse… only to remember that the buttons were lying haphazardly across the car. “He said I bit off more than I can chew.”
“That so?” Vincent hummed, feigning ignorance to a conversation he had eavesdropped on.
“Yeah, and I said, no! Have some faith in me, Gene! I know what I’m doing… and, well, he was right,” You laughed with a sarcastic bite. “He was right to doubt me — but, hey! At least I didn’t get us fucking sued for libel, right?”
Guilt, it wasn’t a sentiment Vincent was familiar with. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt it since he started working as a simple weatherman.
“I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”
He reminded you of what he said earlier as he watched you pull your blouse together, obscuring your skin, littered with bruises and teeth marks.
You didn’t know, of course you didn’t, that Vincent made that promise because his words weren’t necessary in his elaborate scheme to take you down. All he needed to do was give Ethan the word, to sell the photograph to another journalist and end your career — something he was suddenly having second thoughts about.
Crap.
It should have been a simple fuck.
It should have been a simple, mindless fuck that he could look back on as a conquest.
But no.
Now Vincent was collecting himself from the ground on sore knees, opening the car door to the driver’s seat, and extending an arm to hastily snatch the coat sitting neatly folded on the passenger’s seat. He was doing something kind, he was doing something sweet that almost made him cringe, but he managed to maintain a cool facade.
“You could easily break that promise,” You scoffed, the corners of your eyes glistening. Still, not a single tear escaped you. “What… what’s that for?”
Vincent held out his coat to you, pale skin slightly flushing as your eyes darted between the garment and his face, confused.
“For the blouse.”
“No,” You placed your hand over the coat and pushed it towards him. “I’m going home anyway.”
“Yeah, right. Like Hell you are. We’re going back in and having a drink, actually.”
“Oh, no. I can’t afford another beer.”
“I’ll pay for your drinks, all right? Whatever you want, it’s on me — well, except for beers. We’re drinking top-shelf only, baby.”
“But why? What are you trying to do? What is this, a… a shitty attempt at an apology?”
“I don’t… I don’t know… or maybe I do. I guess I feel kind of shitty, even though I’m also relieved I can hold this over your head.”
“Oh, you feel shitty? Ha! Imagine how I feel?”
“Hey, that’s not what I meant. If you would just let me explain —”
“Fuck you, Whittman,” You hopped out of the car, livid. “I don’t need your pity or your sympathy!”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”
You froze at his words, stunned into silence, allowing Vincent to seize the opportunity to unfold his coat and drape it over your shoulders.
“You can’t write about me? Fine. I’ll tell you everything. Everything. And, in exchange for your silence, I’ll find you a story worth writing about.”
Your lashes fluttered with every rapid blink, disbelief churning in your belly. Vincent was offering to tell you the truth, to tell you what you so desperately yearned to find out about him, and all because he wanted to settle the score for some odd reason. You slowly slid your arms into the sleeves of his coat, tongue darting past your lips.
“Tempting, but if you did something awful, if you did something… illegal,” You tentatively started, eyes flitting up, fingers fastening buttons together.“How can you trust me to not rat on you?”
Vincent tucked in his shirt and smoothed his palms over the fabric, flattening any creases.
“Well, the same way you can trust I won’t rat on you if you decide to walk away from me.”
You ran your hand over your hair to fix it back into place, or at least to a somewhat presentable state, which the man standing before you mirrored.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Neither of us know for sure that we’ll keep to our word, but I told you already, I’m not saying a fucking thing,” Vincent scoffed. “Besides, once you hear what I have to say, you’ll keep your lips sealed… if you know what’s good for you.”
“A threat? How telling of your innocence.”
An amused chuckle tumbled from Vincent’s mouth, his arms flying open, making you quirk a curious brow.
“Hey, unless you have any sort of evidence — solid, concrete evidence — I’m not worried, dollface.”
He was right. An accusation could only take one so far — but you? Oh, it would get you nowhere.
“Whatever. I’m going to order the most expensive liquor they have in this shitty establishment,” You watched his arms drop to his sides, his lips curling upwards. “And you can’t complain, got it?”
A victorious grin stretched across Vincent’s face, and though it hardly differed to the signature grin plastered on the front page of the East Coast Herald, there was something… different about this one. It wasn’t forced or artificial, it was genuine and natural, and you could tell by the lack of gums and the creases in the corners of his eyes.
“Won’t even make a dent in my wallet.”
If a gust of wind hadn’t traveled through the alleyway, filtering through the ill-lit parking lot, reminding you that you had forgotten to fix your panties, you were certain you would have struggled to tear your gaze away. While your negative view of him hadn’t budged at all, you had to admit it, the stranger you had quoted in your article had a point.
“Sounds like a challenge,” You hummed, whirling around on your heel, turning away from him.
He clapped his hands together.
“All right, well, let me just lock my car and we can get going inside —”
You planted your heel on the edge of the seat of Vincent’s car, reaching down under your skirt.
“ — what are you doing?”
“Fixing my underwear back into place. A bit of wind decided to remind me I forgot to do that with a gentle caress down there.”
“I, uhh, okay? I mean, sure… go ahead.”
Once you did just that, you dropped your leg and straightened your spine, shutting the car door.
“Okay, there! Let’s go, I need that top-shelf liquor now. God knows what you have in store for me.”
You started off. Without him.
“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” Vincent muttered under his breath.
He locked his car and shoved his keys in his back pocket, turning on his heel, slender legs taking long strides towards the alleyway. Towards your receding figure, wearing a coat that was far too big for it, hair bouncing in the wind with every skip. What an endearing sight to behold, but he couldn’t help but feel worse.
“Let alone with a 26-year-old… Christ, my back’s going to hurt an awful lot come tomorrow.”
You were utterly oblivious, blissfully unaware about what the man trailing behind you had set out to do. You only knew of the immeasurable excitement swirling in your belly as the jukebox playing the latest music, of the laughter and chatter of drunken patrons welcomed you back into the bar. Vincent could only hope to keep it that way.
I’ve been neglecting Vox/Vincent as of late, and instead of helping me with that, y’all are filling my inbox with the most delicious Alastor imagines. I mean, what the fuckkkk!!! I trusted y’all to inspire me to write a Vincent oneshot — but after that last ask? How am I supposed to do that? </3
... may i also raise the possibility of you actually finding a promising match with someone - not necessarily being in love, but he'd secure a stable future for the two of you - but you remain hesitant because you're actually in love with alastor, and no matter how naive it is, you still cling to hoping. you know he's a married man, so you'd never expect him to cheat or abandon his wife, and you're planning a wedding now as well after you've finally been proposed to by that other man, pretending you're happy picking out a location and where to settle after - somewhere far away from Louisiana because your husband-to-be is picking up the vibes between you and alastor.
(so, naturally, the only option is for alastor to crash the wedding, and the two of you live in that itty bitty cabin UNTIL your ex-fiance kinda shoots him out of revenge when he's out hiding a body, and you then kill him before ending your own life to be with alastor in hell. anyway, whopsee.)
I need you to consider human Alastor and Mimzy having a marriage of convenience only for Alastor to meet reader like a week after the wedding and falling in love with them 💖
OHHHH the angst potential! I love it… including the thought of Alastor absolutely losing it and destroying random items in his studio because on one hand, he feels obligated to honor his promise to his dear friend, Mimzy. She was in a tough financial situation. It doesn’t help that divorce is frowned upon and he has a reputation to uphold. On the other, there’s you, who’s actively looking to marry and start a family. If you can’t find a partner within the year, you plan on moving back home to dedicate yourself to taking care of your grandparents, miles and miles away from Louisiana. From him. The clock is ticking, and Alastor is at a loss over what to do. He feels angry and frustrated and utterly helpless — a volatile concoction of sentiments that made him lose his composure and explode in a rare fit
i just need you to know that EVERY TIME i open tumblr, or refresh, the post you made on March 30th about "imagine the mind-blowing sex alastor would treat you to after his ritual was successful" appears as the 2nd or 3rd post down, literally every time without fail.
like yes tumblr. i've seen it. it's a good post. great post even. see that little red heart? i've liked it. i have Seen this post. thank you.
and yk what? it is a good post and i like being reminded of it. but tumblr is like, that post's number 1 fan.
LOL I wonder if it pops up under the ‘Your tags’ tab. I swear it tends to show the same 10 posts. Also, I almost always see MY shit under them, aka this one 😭 I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason behind that is because it still has traction. I mean, it wouldn’t be my top post if it wasn’t getting likes to this day… so unfortunately it may continue to pester you for a while longer
Wait, wait, I talk about Dad! Alastor a lot, but I barely considered Alastor being the dad that stepped up after your husband left you and your daughter. It would be even better if he never wanted kids and she changed his mind 🥹 You’re his close friend and you’re obviously hurting, though, so he just helps you raise her as you navigate life in the 1930s as a single mother. If anything romantic develops between the two of you, I think it would have to be at a later time
True, genuine fear — Alastor was largely unfamiliar with the sentiment.
In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he felt his heart lurch in his chest and the unpleasant sensation of cold water washing over him from head to toe.
Anything could make one feel that way, anything that was trepidating enough to instill a sense of foreboding or dread.
But you, his wife, the mother of his child?
The same person he had affectionately coined the epitome of adorable when you accepted the wrong meal because you didn’t want to hurt the waitress’s feelings on your first date?
Even as he held the tiny, jagged piece of torn paper in between his thumb and his forefinger, rich brown pools alternating between chicken scratch and the door, which was only cracked open a sliver, Alastor couldn’t quite believe it.
His heart hammered away in his chest, body thrumming with a mixture of apprehension and sordid joy, limbs struggling to support him from his place on the ground.
Apprehension because the note lodged in his slender fingers read:
“Mommy is lisening.”
Sordid joy because he couldn’t help but delight in the foreign sentiment he never thought you were capable of inspiring in him.
“You spelled ‘listening’ wrong,” Alastor merely muttered under his breath.
He drew his fingers inward, slowly crushing the piece of paper in his palm; but it protested with a loud crinkling sound, making him wince.
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Your daughter’s little voice hissed. “Mommy is gonna be mad at me, and it’s all your fault.”
As uneasy as he was about dealing with the consequences of keeping her awake at such an ungodly hour, no less after enduring your earlier monologue about her hectic sleep schedule, he couldn’t control himself.
Alastor sucked in his lips, mouth forming a taut line, trying to stifle the sense of pride swelling in his chest at your ability to sneak up on the two of you.
He was usually hyperaware of his surroundings.
Usually.
He could catch the faintest of sounds, but you were apparently nimble enough to prevent the floorboards from creaking beneath your feet.
Too nimble, considering that your aging house was seldom silent from how old it was.
It typically groaned throughout the night, spurring your daughter up and running to your bedroom in search of refuge from the ‘ghosts.’
“Your maman scolded you earlier today, did she not?” Alastor kept his gaze trained on the door, wondering when you’d announce yourself. “Besides, you’re smart enough to comprehend that defying your curfew entails certain… risks.”
No doubt you had your back plastered to the wall.
He and your daughter could see your lingering shadow underneath the doorframe.
Even if just barely.
“I’m 7. Stop using those big words. I don’t understand,” She whined. “Anyway, you’re older than me. Way older. You were born in the 1800s. You should know better. You’re an adult, I’m not.”
Alastor’s neck audibly snapped as he turned sideways, mild offense taking over his features, momentarily forgetting his unease.
“Mon chouchou, I was born in 1899, and just barely. I’m 30 years old. Rest assured that I’m not old.”
Your daughter wrapped the blanket around her shoulders in a tight embrace and quickly collected herself on trembling knees, making a beeline for her bed, abandoning her journal and crayons.
“It doesn’t matter. Mommy is gonna scold me again, and you should have told me to go to bed instead of telling me scary stories and drawing with me. You’re my daddy. Act like it.”
Alastor couldn’t quite believe his ears.
He was being lectured by a child, a 7-year-old, a deep crease forming in the space between his brows.
The absolute gall.
He had half a mind to argue with her.
But then the door suddenly swung open and your voice pierced through the hushed conversation, startling him.
“I fear she’s right.”
You stared down at them with your hands on your hips, nightgown, slippers, and all.
The only light source in your daughter’s bedroom was a lantern, and though it was on the ground and gave neither a proper view of your expression, your displeasure was certainly palpable.
“Still, you aren’t blameless, young lady. You said it yourself — you may not be an adult, but you most definitely know that sleeping in late will earn you a scolding. Go on and get to sleeping.”
Alastor shot up from his place on the ground, spine straight and hands hovering in front of him in a placating gesture, a nervous grin tugging at his lips.
Your daughter, on the other hand, hid and curled up into a tiny ball under her blanket, akin to a pill bug.
She turned around to face the wall as a precautionary measure, too, the mattress softly creaking beneath her tiny frame.
“And you,” The spotlight was on your husband, now.
“Sha, I can explain —” Alastor started.
“Oh, don’t you ‘sha’ me, mister,” You scoffed as you stepped past him, snatching the lantern and holding it up, illuminating his features. “It’s 12 A.M., what on God’s green earth are you two doing awake? We gotta get up early for church tomorrow.”
Rich brown pools darted backwards, towards your daughter, but she made no move to jump in his or her own defense.
He tried not to scowl at her.
“I… well… we were…”
The heat rushed to his face.
“You were…?” You beckoned him.
Crap.
“We were… we were bonding?”
Your brows rose to your hairline, unconvinced.
Alastor was quite adept at spinning a web of lies, but beneath the scrutiny of your pointed stare, his mind went blank.
His throat nervously bobbed as he swallowed.
“This is no time to be bonding, Alastor Hartfelt. If she falls asleep in church during the pastor’s sermon, like she did last time, oh, I will spare you no mercy.”
You were intimidating when you were angry — a newfound discovery that admittedly excited him.
Desire stirred in his gut.
He tentatively lowered his hands, fixing to end this conversation as soon as possible, curls bouncing with his head slowly nodding in understanding.
“You hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alastor assured you, once more sucking in his lips.
Though it wasn’t because he was trying to hide his pride, even if the sentiment lingered alongside the apprehension.
It was actually because of the tiny but faint giggle he caught, which certainly didn’t come from you.
Oh no, it was your daughter. The little devil.
Fortunately for her, you didn’t catch it, too busy glowering at your misbehaving husband to notice her amusement.
“Good, now, let’s get to bed.”
As you shut the lantern off and bid your daughter a surprisingly soft goodnight, feet obediently following after you, he knew you would find his sick gratification at your authority strange.
If you knew, that is.
But you didn’t, and the only thing you could do was irritatingly swat at his hands as he attached himself to your back once you crawled into bed, arms closing around your belly.
Alas, that only spurred him on.
A sharp nose nudged at the slope of your neck, skilled fingers skittering and folding the fabric of your nightgown in messy ripples, baring your thighs.
Despite your displeasure, your back slightly arched, rear consequently brushing against his crotch.
“Forgive me, sha, I got carried away,” Alastor murmured. “It was 9’ish last I checked. Believe me when I tell you that I had no idea it was so late.”
A singular finger slid past the seam of your panties, teasingly skimming the flesh of your mound.
You craned your neck.
And your hand closed around his wrist, applying just enough pressure to halt him in his sinful endeavors.
“Say I believe you — she’s still going to wake up tired,” You started. “And scary stories? Really? While I would love to refuse to indulge you as a punishment for keeping our daughter up past her curfew, I’m only doing so because I know she’ll be running here for comfort soon.”
Alastor’s hand receded with a defeated sigh.
“Merde.”
You were right, unfortunately.
“You’re unbelievable, Alastor Hartfelt, truly.”
A familiar pair of lips pressed against his cheek before he could roll over and lay on his back, however, easing his disappointment.
Even if it was rather slight.
“Still, you’re a good daddy, and I’m sure you can make it up to me tomorrow. She’s been dying to see your maman, anyway. I love you. Goodnight.”
And, as if on cue, Alastor caught the distant pitter-patter of tiny feet and creaking floorboards.
Okay. This is gonna sound crazy but hear me out. To preface, I know that it doesn't make sense like realistically or medically. But, like I said, hear me out.
So, fraternal twins happen when two separate eggs are released during a cycle and are independently fertilized by two different sperm. I apologize in advance cause this is gonna sound freaky.
In your murdermedia x reader fics, the reader is pregnant and has no way of knowing who the father is until the birth. What if when she got impregnated, both Alastor and Vincent were inside her and finished at the same time. It'd be pretty funny if she was pregnant with twins and one was Alastor's and the other was Vincent's.
I know this sounds hella freaky and doesn't make any sense, I just think it would be funny. I'm sorry 😭
I hope y’all know that there is no need to apologize for whatever it is that you send me, even though I’m not as freaky or adventurous as I’d like to be — with that being said, this definitely would be funny (in an endearing way)
I think Alastor would explode because in the last Murdermedia x Reader fic, I suggested that he only wants one child… so imagine two at the same time? One that’s related to him, and one that’s related to Vincent, the most insufferable man he knows? Oh, Alastor would faint the moment he finds out that you’re not done pushing
Vincent, on the other hand, would be ecstatic. He’s a family man through and through. As unconventional as your relationship is, he couldn’t care less about how it would be raising kids with two partners, let alone one he constantly clashes with. Vincent has his babies and that’s all that matters to him <3
Anywho, I plan to give them one just because I don’t want the poor reader to deal with twins. Vincent is already enough as it is, so imagine dealing with two newborns and a grown ass man than can be immature at times? Hell no 😭
Alastor deserves to get slapped after what he did to the reader — and he will be — but I want him to endure something that will actually inspire apprehension in his gut. Getting slapped or called names isn’t enough. And frankly, in my head, he’s a masochist. He would derive pleasure from getting hurt. I mean, the reader is definitely going to do things to Alastor that will be in uncharted territory. Their only experiences are with each other. However, I want what they end up doing to be as intimidating as it is riveting, and neither of them will have the guts to say no, even in the face of discomfort. Both Alastor and the reader want to come out victorious in this war they unintentionally initiated, and they want to feel like they earned it, too, which they can’t achieve without making themselves suffer by testing their limits
Tldr: Rough-And-Tumble is going to get worse and probably a little bit freaky as Alastor and the reader attempt to beat what they last did to each other
Pookie we’ve discussed blushy Vox but now I offer you 🫵🏼 blushy Vincent 🤲🏼🙂↕️🙂↕️ he might not make our hair stand up with static lol but it’s still cute as hecccc
Oh my goodness, yes! I want to watch Vincent Whittman, a grown ass man, dissolve into a flustered mess. I’m talking about a furious blush crawling up his neck, sprawling across his features, pale face glowing a deep red hue. I want his gaze to be fixed upon the ground, brows furrowed together, and mouth twisted in a wonky smile, too, and all because you called him a “Good boy.” It might not make our hair stand up with static, sure, but at least it’ll make our hearts excitedly lurch in our chests when something stands up in his —
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: This is a combination of original ideas and requests, some that have been answered, others that are still sitting in my inbox. I made this to keep track of what I’m currently working on, but I wanted to share this with y’all anyway! Also, I’m sorry for the long descriptions. I was too lazy to summarize them + I find them motivating. Oh, and I’m still working on some of the titles… so do feel free to come to me with suggestions <3
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Alastor thanks you for fixing his tie in place, but he makes a grave mistake in the process — he calls you, a good friend of his, maman. A term reserved for his late mother. You recognize that it’s an honest mistake, and as a teacher, you’re no stranger to being called mom. However, when you teasingly tell him, “It’s okay, baby, I don’t mind,” in an attempt to make light of the situation, he tucks tail and flees. In fact, Alastor decides to avoid you after that. You have no idea that him calling you maman is an admission of his feelings, feelings he never wanted to reveal in such an embarrassing manner. Anyway, a mutual friend of yours, Mimzy, has to set you two up to get talking again — except more than that winds up transpiring.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You convince your workaholic of a husband, Vincent, to go on a much-needed vacation. It’s been long since the two of you spent time together, but you also want to celebrate his 45th birthday. At first, he’s glad that he agreed. California is gorgeous. However, when he’s mistaken for your father during a night out due to your obvious age gap, he suddenly comes to regret his decision. In New York, he’s well-known. There, he wouldn’t have been forced to confront his mortality, no less in such a humiliating way. 45 years on this Earth — where did the time go? Vincent tries to brush it off, to swallow his newfound insecurity, though his body decides to give him a reality check in the form of back pain during sex.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Dry spells are frequent in your marriage with Alastor, and though you often find yourself craving his loving embrace, you’re okay with it. He made it clear to you that his libido was low since the beginning of your relationship. So, when Alastor returns home the night he’s supposed to be out hunting and pounces on you, startling you awake, you’re nothing short of shocked (and delighted). As he seizes your lips in a bruising kiss, you naturally assume he’s treating you to the fruits of his labor — a successful hunt. You have no idea that the harrowing truth behind the mind-blowing sex he’s about to treat you to is a celebration of a successful ritual, one that had only yielded feelings of inadequacy and disappointment many times before.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: How bold of you, to go after a man loved and adored by many, let alone as a woman in the 1950s. Systematic sexism is a bitch, but under a male pen name, you manage to get away with your ‘defamatory’ article about Vincent Whittman, the God of Entertainment — who doesn’t take kindly to your critique. In fact, Vincent decides to stage a meeting with you to ‘clear up any misunderstandings,’ only to find out that his critic is a young, fiery woman. You’re gorgeous. He can’t get rid of you. Still, Vincent also doesn’t want you smearing his good name, and since befriending you is out of the question, he purposely stages run-ins with you. Cue accusations of stalking and angry sex that winds up ruining your credibility as a journalist.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Carnal affairs, desires of the flesh — it wasn’t something Alastor cared for. The only time he ever bothered pleasing himself was when mating season rudely announced itself in the form of debilitating, teeth-gnashing symptoms that left him out of commission for an entire week. However, all of that changed when you, Vox’s daughter, took an interest in him. At first, Alastor didn’t entertain you. You’re of age, but you’re also the child of a good friend of his. He ignored you… until his friendship with Vox fell apart, then he decided to invite your feelings in. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and something about taking you under your father’s nose, who seizes every opportunity to slander him, is so euphoric to Alastor.
