Creepypasta - Ticci Toby x GN!reader |Dark romance|
A/N: Here I am a little late but still getting into this fandom too. At this point I'm certain that I have a problem with mentally unstable men. Anyway this story was inspired by this song.
The sun went down, and with it, the real world vanished entirely.
Y/N ran. They didn't know where, and they didn't know how long they had been sprinting, but the suffocating fog of the Slender Woods felt like it was actively swallowing them whole. Every breath burned in their lungs. They were still wearing their oversized, comfortable clothes, but the heavy fabric of the hoodie was soaked through with sweat and clinging to their frame, making them feel sluggish, heavy, and trapped.
Worse than the exhaustion was the agonizing, electric static prickling beneath their skin. The forest’s curse was actively rewriting them, pulling them deeper down into the dark, forcing that permanent, unwashable smile onto their face. They felt like a monster, but right now, they were being hunted like prey.
“Ten... Nine... Eight...”
The voice echoed from the canopy above, warped and playful, accompanied by a violent, rhythmic crack of a neck snapping.
Y/N pushed harder, their sneakers slipping on damp pine needles and rotting logs. They looked back for a fraction of a second, seeing nothing but the overlapping shadows of towering trees.
“Seven... Six... Five...”
Thwack! A heavy iron hatchet embedded itself into the trunk of a birch tree right next to Y/N’s head, spraying shards of bark across their cheek. Y/N let out a strangled gasp, veering sharply to the left, tumbling down a steep, muddy embankment. They crashed into the dirt at the bottom, their hands scraping against sharp rocks.
They scrambled to their feet, gasping for air, desperately pressing themselves into the hollow, dark space beneath a fallen, massive oak tree. They pulled their knees to their chest, trying to shrink into their oversized clothes, trying to disappear.
Above them, the heavy, deliberate crunch of combat boots echoed on the ridge.
"Let's take a look at this s-situation," Toby’s voice drifted down, low and taunting. He slowly walked the edge of the hill, dragging his second hatchet across the stones. Screeech. "I'm on a hunt for your l-location. And while you're waiting there... you're getting kind of s-scared."
Y/N squeezed their eyes shut, clapping their trembling, bloody hands over their mouth. But it was no use. The woods had gone entirely dead silent, turning the frantic thumping in Y/N’s chest into a homing beacon.
"But I fall in love with our l-little flirtation," Toby murmured, his voice suddenly sounding closer. Much closer.
Y/N opened their eyes in the pitch blackness of the hollow log. Through a small crack in the rotting wood, they saw the glow of yellow lenses. Toby was crouching right outside their hiding spot, his shoulders twitching violently to an erratic, broken beat. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring every second of the game.
"Let me make it c-clear, you see my dear... I'm the best at this g-game," Toby whispered, pressing his masked face closer to the crack. "'Cause I hear the fear. Thumping in the dark. The b-beating of your heart. And I can't s-stand our time apart."
Y/N’s breath hitched. Panic, cold and sharp, paralyzed their limbs.
"Carmen San Diego... I f-found you," Toby chuckled, a breathy, unhinged sound. "Didn't take long for your fear to get l-louder."
With a brutal, explosive swing, Toby brought his hatchet down, shattering the top of the hollow oak log. Splinters and dead wood exploded inward. Y/N shrieked, scrambling backward out of the ruined hiding spot, tumbling back-first into the damp leaves under the open moonlight.
Toby stood over them, blocking the sky. The wind started howling as the dark completely surrounded them. Toby raised the weapon, his chest heaving, his eyes blown wide behind his goggles. "Come out, come out, I k-know where you are. The pounding's so l-loud from the beat of your heart. It gave you away right from the start."
He brought the blade down.
But as the sharp metal sliced through the air, the metallic, iron scent of old blood on the axe-head hit Y/N’s nose.
The switch flipped.
The terror vanished, completely incinerated by a sudden, massive wave of euphoric adrenaline. The forest’s curse finally locked into place, merging with the deeply buried, manic dark side Y/N had suppressed their entire life. Y/N didn't dodge. Instead, they lunged forward from the dirt with impossible, blinding speed.
Y/N's hands snapped out, their fingers locking around Toby’s wrists with terrifying strength, halting the descending hatchet mere inches from their face.
Toby froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at Y/N—no longer a crying, panicked kid in a baggy hoodie, but a lethal predator with wide, unblinking eyes and a permanent, terrifying smile gleaming in the dark.
Instead of fighting back, Toby let out a loud, ecstatic bark of a laugh. He leaned into Y/N’s grip, his face inches from theirs, completely enthralled by the beautiful, violent monster the forest had just birthed.
"I... know... w-where... you... are," Toby whispered, a ecstatic, twisted grin tearing across his face.
The chase was over. The hunt was won. And Y/N was finally home.
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
Hell rang in the new year the same way it always did—too loud, too bright, and soaked in excess.
Vox leaned against the bar, pretending he was listening to the chatter around him while his screen flickered pink every time Alastor laughed.
That was the problem.
Alastor laughed—low, sharp, delighted—like the world was a joke only he understood. Every soundwave hit Vox straight through the casing.
“Five… four…”
The countdown began. Glasses clinked. Demons pressed closer together.
Alastor turned slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder, red eyes catching Vox in their glow. His smile sharpened.
“Enjoying the festivities?” he asked, voice honeyed with mockery.
Vox straightened instantly. “I— obviously. Great party. Your aesthetic is… very on-brand. Murder-chic.”
Alastor hummed. “You’ve been staring.”
“I have not.”
Alastor leaned in anyway, close enough that Vox’s audio spiked and his screen glitched. “You do realize your face lights up every time you lie, don’t you?”
Fireworks exploded outside the windows, bathing the room in neon reds and golds. Vox felt it then—that irrational, impossible pull. The way Alastor didn’t need to touch him to command his attention. The way control slipped just by standing too close.
“One—”
The room erupted.
Fireworks burst again, washing the room in red.
Vox was mid-rant—something about signal interference—when Alastor suddenly leaned in instead of walking away.
Too close.
“Al—?” Vox started.
Alastor’s hand came up, fingers tilting Vox’s screen just slightly, forcing eye contact. His smile widened, slow and knowing.
“You really do wear your heart on your frequency,” he murmured.
Before Vox could respond, Alastor dipped his head and dragged his tongue in a lazy, deliberate line along the edge of Vox’s screen, right where the glow was warmest—more mockery than affection, more threat than tenderness.
It was quick. Casual. Devastating.
Vox short-circuited.
His screen flashed violently pink, audio crackling. “WHAT— ALASTOR— THAT WAS—”
Alastor pulled back, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something amusing. “Teasing,” he said lightly. “It is the new year.”
Vox stared at him, absolutely ruined. “You can’t just—do that—!”
Alastor laughed, already turning away again. “Oh, but I can. And you’ll think about it all night.”
He vanished into the crowd, coat swaying, fireworks roaring.
Vox stood frozen, overheating, one single thought looping on repeat:
This demon is going to kill me.
Not violently.
Slowly.
“Happy New Year!” voices shouted as fireworks bloomed across the skyline.
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
Vincent hated the way Alastor smiled at other people.
Not the polite smile. Not the professional one.
The fond one.
The one he was wearing now.
“Dear,” Alastor said lightly, glancing up at him over his glasses, voice smooth and amused, “you’re the most jealous man I know.”
Vincent leaned closer, hands braced on the table, shadow falling over Alastor’s drink. His jaw tightened.
“You know other men?”
The words came out sharper than he intended. Immediately suspicious. Immediately territorial.
Alastor blinked once—then smiled wider.
“Oh?” he said, tilting his head. “Is that what this is about?”
Vincent’s eyes flicked to the side. Someone had laughed earlier. Someone had touched Alastor’s arm—brief, meaningless, probably accidental.
Still.
“I don’t like it,” Vincent muttered. “The way they look at you.”
Alastor’s expression softened just a fraction, teasing warmth bleeding through the smugness. He leaned forward instead, invading Vincent’s space right back.
“They can look all they want,” he said quietly. “I don’t go home with them.”
Vincent swallowed.
“…You shouldn’t let them touch you.”
Alastor raised a brow. “Oh?”
“That’s mine,” Vincent said before thinking—then froze.
The silence stretched.
Then Alastor laughed, low and delighted, eyes glinting. “Careful, darling,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound very possessive.”
A/N: Like I said many times before I'm not a great Smut writer and I'm sure you wanted that but I'm just BAD. But I did bring you something FUN
Vox had gone very quiet.
That alone was alarming.
Alastor noticed when they’d been standing in the kitchen far too long—Vox looming behind him, screen angled downward, eyes flickering with an intensity usually reserved for murder or broadcast ratings.
“…Why are you staring at me like that?” Alastor asked, not turning around yet. “If you’re about to say something unhinged, do warn me.”
Vox didn’t answer.
Alastor turned.
Vox was holding a sausage.
A long one.
Alastor stared. Then stared harder. “…Why,” he said slowly, “are you looking at me, then at that, like you’re doing math?”
Vox’s screen glitched. He looked genuinely thoughtful. “I was trying to estimate capacity.”
Dead silence.
“What.”
Vox, demon of technology and zero shame, lifted his head. “I wanted to know how much you could realistically handle before you started complaining.”
Alastor made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a short-circuited scream. “—EXCUSE ME?”
“You asked what I was doing,” Vox said, shrugging. “I answered.”
Alastor covered his face with one hand. “You cannot just say things like that.”
“You’re the one who keeps insisting humans are fragile,” Vox continued, tilting his head. “I was curious where the limit actually is.”
Alastor dropped his hand and pointed at him, flustered but grinning despite himself. “That is not scientific curiosity, Vincent, that is you being a menace.”
Vox leaned in a little too close, voice dropping. “You didn’t say I was wrong.”
Alastor’s ears went red instantly. “I am going to pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Shame,” Vox said, entirely too pleased. “I was about to suggest a practical experiment.”
Alastor grabbed the sausage and smacked Vox’s chest with it. “Out. Get out of my kitchen. Go haunt a server or something.”
Vox laughed—low, static-warm, utterly delighted—as he backed away.
“Worth it,” he said.
Alastor stood there, heart racing, muttering,
“I work with a demon. I work with a demon who thinks in measurements.”
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
They look almost polite afterward.
That’s what Vincent thinks every time — how neat it all seems once the noise is gone. The bodies are off-frame, the air still warm, copper hanging thick like incense. Blood streaks both of them in careless swipes, as if violence were something you could wear by accident.
Vincent’s smiling. Of course he is. Knife still in his hand, tilted just enough to catch the light. He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning back into Alastor’s chest until he feels him there.
Alastor is close. Too close for someone who claims not to need anyone.
His arm slips around Vincent’s middle, possessive without being gentle, fingers already stained red pressing into white fabric. He smells like smoke and old laughter and something hungry that never quite switches off.
“Messy,” Alastor murmurs near Vincent’s ear, voice velvet-soft and amused. “You really do enjoy getting carried away.”
Vincent laughs — breathy, pleased. “You didn’t stop me.”
“No,” Alastor says, smiling against his cheek. “Why would I?”
Vincent lifts his free hand, palm up, as if presenting a masterpiece. Blood drips slowly from his fingers. He watches it fall, fascinated, proud. He wants Alastor to look. He always wants Alastor to look.
And Alastor does.
He tilts Vincent’s chin with two fingers, forcing him to turn just enough to meet his gaze. Their faces are close — close enough that Vincent can feel Alastor’s breath, controlled and deliberate, unlike his own.
“You did beautifully,” Alastor says.
That’s all it takes.
Vincent’s smile goes soft around the edges, something almost fragile flickering there before he schools it back into something sharper. He presses his shoulder back into Alastor’s chest, wordless, needy in the quiet way he hates admitting.
Alastor’s arm tightens. Not comforting. Not cruel. Just claiming.
They stand like that for a moment — bloodied, breathing, balanced on the edge of something that isn’t quite affection but isn’t just violence either.
To anyone else, they’d look like monsters caught mid-grin.
A/n: You might ask what the fuck I'm writing about myself?! I am a very VERY weird person. Multiple people told me and also a very lonely one. So here are totally random stupid fun facts about little old me.
1. I have BPD (borderline personality disorder) I know what a great way to start right? And no I did not get verified by the internet with this It was said by an actual psychiatrist and I have documents from it too👍
2. I am a graphic designer. Cool right? I especially love making book covers but I sadly learned how to make logos too. (One of my re-designed book covers)
3. I also write poems. Like a lot. Sadly they aren't in english.
4. I'm also Hungarian 🇭🇺 and yes I'm always hungry. But that's just me🤤
5. I'm actually trying to make an actual book with my own dark romance story. Since that's the genre I love the most.
And yeah that's pretty much it if you have any questions I will answer you guys💕
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
The first time Vincent asked Alastor if they could “work together,” it wasn’t even a question.
He said it like a vow. Like he’d already carved their initials into something bleeding.
Alastor noticed.
Of course he did.
The man watched everything the way a wolf watches a shaking rabbit — with amusement, hunger, and just enough restraint to stretch the moment out.
It started on a fog-choked street, bodies cooling behind a boarded-up butcher’s shop. Vincent had done the heavy lifting — cracked skulls, dragged corpses, grinning the entire time like violence was oxygen.
Alastor arrived late.
Because he always arrived late.
Because he liked watching Vincent twitch with anticipation.
“You came,” Vincent purred, already stepping too close, red flooding his cheeks like he was one compliment away from collapsing.
“Mm. I was curious,” Alastor replied, wiping his gloves with a grace that made the murder scene look like a ballroom. “You said you had something to show me.”
Vincent beamed, desperate and bright.
“This. All of this. I want— I want to do this with you. Always. You’re— you’re perfect, Al.”
Alastor let the nickname slide only because he found it pathetic in a charming way.
Vincent would’ve done anything if Alastor asked. Kill, die, kneel — didn’t matter.
And Alastor… Alastor saw that.
He stepped forward, his shadow swallowing Vincent’s. A single gloved finger hooked under Vincent’s chin and lifted it, slow and deliberate.
“You’re very eager,” he murmured.
Vincent practically melted. “I want to be useful to you.”
Ah.
There it was — the weakness. And Alastor’s favorite kind: devotion disguised as capability.
“You already are,” Alastor said, smiling wide enough to make Vincent’s heart stutter. “But if we’re to work together… I’ll need you to follow instructions.”
“Anything.”
Alastor’s smile sharpened.
“Good boy.”
Vincent’s breath hitched — embarrassingly loud. And that was when Alastor understood he had found the perfect tool.
Not just a partner.
Not just a killer.
A man who would tear out his own heartbeat if Alastor asked sweetly enough.
From that night on, Alastor used it.
He’d lean in close after a kill, whisper something soft and poisonous into Vincent’s ear — a plan, a command, a suggestion — and Vincent would crumble for it. Not because he feared Alastor.
Because he adored him.
Vincent would walk into danger just to impress him.
Take risks just to make Alastor proud.
Smile through blood because Alastor happened to look in his direction.
And Alastor?
He would watch Vincent’s obsession bloom like a bruise.
He would feed it scraps — a touch, a compliment, a look — just enough to keep Vincent orbiting him like a dog begging for affection.
It was toxic.
It was uneven.
It was perfect.
And one night, after another flawless kill performed exactly how Alastor liked it, Vincent turned to him with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Did I do good?”
Alastor stepped close, letting his voice dip just enough to make Vincent’s knees go weak.
“You did wonderfully,” he murmured. “I knew you’d be useful to me.”
Vincent flushed so deeply it looked feverish.
And Alastor smiled — pleased, entertained, and fully aware he’d just tightened the leash a little more.
They weren’t lovers.
Not yet.
But Vincent was falling.
And Alastor?
He was letting him.
Slowly.
Cruelly.
Deliciously.
Because a lovesick monster is far more predictable than a partner.
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
The church had been abandoned for decades.
The roof sagged in the middle, moonlight shining through it like God had forgotten to close the blinds. Dust hung in the air, thick as fog, and the broken stained-glass windows cast fractured colors over the cracked stone floor.
It was perfect.
Vincent pushed open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, dragging a half-rotting corpse behind him by the ankles.
“Last guest,” he called back. “Should’ve cleaned himself up before attending our big day.”
Alastor laughed softly, the sound echoing off the ruined walls like a music box losing its last wind.
He stood near the altar, adjusting the deep red sleeve of his suit — delicate, old-fashioned, and stolen from three different wardrobes. Somehow he had made it elegant.
“Darling,” he said, “he looks better than half the living people you’ve worked with.”
Vincent smirked and wiped his hands on his suit pants.
Blue suit, crisp shirt, blood on the cuffs because of course there was. He looked like a groom who had fought his way through hell to get here.
He kind of had.
He walked down the aisle, past the rows of dead bodies they had arranged earlier — some propped upright on pews, some slumped, some with missing limbs they’d used as candle holders. The flickering candlelight made the corpses look like they were watching.
Vincent reached the altar and stopped.
His breath left him for a moment.
Alastor in the suit was…
beautiful.
Not soft — never soft — but sharp, eerie, mesmerizing. The suit clung to him like shadows.
Vincent swallowed.
“You look like sin,” he said.
“That’s the idea,” Alastor murmured, pleased.
They faced each other, surrounded by rotting witnesses, with a skeleton propped behind the altar to serve as their priest.
Alastor stepped closer.
“Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready since the moment I met you,” Vincent said. “Just didn’t know it.”
Alastor’s smile softened — just for him, just today.
“You’re being sentimental.”
“Occasionally. Don’t get used to it.”
He pulled a ring from his pocket — silver, slightly dented, stolen from a jewelry store that no longer existed after Vincent visited it.
Alastor drew a matching one from the pocket of his suit.
There were no vows.
They were not the vow type.
They didn’t need promises they’d tear apart later.
Instead, Vincent took Alastor’s hand — cold, elegant — and slid the ring onto his finger.
Alastor inhaled slowly, like it burned in the best way.
Then Alastor took Vincent’s hand, rough and warm, and pushed the ring onto him with a deliberate, slow glide that made Vincent shiver.
“Married,” Alastor said softly.
“Finally,” Vincent answered.
The skeleton priest cracked in half and collapsed at their feet.
Vincent laughed. Alastor rolled his eyes.
“Even the dead can’t handle us,” Vincent said.
Alastor leaned in, resting his forehead against Vincent’s.
“Then it’s a good thing,” he whispered, “that the living never mattered.”
Vincent cupped Alastor’s face, pulling him into a slow, hungry kiss — not rushed, not violent, just deep and claiming.
The candles flickered wildly.
One corpse fell off a pew with a thud.
Neither of them cared.
They stood there in the hollow remains of a place meant for holy things, surrounded by death, wrapped in blood and devotion.
Husband.
And husband.
No one alive would ever know.
And both of them preferred it that way.
---
Special thanks to the person who gave me the idea for the story. Not exactly what they ask for but hey that's just me. @naturalbornchaotic
So I've been writing for quite sometime and you guys seems to really love radiostatic but I'm running out of ideas. Yes even I'm running out of ideas. So I need your help guys. What kind of stuff should I write?
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
Rain still clung to their clothes when they stepped out of the alley, the dim streetlight washing their silhouettes in a soft gold glow. The two men looked like paintings splashed with red—abstract, chaotic, beautiful in a way only they could appreciate.
Alastor wiped a finger slowly across his jawline, gathering a thin streak of blood like a sommelier inspecting wine. He hummed, low and pleased.
“Mm~ Vincent… I do believe this little adventure has made me positively famished.”
Vincent, still panting a bit from the thrill of it all, ran a hand down his own face, smearing crimson down his jaw and collar. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide—not from fear, but from something else entirely.
“Oh yeah… hungry,” he echoed, though his voice sounded nothing like Alastor’s hunger.
His was… different.
Needier.
Focused entirely on the man beside him.
Alastor didn’t even need to look to know what kind of hunger Vincent meant. A sly smile curled across his mouth.
“Oh, Vincent,” he sighed playfully. “Really? Again?”
He poked the other man’s cheek with his clean hand, smearing a little more red across Vincent’s skin.
“You’re insatiable, darling.”
Vincent didn’t bother hiding it. He leaned into Alastor’s touch like a starved creature, eyes heavy and glassy with want.
“You’re talking,” Vincent muttered, “while smelling like that. Of course I’m hungry.”
Alastor laughed—a warm, delighted laugh that seemed entirely too soft considering what they’d just done. He stretched, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, the aftermath of violence settling in his bones like a comforting melody.
“Let me guess,” Alastor said, licking the remaining blood delicately off his fingers.
“You want me to ‘feed’ you.”
Vincent shivered.
Alastor shook his head fondly and slipped an arm around Vincent’s waist, pulling him close as they began to walk away from the scene, leaving the alley and its secrets behind.
“Well,” he murmured, voice dropping into that smooth, teasing cadence Vincent adored,
“lucky for you, sweetheart… I’m full of generosity tonight.”
Vincent grinned, sharp and breathless, relaxing into Alastor’s hold as if violence had been nothing more than an appetizer.
“And lucky for you,” Vincent whispered back,
“I’m not done being hungry.”
Alastor chuckled again, kissing his temple with unsettling tenderness.
“Come along then, my love,” he purred.
“Let’s get you… properly fed.”
The two walked off into the night—bloody, satisfied, hungry for each other in the only way they understood.
A/N: Just the usual and as always the art is not mine the link of the picture will be at the end of the story
Vox had sworn he was only stopping by for a drink.
Just one.
Just to see if Alastor might show up tonight.
And then, like clockwork, the Radio Demon swept into the bar, red coat glowing under the chandelier, smile wide and sharp but eyes softer than usual — unfocused, even.
Vox froze on his barstool, fingers tightening around his glass.
“Oh no,” he whispered to himself.
“...he’s drunk.”
Alastor spotted him instantly. As if tuned to Vox’s frequency.
His grin widened.
“𝘝𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵~!” Alastor sang, voice warm and wobbly. “There you are, mon ami! I thought I heard static!”
Vox nearly rebooted on the spot.
Alastor swayed toward him, placing a hand on Vox’s shoulder — too warm, too close, too intentional for a sober Alastor.
Vox’s screen flickered blue, then pink, then static.
“A–Al, you’re— you’re drunk.”
“Drunk?” Alastor gasped dramatically. “Nonsense! I am… perfectly…”
He squinted at Vox’s face.
“…you have very pretty pixels.”
Vox made a strangled modem noise.
Before he could recover, Alastor tugged him by the tie.
“Dance with me.”
Vox’s voice cracked. “W-WHAT?!”
“Mmhm.” Alastor hummed, guiding him toward the small open floor where a slow violin piece played. “Come now, Vincent… indulge me.”
It wasn’t a request.
Vox followed — because of course he did — and Alastor slid a hand around his waist. Vox’s internal fans nearly exploded.
“Is… is this okay?” Vox whispered, trying not to stutter.
Alastor rested his head briefly against Vox’s chest — the briefest, softest touch — then looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“If it weren’t,” he murmured, voice low and unusually honest, “you would not be here, chéri.”
Vox’s screen went full neon pink.
They swayed together, awkward at first — Vox too stiff, Alastor too loose — but gradually falling into rhythm. Alastor’s fingers traced idle circles against Vox’s hip. His head tilted up lazily.
“You’re warm,” Alastor murmured. “Like a radio freshly tuned.”
“You’re… holding onto me,” Vox breathed.
“I know,” Alastor admitted, leaning in closer. “Only because I trust you.”
Vox’s code nearly crashed.
He swallowed hard, voice trembling.
“Al… you’re going to forget you said that.”
Alastor chuckled, breath ghosting Vox’s neck.
“Perhaps. But you won’t.”
Vox held him tighter.
“No,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
And for the rest of the song, they danced — one too drunk to hide how soft he could be, and one too in love to pretend he didn’t adore every second of it.
A/N: Yeah I'm not stopping. As usual link at the end.
Vincent’s hands were still trembling — not from fear, but from excitement. Blood speckled his shirt, his knuckles, even the corner of his cheek where a stray drop had flicked up.
He didn’t notice any of it.
All he could focus on was Alastor standing infront him, one hand cupping Vincent’s jaw with that slow, confident tenderness that always made his circuits feel like they were overheating.
“You are doing it great, sweetheart,” Alastor murmured against his ear, voice smooth like warm radio static. Praise wrapped in velvet. Encouragement disguised as sin.
Vincent’s breath caught — he lived for that tone.
He leaned into Alastor’s touch, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the older man’s thumb brushed over a smear of blood on his cheek.
Vincent’s grin widened, sharp and boyish all at once.
“Thank you, honey,” he whispered, blue and green eyes glowing a little brighter, pride rolling through him like electricity.
The knife in Alastor’s hand gleamed, freshly used but steady, held with elegance only he could make look romantic. Vincent’s own hands rested on Alastor’s waist — messy, trembling, desperate for approval, desperate for him.
Alastor guided Vincent’s wrist gently, lining up the blade again, his voice soft and coaxing:
“Just like that, darling… slow and deliberate. There’s an art to this.”
Vincent shivered — not at the gore, but at the attention.
At Alastor choosing to touch him, to guide him, to let him be part of this intimate violence.
The room smelled like copper and adrenaline.
Vincent had never felt more loved.
Alastor kissed the side of his neck — light, approving, almost domestic.
“Good boy,” he murmured.
Vincent practically melted, breath hitching as he leaned further into Alastor’s chest, hands gripping him tighter.
He whispered with that shaky devotion only Vincent could have:
“Anything for you, Alastor… anything you want.”
Alastor smiled — a soft, wicked, unmistakably pleased thing — and tilted Vincent’s chin up to kiss him, uncaring that their lips smeared together with red.
“Excellent,” he purred.
“Then let’s finish what we started.”
And for Vincent, nothing had ever felt more like home.
A/N: This was inspired by this little picture here. The link will be at the end of the story. (And yes I'm doing a marathon where I make stories from pictures sorry)
Vincent had never looked so out of place in a glittering blue suit, but somehow he made it work — of course he did.
Anything looked good on him when it was for Alastor.
The backstage lights were low, dust floating in the air like tiny ghosts.
Alastor stood in front of him, red vest sharp as a razor, his expression unreadable as always — calm, elegant, tilted slightly like he was listening to a private melody only he could hear.
Vincent sank to one knee, breath unsteady, hands trembling on Alastor’s waist.
Not because he was scared.
Because he loved this too much.
“Look at you,” Alastor murmured, voice silky and distant. “A conductor of a media empire, kneeling on a filthy backstage floor. Whatever for?”
Vincent swallowed hard, eyes bright and desperate.
“For you,” he breathed. “You know damn well it’s for you.”
Alastor hummed, amused.
“Flattery. You always go for the grand gesture.”
He cupped Vincent’s jaw — gentle, precise — almost clinical in the way he studied him.
Vincent leaned into the touch like it was oxygen.
“You taught me everything,” Vincent said quietly. “How to speak for a crowd. How to keep my voice steady. How to… cut someone apart without ruining my shirt.”
Alastor chuckled.
“Ah, that lesson. You were quite enthusiastic.”
“You held my hands through the whole thing.” Vincent’s voice cracked on the edges. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Alastor’s thumb brushed his lower lip — not affectionate, not tender, but claiming.
“I didn’t teach you to kneel,” Alastor replied.
“But you seem to have learned that all on your own.”
Vincent’s fingers tightened on his waist.
“Tell me to stand,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop wanting you this much. I will. I’ll do anything you say.”
Alastor leaned closer, shadows kissing the sharp line of his smile.
“My dear Vincent,” he murmured,
“If I wanted you to stop…”
His fingers slid into Vincent’s curls, tugging just enough to make him gasp.
“…you wouldn’t be on your knees.”
Vincent’s breath hitched.
“You’re mine,” Alastor said softly, “whether you stand or kneel.”
Vincent reached for him again — not to pull, but to hold, to anchor.
“I know,” he whispered, fevered. “I’ve always been.”
And Alastor, for just a moment, allowed himself a real smile.
A/N: This was inspired by this little picture here. The link will be at the end of the story.
The basement smelled like bleach and cigarette smoke — an odd combination that somehow suited the two men standing at the center of the room.
Alastor worked with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, every movement precise, elegant, almost surgical. Not a hair out of place. Not a shake, not a hesitation. He could have been demonstrating how to carve a roast.
Vincent, on the other hand, looked like a kid who had just been handed the remote control to God.
Messy grin. Wide eyes. Way too excited for someone who had never done this before.
“Careful, Vincent,” Alastor hummed, voice smooth as velvet.
“We can’t be sloppy. Technique matters… a great deal.”
Vincent nodded — too fast, too eager.
“Yes, sir,” he said, because he liked the way Alastor reacted to that.
Alastor’s lips twitched into a dangerous smile.
Vincent followed Alastor’s motions, imitating his posture, the careful angle of his hands. He wasn’t nearly as graceful — the table ended up splattered far more than necessary — but the concentration on his face made Alastor’s chest warm in a way he didn’t usually allow.
“This is… disgusting,” Vincent muttered, breathless.
A beat.
“…and kinda hot?”
Alastor raised a brow, calm as a saint, amused as a devil.
“Is it now?”
Vincent swallowed.
Hard.
“I like when you teach me,” he admitted. “Makes me feel like I’m actually good at this.”
Alastor stepped behind him, close enough that Vincent felt the heat of him through his shirt. His voice dipped lower, a murmur just for him:
“You’re doing wonderfully, dear boy.
Messy… but wonderfully.”
Vincent’s pulse stuttered.
“And in time,” Alastor continued, placing a guiding hand over Vincent’s, “you’ll be as skilled as I am.”
Vincent’s grin sharpened — manic, delighted, a little lovesick.
“Just— just keep showing me, Alastor. I’ll learn anything you want.”
Alastor’s eyes glinted with something dangerous and affectionate all at once.
