A/n: I said I would write for Lackadaisy!!! So here is one fic right now.
I was also very tempted to use the humanized version of him too cause I looove his human looks.
The man barely had time to realize something was wrong before he was slammed back against the brick wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
One moment he had been stepping out into the alley behind the club, still full of false confidence and cheap cologne, and the next there was a hand like iron twisted in the front of his shirt and the cold, unmistakable press of a gun shoved so firmly into his gut that his entire body locked in panic.
Mordecai Heller stood in front of him with the kind of terrible stillness that made screaming seem like a very stupid idea.
A few strands of short hair drooped forward at the top of his head, casting a small shadow across his brow as he leaned just slightly closer, the gun never wavering.
His suit was immaculate, tailored dark fabric stretched clean across his shoulders, tie perfectly straight despite the fact that he was currently threatening to ventilate someone’s organs.
The man against the wall swallowed hard.Their was not a hint of strain in his expression.
That was the worst part.
He did not look angry in the way most men did. There was no shouting. No wild-eyed rage. No dramatic snarling. Mordecai’s face remained composed, precise, almost bored, as though this entire situation were an unpleasant but necessary errand he had been forced to fit into an already busy evening.
The only thing that betrayed him at all was his eyes.They were flat and cold and entirely devoid of mercy.
“It has come to my attention,” Mordecai said, his voice smooth and clipped as the frightened man trembled against the wall, “that you harassed my wife.”
Behind him, just a few feet away, you stood with a bright, utterly delighted smile on your face.
You gave the man a cheerful little wave. “Hi.” Your hands clasped in front of you.
The poor fool looked at you as if appealing for help, which was almost funny considering the fact that you were very clearly not the one he should have been counting on for mercy.
You only beamed harder.
Mordecai noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and pressed the gun in a little deeper, enough to pull a choked gasp from the man pinned beneath him.
His tone did not change.
“Look.At.Me,” he said.
The man’s head snapped back toward him immediately.
Good choice, smart desicion.
Mordecai tilted his head just slightly, studying him with clinical distaste, the way one might inspect something sticky on the bottom of an expensive shoe.
“Apologize,” he said. “I do hate to waste my bullets on you.”
"W...what?" The man croaked out.
The alley went dead quiet.
Not the soft, peaceful kind of quiet. The suffocating sort. The kind that made every small sound feel enormous. The distant jazz from the club. The murmur of voices from the street beyond. The man’s own breathing, ragged and quick. Even the tiny rustle of your skirt as you shifted your weight sounded sharp in the stillness.
“I...I didn’t know—” the man stammered.
Mordecai’s expression hardened by a fraction.
That fraction was enough to feel like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
“No,” he said softly, “you simply assumed there would be no consequences. That was careless.”
The man swallowed so hard it looked painful.
You stepped a little closer, peeking around Mordecai’s shoulder with open, almost sunny curiosity. “You did grab at me,” you reminded him sweetly. “And then you said something very rude and very disgusting.”
“I was drunk,” he blurted, as if that would somehow save him.
Mordecai’s stare turned even more cutting, if such a thing was possible. “That,” he said, “is not an apology...that is not even a good enough excuse...you put your hands on her and she said No but you kept going back."
The click of the gun singled the safety coming off as Mordecai's gaze stayed steady, then gun remained fixed at the man’s stomach. Mordecai did not fidget. Did not blink. Did not need to raise his voice. He had the terrifying sort of control that made violence feel not like a possibility, but like a scheduled appointment.
"I will not ask again...apologize."
The man’s face had gone pale and damp with sweat. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, words tumbling over themselves. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean nothing by it, I swear, I shouldn’t have touched you, I shouldn’t have said what I said—”
Mordecai let the apology run on for another second before cutting him off with a curt, “To my wife. Properly.”
Your smile turned almost unbearably bright.
The man looked at you with the desperate eyes of someone who had become acutely aware that his continued breathing depended entirely upon your standards.
“I am deeply sorry, ma’am,” he said, voice shaking so badly it nearly cracked. “I was disrespectful. It won’t happen again.”
You considered him for a long, thoughtful moment, hands clasped behind your back as if this were all part of some charming social call rather than a back-alley near execution.
Then you nodded. “Better.”
The relief that crossed his face lasted less than a second, because Mordecai had not moved.
Had not lowered the gun.
Had not released his shirt.
“Now,” Mordecai said, calm as ever, “you are going to leave. You are going to stay away from her, from this club, and from every place you suspect she might be. You are not going to send flowers. You are not going to send notes. You are not going to attempt some half-formed performance of remorse in hopes of easing your conscience...if you see her in a shop you will leave. If you see her walking down the street you will flee in the other direction..."
His grip tightened just enough to wrinkle fabric.
“If I so much as hear your name again in connection with hers, I will conclude you have chosen not to value your life.”
The man nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
Mordecai’s mouth flattened.
“I am not interested in being called sir.”
Then, at last, he stepped back.
The man nearly collapsed from the force of his own relief, scrambling away from the wall and clutching at his shirt with wide, disbelieving eyes. He looked between the two of you one final time, as if trying to understand how a woman smiling that sweetly could belong to something as dangerous as the man beside her.
You lifted your hand and waved again. “Bye.”
He ran.
Not walked. Not a jog.
Ran.
His footsteps disappeared down the alley so fast it was almost insulting.
For a moment, Mordecai simply stood there, still holding the gun loosely at his side, his posture straight and composed, gaze lingering in the direction the man had fled. Only when he was fully satisfied the idiot was truly gone did he turn toward you.
Your face lit up. “That,” you said, delighted, “was incredibly attractive.”
Mordecai stared at you.Then he exhaled once through his nose, the smallest crack in his perfectly arranged composure.
“You are taking entirely the wrong lesson from this.”
You moved close without hesitation, slipping into his space like you belonged there though to be fair you did. Your fingers smoothed the front of his tie where it had shifted ever so slightly in the scuffle.
“I don’t think so,” you said lightly. “I think the lesson is that my husband is terrifying, devoted, and has excellent aim.”
His eyes dropped to your face. Some of the ice in them thawed, just barely. “You are making a joke.”
“A little one.”
“You might have been hurt.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“That is not the point.”
You softened then, reaching up to touch his cheek, your thumb brushing the sharp line of his face. Under your hand, he went very still again but this was a different stillness now. Not violent. Not deadly. Just Mordecai, containing far more feeling than he ever liked to show.
“I know,” you said quietly. “Thank you.”
Something in his expression shifted.
Very subtle but it was there.
His hand came up at last to settle at your waist, firm and possessive, drawing you just a little closer. The gun stayed pointed safely toward the ground, forgotten for the moment in favor of you.
“I mean it,” he said. “You do not go anywhere alone if that man is still in this city.”
You smiled up at him, warm and unbothered in the face of all that cold precision. “Mordecai.”
“Yes.”
“He looked like he was going to cry.”
“He should have.”
That made you laugh, bright and sweet and entirely at odds with the menace that had filled the alley only moments ago.
Mordecai looked down at you as though your laughter was a baffling but not unwelcome phenomenon. Then he leaned in just enough for his forehead to nearly brush yours, voice low and dry.
“If you are pleased with me,” he murmured, “perhaps next time someone offends you, you might allow me to handle it before you smile at them like that. It encourages very poor decision-making.”
Your grin widened. “So you were jealous and homicidal.”
“I was efficient.”
“You pinned him to a wall."
“Yes.”
“With a gun in his stomach.”
His face remained perfectly straight. “It got the point across.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him, soft and quick and full of affection that no threat in the world could make less tender. For one brief second he resisted only out of habit, rigid with surprise at the public affection.
Then his free hand slid to the small of your back and kept you there for another breath longer than necessary.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was quieter.
“Come along, darling.”
You slipped your arm through his as if the two of you had merely stepped out for air instead of intimidation and probable emotional ruin.
As he guided you back toward the club, you glanced up at him with open adoration.
“My Husband,” you repeated, pleased.
Mordecai adjusted his cuff with his usual immaculate calm, though he cleared out his throat as he kept you close to his side.
“Yes,” he said.
And somehow that single word sounded far more dangerous than the gun had.
Warning:possessiveness, contained jealousy, charm and dangers,CANNIBALISM
(p1)
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He loves you, you know that. But sometimes he's very… obsessive and clingy in private.
In public, you're the most admired couple. He's the most charismatic and charming radio host in New Orleans. You're the center of his attention at every social event; he always has your hand or arm, radiating an image of unwavering devotion. No one could ever suspect the evil behind that smile.
If you live together, you have to get used to the fact that there are bags of Alastor's special meat in the refrigerator. Don't ask or eat it unless you know what it is.
He doesn't like dogs, not furry animals, only dogs. He's had a phobia since he was a child.
Alastor doesn't need much sleep, but you do. He often sits in the armchair in his study, listening to soft radio music, just watching you. If you wake up and find him looking at you with that calm smile and those steady red eyes, there's no malice, just control. He's simply making sure you're still there, safe, and within his orbit. His most intimate touch might be a simple, possessive adjustment of the blanket around your shoulders.
He likes to dance jazz. He'll always put on a song on the record player at random moments and grab you by the waist to start dancing.
If you don't know how to dance, he'll teach you. He's always patient with you. "My love, relax, just focus on me, not your feet." "It's just that I don't want to step on you, Al."
He would never force you to participate in his "hobbies," but you know it. You don't just suspect it, you know it. The key to your relationship is that it's never spoken of. Your silence is your complicity, and your complicity is your ultimate show of loyalty. In return, he treats you like a queen, a precious jewel that must be protected.
Every Sunday you accompany him to his mother's grave to leave flowers; it's something he considers very important. "She would have loved you if she had known you."
He keeps a photo of you two embracing in his pocket watch.
The only physical contact Alastor allows others to have with you is a brief handshake. If a man dares to be too familiar, Alastor pulls you close with a firm hand on your waist, and his smile becomes painfully strained. Then, he'll tell the other gentleman, in a low, friendly voice, that his radio station has been receiving reports of static in his neighborhood and that maybe he should go "check his lines." It's a veiled threat, so polite that only you and he understand it.
You tease him a lot for being half-blind; he's not stupid, and you know it. He just lets it go until he gets his revenge.
Prank war: he's a cheeky rascal, and you can keep up with him. After all, your angry face is enough for him to follow with a mocking smile.
Married life: as I said before, he's a proud man. And even more so after marriage; that's where the prank war began.
It depends on your physique. But he likes to hold you bridal-style. He's strong; he has to carry all kinds of corpses, so don't worry, he can handle anything.
You scolded him for hiding things from you. When you went into his cabin to look for him because you were worried he hadn't come home, well… you saw the corpses and all the books and Voodoo symbols. "Now I'm really going to kill him," you told yourself.
Imagine you're caught in a fit of madness in the rain and you go out to play in the downpour. You get sick and he takes care of you while scolding you.
He's earned his reputation and is invited to grand galas where you're his date.
His physical affection is often firm, almost suffocating. His arms around you are less a hug and more a fence. If you ask him to let go at any point, he will, but the shadow of his large body will loom over you until you curl up again. The message is clear: You're free to go, but your place is here, with me.
NSFW:
He likes to bite you, you know, he's a cannibal. He always sits and tastes your flesh. But he only lets you bite and taste your blood when you have sex.
He's very good with his tongue; he knows how to savor, devour, and appreciate his food. It's a true elixir for him to have you with your legs open, just for him.
He's very vocal, a chatterbox, and never shuts up. When he's on top and doing all the work, he grunts a lot. But if you're on top, he moans and pants.
He's good with aftercare, always attentive to your needs.
His biggest sexual fantasy is chasing you through the woods and then fucking you against a tree. His second fantasy is that after he kills someone, you ride him, telling him what a good job he did.
After a quickie, he starts smoking. Listen, he can't handle much sex no matter how much you want him to (actually, he can, he has great stamina, but he's not the biggest fan of sex).
Once or twice you went to his radio station to give him a blowjob while he talked about how much he hates his racist and classist bosses. "Th-those assholes keep underestimating me and a-ah~, Y/n slower" while you're gagging on his cock.
Notes: kinda long chapter but i promise it's worth it😭
Part 1| Part 2| Part 3
Chapter Three
Living with Vincent and Alastor happened so quietly that, one day, you realized you could no longer remember when it became normal.
The apartment was cozy in a way you hadn’t expected—warm wood floors, soft lighting, shelves crowded with books and old records, and windows that caught the morning sun just right.
Mornings became your favourite.
You would wake to the low hum of the radio and the smell of something rich and comforting drifting from the kitchen. Alastor was always up first. Always immaculate, sleeves rolled just enough to be unfair, humming to himself as he cooked—he took pride in it, and it showed.
“Good morning, my dear,” he’d say brightly when you wandered in, hair still messy, eyes half-lidded. “Sit, sit—breakfast waits for no one.”
Vincent, meanwhile, claimed the bedroom as his territory. He helped you get ready with an ease that felt almost intimate in its normalcy—handing you your jacket, fixing a crooked collar, straightening your necklace with careful fingers that lingered a second longer than necessary.
That night, though…
*
Adam sat alone in his office with the lights off and the blinds half-drawn. A desk lamp cast a harsh yellow circle over scattered case files, crime scene photos, and cold coffee rings. The bottle in his hand wasn’t his first of the evening, and it wouldn’t be the last.
He stared at the board on the wall—photos of victims, timelines, red string that seemed more like mockery than progress.
He hated unsolved cases.
Something was wrong with this town. And he was going to find it.
The door burst open without a knock.
Lute strode in, boots sharp against the tile, jaw tight with fury. She slammed a stack of files onto his desk so hard the lamp rattled.
“Found something, danger tits?” Adam muttered dryly, not looking up as he took another swig.
“Nothing,” she snapped. “Absolutely nothing.”
Lute leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, eyes blazing. “I’m telling you,” she said, voice low with venom, “that bitch director is hiding something.”
Adam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “If only we could prove it,” he muttered.
Lute went quiet. Too quiet. Adam glanced up again and saw it. That look in her eyes. Sharp and scheming.
“Oh no,” he said slowly. “What are you thinking?”
A grin spread across her face. “What if we don’t need proof?”
Adam raised a brow.
“We bluff,” she said. “We catch her off guard. Show up when she’s not expecting it. Act like we already found something. People get sloppy when they think the game’s up.” Her smile widened. “She already looked on edge the last time we saw her.”
A slow, wolfish grin pulled at Adam’s mouth as he reached for his coat. “Good job,” he said. “Let’s go tonight.”
The bottle stayed behind on the desk.
The guns did not.
_________________________
You woke with a sharp inhale, heart racing for a reason you couldn’t place.
The bed was cold.
A frown tugged at your lips. Where had they gone? It was the middle of the night.
You slipped out of bed, wrapping a soft feather robe around yourself, tying it over your nightclothes.
You padded down the stairs, each step careful, the floor cool beneath your feet. The entrance hall below was painted in silver moonlight spilling through the window, shadows long and unmoving.
Then—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
You gasped, hand flying to your chest.
Someone was pounding on the door. Not knocking.
Your heart thrashed against your ribs. You forced yourself to breathe.
Relax. You’re not in a horror film, you told yourself. And the only killers you know are madly in love with you.
You moved forward slowly. “Al?” you called softly. “Vinny? Is that you?”
The banging got louder. You swallowed and reached the door, fingers trembling only slightly as you unlocked it and pulled it open—
—and were nearly shoved backward as Adam and Lute barged inside.
You stumbled, clutching your robe tighter around yourself. “What is the meaning of this?!” you snapped, shock giving way to anger. “Officers, you cannot just barge into a woman’s home like this!”
Adam shut the door behind him with his foot, eyes scanning the apartment like a predator scenting blood. “Oh, we can,” he said. “If we have definite proof.”
“What?” The word slipped out before you could stop it. A flicker of surprise crossed your face — small, but Lute caught it.
“Tell me, madam,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm as she clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing your living room like she owned it. “Why did you move here so suddenly?”
You stiffened. “I don’t see why—”
“It’s fifteen minutes farther from your media house than your old place,” Adam cut in. "We also managed to find that this property was in name of...three people. Like, damn...two men? I respect the hustle."
You glared at him but said nothing.
Lute let out a low, mocking chuckle. “Maybe if spreading your legs like a harlot gets someone a place like this…” She shrugged. “I totally understand.”
Adam laughed. “Great blackmail material. Just think of your reputation!”
Your jaw clenched so tight it hurt. You took one slow breath. When you spoke, your voice was calm. “It seems,” you said evenly, “that I need to schedule a segment on how the police department of this city is so incompetent they resort to harassing citizens without just cause.”
Adam’s eyes hardened. “Careful.”
“No,” you replied quietly. “You be careful.”
Adam tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for a crack to form. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “We have definite proof. So you can confess, and we’ll let you go quietly… or get ready to spend the night in a cell with the murderers.”
You froze, your thoughts slammed to a halt.
Murderers.
Plural.
Your pulse stumbled.
Did he know?
No. No, that couldn’t be it. The reports had always suggested multiple suspects. Different methods. Law enforcement had already assumed more than one killer was operating.
Adam’s grip tightened around your wrist without warning. Pain flared sharp and sudden, enough to wrench you fully back into the moment.
“I guess you’ve made your choice,” he said, satisfaction curling his mouth. “A night in the cells it is.”
“You cannot—” you began, voice strained.
“Do you want me to drag you there, bitch—”
Something shifted at the edge of your vision.
Then—
CRASH.
The sound was thunderous, violent enough to shake the house. Al's grand piano came hurtling down the staircase, tearing free from its place as if guided by unseen hands. It smashed into Lute with catastrophic force, splintering wood and filling the entrance hall with dust and debris.
Adam released you instantly, spinning toward her. “Lute!”
A sharp, strangled sound tore from his throat. You watched in frozen disbelief as his body stiffened, then crumpled forward, collapsing onto the floor beside his deputy. The dust hung in the air, thick and choking, the echoes of impact still ringing in your ears.
Lute screamed again—this time in pure terror.
Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it could be heard.
As the haze slowly cleared, you saw her. Standing just beyond Adam’s fallen body, posture neat and composed, apron unwrinkled despite the carnage—
The maid. The one Alastor so often called to tend the house.
“Niffty?” you gasped, the name tumbling from your lips in disbelief. “What did you—”
She turned toward you, eyes wide and bright, smile far too cheerful for the scene unfolding around her. “Oh!” she said brightly. “Alastor told me to attack if you were ever in danger!”
“It looks like you had fun while we were gone.” Alastor’s voice drifted in from the doorway, smooth and amused, though he were commenting on a dinner party rather than the carnage strewn across the entrance hall.
The moment you heard him, something inside you broke loose.
You ran towards him. Your arms wrapped around him with desperate force, fingers clutching at his coat as if letting go might cause the world to tilt apart entirely. He caught you instantly, hands coming around you with a gentleness that felt almost out of place against the bloodied floor.
“Oh, ma chérie,” he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head. “I’m sorry we left you alone.”
Your breath shuddered as you pressed your face into his chest.
“I was called in for a favour by Mimzy,” he continued lightly, “Rather urgent. And I took Vincent along — it was a two-person job.”
Over your shoulder, Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Good job, dear,” he said to Niffty.
She beamed.
Lute’s scream tore through the moment, shrill and feral. “You fucking filthy demons! I will—”
Alastor released you gently and stepped forward, his presence shifting instantly. The warmth vanished. What remained was something cold and lethal.
“You’ll be doing nothing,” he said pleasantly, “when you’re six feet under.”
Your heart lurched.
“Al—Alastor, we can’t just—!” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.
Suddenly, an arm slid around your waist, firm but careful, pulling you back against a familiar body. A broad palm came up, shielding your eyes, cutting off the sight of the hall and the woman screaming within it.
“Then don’t look, doll,” Vincent murmured close to your ear, his voice low and soothing. “Go back to sleep, hmm?”
His tone was impossibly gentle — the same voice that guided you through crowded sets, that whispered encouragement before big meetings.
Something settled in you then. This—this—was the turning point.
You could let it slide. You could pretend. Ignorance was bliss, after all.
But if you allowed that—if you let them decide what you should and shouldn’t see, what crossed the line and what didn’t—then this would become something else entirely.
You stepped out of Vincent’s reach. His hand lingered in the air for half a second before dropping, surprise flickering across his face.
“Oh no,” you said, voice cutting clean through the room. “Oh no, misters. I don’t even know where to start with both of you.”
You turned on Alastor first, eyes blazing. “You. You do not get to murder anyone just because they’re rude to me.”
Alastor opened his mouth—
“No,” you snapped. “And Niffty—” you looked directly at her, voice firm but not cruel, “—you do not follow orders like that. Ever.”
Niffty’s smile faltered, just a little. “Oh…”
You turned sharply to Vincent next. “And you—both of you—somehow manage to drag trouble right to my doorstep every single time. I just want to live normally.”
Vincent huffed softly before he could stop himself. “I don’t think living with both of us really qualifies as ‘normal,’ doll—”
You shot him a glare. For the first time since you’d met them they looked chastised.
You dragged a hand down your face, exhaustion finally catching up to you. “To suppress the manager’s murder took every ounce of leverage I had,” you said quietly. “To hide this… I’ll have to call in a favour.”
Vincent’s brow arched, intrigue flickering through the tension. “Oh? And who might that be?”
You exhaled. “Lucifer. Of course.”
There was a beat of silence.
“The mayor and you are friends?!” Vincent asked, incredulous.
Alastor’s jaw tightened immediately. “I don’t like him.”
“Irrelevant,” you replied flatly.
Alastor inclined his head, all business now. “Understood, dear. We’ll keep our… hobbies far from our home.”
Then his gaze slid, unblinking, toward Lute. “But,” he added lightly, “we do have to kill her.”
You closed your eyes for a moment.
“Just… take her away,” you said, voice steady despite the weight behind it. “And do what you must.”
You didn’t look at her. As long as you didn’t see it, you wouldn’t spiral.
“With pleasure, darling,” Alastor replied.
He moved first, efficient and calm, beginning by hauling Adam’s body away as though it were merely an inconvenience cluttering the floor.
Vincent stepped close, pressed a soft kiss to your cheek — gentle, grounding, affectionate in a way that felt almost heartbreakingly normal. “We’ll be quick,” he murmured. Then he turned and followed Alastor.
*
You stared at your phone for a moment before pressing call.
Lucifer was a night creature by habit if not by nature. If anyone would be awake at this hour, it would be him.
He picked up on the third ring. “Hiii, bestie!” Lucifer’s voice chimed through the speaker, bright and unmistakably awake. “Wh—what’s up?”
A soft laugh slipped from you despite yourself. “Hi, Luci. I didn’t disturb you, did I?”
“Of course not!” he said immediately. You could practically hear him waving a hand dismissively. “What’s going on? Don’t tell me—you’re not cancelling our hangout, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reassured him, leaning against the wall as tension eased from your shoulders just a fraction. “I just need… a favour.”
There was no hesitation. “Sure,” Lucifer replied warmly. “Anything.”
You swallowed. “Can you… make it look like the chief of police and his deputy were transferred?” You winced slightly. “Forged, more likely. Clean paperwork. No loose ends.”
There was a brief pause.
Then—
“Oh,” Lucifer said, delighted. “That bitch Adam?”
You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Yes,” you said softly. “That one.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he laughed. “More than happy to.”
“Really?” Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy. “I’m sorry—I just— I’m in a bit of trouble.”
“No probs,” he replied easily. “I’ll get it ready. By morning, it’ll be like they were never here.”
You exhaled, long and slow, the knot in your chest finally loosening. “Thank you, Luci.”
“Anytime,” he said warmly. “You owe me coffee.”
You smiled as the call ended.
________________________
You paced the living room, back and forth. The clock ticked louder than it should have. Every glance at it made your chest tighten.
1:17 a.m.
1:24 a.m.
1:29 a.m.
You told yourself not to imagine things. Not to spiral. Still… worry gnawed.
When the door finally opened, the sound made you flinch. Cold night air swept in first. Then the scent hit you—sharp and unmistakable. Rain-soaked earth.
You rushed forward instinctively, relief surging—and then you stopped short.
Blood darkened their shirts, splashed unevenly across fabric and skin. It marked Vincent’s collarbone, streaked Alastor’s cheek, stained their sleeves as though it had been an afterthought to clean.
Almost… indulgent.
Alastor looked almost refreshed, posture relaxed, eyes bright with a dangerous satisfaction he made no effort to hide. Vincent’s expression was calmer, softer — but there was something unmistakably feral lingering beneath it, like the echo of adrenaline he hadn’t yet shed.
“…We’re home,” Vincent said gently.
Then Alastor smiled, gentle as ever. “You needn’t worry, my dear. Everything has been taken care of.”
Alastor reached you first. His hand slid along your jaw, cradling your face with deceptive gentleness. Crimson streaked across your cheek as his thumb brushed over your lower lip, parting it slightly.
Then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was slow at first—almost tender—until his tongue pushed past your lips and you tasted iron. He licked into you lazily, savouring.
Behind you, fabric tore. Vincent didn’t bother with patience.
Your nightgown was gone in one vicious yank, silk ripping like paper. Cool air hit your skin and then his burning hands were on you—rough, greedy, smearing crimson across the soft curves of your breasts. He cupped them hard, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they peaked.
“Such lovely canvas,” Alastor purred. “Hold her steady, old friend. I want to taste how much she enjoyed waiting for us.”
Vincent’s mouth was on your throat a second later—sucking hard enough to bruise.
Alastor dropped gracefully to his knees between your thighs. He hooked two fingers into the waistband of your panties and tore them away in a single motion, like it had personally offended him. Then his mouth was there—hot, wet, unhurried—licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your dripping slit.
You cried out, hips jerking.
Vincent laughed as his hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping between your folds right alongside Alastor’s tongue, spreading you open for him. “Fuck—she’s soaked.”
Alastor hummed in agreement, the vibration ripping a sob from your throat. His tongue circled your clit with cruel precision, never quite giving you enough pressure, while his free hand slid up the inside of your thigh.
Vincent’s fingers plunged inside you, curling hard against that spot that made your vision white out.
“Gonna fill you up,” he promised, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll feel us for days.”
Before any warning, Vincent plunged his thick cock into your pussy in one hard, ruthless thrust. The sudden fullness made your whole body jolt, a loud, broken moan ripping from your throat as your walls stretched around his girth.
He buried his face against the side of your neck with a broken groan. “Fuck… baby,” he rasped, “You feel like heaven. Every damn time.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed instantly, his ever-present grin twitching with clear irritation. He gave Vincent a long, unimpressed look over your shoulder. “I should have known you couldn’t wait…” Alastor drawled, voice slow and dripping with disdain, “…like a dog in heat.”
Vincent only laughed—hips already snapping forward again, driving deeper, making your breasts bounce with every rough stroke.
“Jealous?” he taunted, claws digging into your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted. You whimpered, head tipping back against Vincent’s shoulder.
Alastor didn’t answer right away. Instead he stepped closer, long fingers sliding under your chin to tilt your face up toward him. “Patience is clearly not his strong suit,” Alastor murmured to you, voice soft and almost sweet. “But don’t worry, darling… I’ll make sure you get properly taken care of.”
Vincent groaned. “Fuck—keep talking. She clenches hard every time you do.”
Alastor’s hand curled gently but firmly around your waist, and with one smooth, possessive tug, he pulled you off Vincent entirely.
The sudden emptiness made you whimper, your walls clenching around nothing as Vincent’s cock slipped free with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet room.
Vincent let out a low, frustrated growl, “Seriously?” Vincent hissed, voice thick with both irritation and aching need. “I was right there—”
Alastor didn’t even glance at him.
He sank down onto the wide sofa with that same elegant grace he always carried. “Come here, my darling,” he murmured, voice soft and warm. “Let me feel you properly.”
He guided you over him with careful hands, one sliding up your spine, the other steadying your hip. When you were straddling his lap, he lined himself up and slowly pushed you down onto his cock.
The stretch was different from Vincent’s—deeper, more deliberate—and you gasped, head tipping back as inch after inch filled you until your hips met his. A long, shaky moan spilled from your lips.
Alastor’s breath hitched. His head fell back against the sofa, eyes fluttering half-closed, grin softening. “Ohhh… there you are,” he breathed, voice trembling with adoration.
His hands settled on your hips—thumbs stroked slow, soothing circles over your skin, smearing the blood in gentle patterns.
You started to move—slow at first, rolling your hips, feeling every thick inch drag along your walls. “Beautiful,” he sighed, almost to himself. “So beautiful… look at you, dear. Look at how perfectly you fit me.”
“Fuck… baby,” Vincent rasped, voice cracking. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous like this. Taking him so well… still dripping from me, aren’t you?”
He leaned in and kissed your shoulder—soft, reverent—then pressed his forehead against your arm like he couldn’t stand not touching you.
Alastor’s hand slid up your back, cradling the nape of your neck, pulling you down until your lips brushed his.
Alastor’s hands stayed gentle on your hips, guiding your slow, rolling rhythm as you rode him. Every lift and sink drew a low, rumbling moan from his throat, his head tipped back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss.
Then you felt Vincent move closer.
His warm, blood-streaked chest pressed against your back, caging you sweetly between them.
“Baby…” Vincent’s voice came out rough and thick with want, but so tender it made your heart stutter. “You’ve been so good for us tonight. Let me in too, yeah? Let me love you properly.”
His long fingers slid down the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate. You shivered when they reached the small of your back, then lower, until the pad of one finger circled your tight back hole with feather-light pressure.
A soft gasp slipped from your lips.
“V-Vincent…” you breathed, voice shaky as you rocked down harder onto Alastor’s cock on instinct. The dual sensation already had your thighs trembling. “That… that feels—”
“Shhh, I know, sweetheart,” Vincent murmured right against your ear, kissing the shell of it. “I’ve got you. Just relax for me.”
He pressed just the tip of his finger inside—slow, careful, giving you time to adjust. You whimpered, clenching around Alastor so tightly he hissed through his teeth, hands flexing against your hips.
“Ohhh, darling,” Alastor purred, “You’re squeezing me so sweetly. Does Vincent’s touch feel good?”
Vincent groaned low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” He worked his finger deeper, slow pumps, curling gently to stretch you open. “Gonna take my time with this pretty little hole. Gonna make sure you feel nothing but love when I slide in.”
He added a second finger, scissoring carefully, stretching you wider while Alastor kept you anchored with slow, deep thrusts from below. Every movement made you rock between them, bodies sliding together in a slick, bloody, loving tangle.
Alastor lifted his head to brush his lips along your collarbone, voice trembling with adoration. “You’re doing so beautifully, mon cœur. Taking us both like you were made for it.”
You reached back blindly, fingers threading into Vincent’s hair. “Vinny…I can take it. I want you inside me too.”
Vincent’s breath hitched. “Goddamn, baby… you’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”
He worked his fingers a little faster, a little deeper, curling them just right until your back arched and a broken moan tore from your throat.
Alastor’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing tenderly over your nipples as he gazed up at you like you were his entire universe.
Vincent’s fingers slipped free with a soft, wet sound, replaced almost immediately by the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing against your stretched rim. He kissed the nape of your neck, voice low and trembling with barely-contained need.
“Ready for me, baby?” he whispered against your skin. “Gonna go slow… promise I’ll make it feel so good.”
You nodded, breathless, fingers digging into Alastor’s shoulders for balance.
Alastor’s hands slid up your sides, warm and steady, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he looked up at you with adoring eyes. “Breathe for us, darling,” he murmured. “You’re doing so perfectly already.”
Vincent pushed in—slowly, carefully—inch by thick inch. The stretch burned sweet and intense, your body yielding to him while Alastor stayed buried deep in your pussy, completely still, letting you adjust. You gasped, high and shaky, thighs quivering.
“Oh—f-fuck…” you whimpered, head falling forward until your forehead rested against Alastor’s. “So full…”
Vincent groaned, “God, baby… you’re taking us so well. So tight around me—fuck, I can feel him inside you.”
They started moving together—slow at first, finding a rhythm that made your whole body light up. Vincent pulled back while Alastor pressed deeper, then reversed, a gentle rocking that dragged every sensitive spot inside you at once. Each thrust pushed you higher, the pressure building fast and overwhelming.
You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips—soft moans, broken pleas, their names over and over.
“V-Vincent… Al… please—I'm gonna…”
Alastor’s hand slid between your bodies, long fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, loving circles.
Your orgasm hit hard and sudden.
You cried out, back arching, walls clamping down on both of them so tightly they both groaned in unison. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, thighs shaking as you rode it out on their cocks.
“Fuck—baby, you’re squeezing me so good—” Vincent’s voice cracked, hips stuttering.
You were still trembling through the aftershocks when Vincent’s rhythm faltered.
“Gonna—shit, baby, I’m—” He buried his face against your neck, hips slamming forward one last time as he came with a broken moan. Hot pulses filled you from behind, his cock throbbing deep inside as he poured everything into you.
The feeling tipped Alastor over the edge.
His head fell back against the sofa, a low growl rumbling through his chest as he thrust up once, twice—then stilled, spilling inside your pussy in long, warm spurts.
Vincent pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck, murmuring broken little praises against your skin. “Love you… love you so fucking much…”
Alastor lifted a shaky hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t even noticed. “You’re everything,” he whispered. “Everything we could ever want."
------------------------------
Steam curled lazily around the bathroom, blurring the edges of the world.
You were boneless between them.
Your head rested against Alastor’s chest, his heartbeat slow and even beneath your ear. One hand cradled the back of your skull while the other worked carefully through your hair, fingers gentle despite everything you knew they were capable of.
Vincent sat at your feet, long legs stretched along the tub. His hands moved up your calves, thumbs pressing slow circles as he rinsed away soap, the touch soothing rather than demanding.
They talked—idly, lazily.
Work.
Petty grievances.
Someone in the office who’d misfiled reports again.
You didn’t bother following every word. Their voices washed over you—Alastor’s smooth, lilting cadence paired with Vincent’s low, steady murmur. It calmed something deep in your chest, eased the leftover tension from the night.
Your eyelids drooped. You were just drifting, halfway to sleep, when Vincent said casually—
“…and the rings will be ready this Thursday—”
Your eyes snapped open.
“What?” you blurted Water sloshed softly. “What are you guys talking about?”
Vincent didn’t even pause. He glanced down at you, thumb still tracing idle patterns along your ankle. “The rings, honey. For our marriage.” Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he added, “Gotta get a ring on your finger. Many bastards in the office are looking at you too much.”
Your mouth fell open.
The sheer audacity of it—left you staring at them in stunned silence.
Alastor mistook the look entirely.
“Oh, my dear,” he said gently, rinsing the soap from your hair with meticulous care. “Don’t worry. We’ll wear them too.” A small, pleased smile curved his lips. “I don’t need others’ attention anyway.”
Vincent hummed in agreement. “Never have."
_____________________
The office buzzed as usual—phones ringing, papers shuffling, screens flickering.
His assistant was the first to notice.
Elliot, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield, froze mid-sentence while rattling off the day’s schedule. His eyes drifted downward. Then widened.
“Sir,” he said carefully, blinking once as if his vision were playing tricks on him, “is that… a ring?”
Vincent didn’t even look down. He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together, the band catching the light as he moved. A slow, satisfied grin spread across his face.
“Yep,” he said. “Got married.”
Elliot’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Married,” he echoed faintly. “You?”
Vincent’s grin softened. “To the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Elliot had worked under Vincent for years. He had seen rage, ambition, indulgence, cruelty.
Vincent waved him off, still smiling. “Cancel my evening meetings. I’m going home early."
*
Alastor’s office was quieter—but no less charged.
His advisor, Judy, stood opposite his desk. She was sharp-eyed, precise, and very difficult to surprise.
Which made her pause all the more telling. “Well,” she said mildly, peering at his hand. “That is…new. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Neither did I,” Alastor replied pleasantly. “But I found someone who can tolerate my…quirks.”
“She must be extraordinary,” she said.
Alastor’s grin sharpened. “Oh, she is terrifying.”
*
Maya—your colleague, the one who brought you coffee every morning without being asked—stopped short at your desk. Her gaze flicked from your face to your hand.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “You got married?!”
You barely had time to respond before she continued, eyes wide. “You never told us! No invite? Nothing?!”
You chuckled, lifting your cup calmly, the ring unmistakable now that it had been noticed.
“It was a private matter,” you said lightly.
Maya squinted. “Matter? You got married.”
“My husbands—” you coughed. “I mean. Husband.” You corrected smoothly. “He doesn’t like public affairs.”
Maya shook her head in disbelief. “I leave you alone for one weekend and you come back married.”
You took a sip of coffee. “Life moves fast.”
___________________
The three of you were many things.
Subtle was not one of them.
It was impossible, really—when Vincent’s gaze lingered just a second too long whenever you passed his office, when Alastor tilted his head and smiled like he was listening to a private joke only the two of you shared, when you forgot yourself and rolled your eyes fondly.
Anyone with eyes could see it.
Which was precisely why, during lunch break, the gossip tribunal convened.
Elliot had claimed the small round table near the vending machines, poking suspiciously at his salad. Judy arrived next, immaculate as always, tea in hand. Maya slid into the chair opposite them, already buzzing.
Elliot leaned in first. “Okay,” he said in a low voice that was absolutely not low enough. “Have you guys heard the gossip?”
Judy lifted an eyebrow. “Which one?”
“…Fair,” Elliot admitted. “But this one’s big.”
Maya’s eyes lit up. “Is it about the Director?”
Judy sipped her tea. “Go on.”
Elliot lowered his voice further, which only made it more dramatic. “I mean—tell me I’m not the only one who noticed how Vincent keeps looking at her. Like—looking looking.”
Maya snorted. “Please. Alastor practically follows her with his eyes. It’s creepy. But also kind of hot.”
Judy coughed into her cup. “Language.”
Maya leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Do you think the Director is cheating on her husband—with both Vincent and Alastor?”
Elliot’s eyes went wide. “Oh wow.”
“But listen,” Maya rushed on. “Vincent and Alastor are both married too, right? So if they’re cheating on their wives—”
“—then it’s a whole mess,” Elliot finished, horrified and thrilled in equal measure.
Judy tapped her cup thoughtfully. “Or,” she said slowly, “they could all be… friends?”
Maya stared at her. “...Judy.”
“Yes?”
“No.”
Elliot shook his head. “I mean, who cares,” he said, shrugging. “If I had two men like that staring at me like I was dessert, I would too.”
Maya laughed. “Same. I’d have them both. Morals would simply—” she made a vague dropping gesture “—leave my body.”
Judy sighed. “You are all incorrigible.”
“But wrong?” Maya pressed.
Across the office, you laughed at something Vincent murmured under his breath. Alastor’s gaze flicked up—sharp, possessive, amused—and met theirs for just a second.
All three gossipers froze.
Alastor smiled.
Elliot swallowed. “I suddenly feel like we should mind our business.”
Maya nodded. “Yep. Absolutely. Never speaking of this again.”
Notes: Many asked for part 2 so here it is! Thank you all for the overwhelming love and support, so this short fic is also getting a part 3 cuz you guys have got my wheels working now.
CW: shameless smut, p in v, blowjob
Word Count: 3.4K
On AO3 as well.
Part 1| Part 2| Part 3
Chapter Two
Life went on.
That was the strangest part.
You still woke up to alarms and unread emails. You still drank coffee while scanning schedules. You still walked into the same building every morning, nodded at the same security guard, and smiled at the same assistants who had no idea that they worked with the two of the most dangerous men in the city.
You were in love with not one—but two—serial killers. Because that was the truth now, whether you liked it or not.
The realization sat heavy in your chest, constant and unavoidable, yet buried beneath routines and responsibility. You didn’t let it show. You couldn’t afford to. Not when you were the director. Not when every decision you made shaped what millions of people saw and heard.
Especially not now.
The producer’s death became news, but not the kind that exploded.
You made sure of that.
You approved only brief segments. Short mentions. Dry language. No speculation-heavy panels. No ominous headlines. When writers pitched theories or wanted to linger on details, you shut it down calmly and efficiently.
“We’re not here to cause panic,” you said in meetings, your tone firm and reasonable. “Overexposure creates hysteria.”
And when someone questioned the sudden drop in coverage, you gave the same answer every time. “We don’t need to feed mass paranoia.”
No one argued. Your logic was sound. Your authority unquestioned.
You were just finishing the last stack of papers, sliding them neatly into a folder, when you checked the time and allowed yourself a small breath of relief. You had planned to end the day early for once.
That hope lasted all of ten seconds.
One of the TV novella managers hovered near your office door, shifting his weight nervously before finally clearing his throat. “Ma’am? Sorry to bother you so late, but we’ve… run into a complication for tomorrow’s shoot.”
You looked up, already bracing yourself. “What kind of complication?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The wedding dress for tomorrow’s episode—the one the heroine wears—it hasn’t arrived yet. It needs to be picked up tonight since it’s urgently required for the shoot, but the boutique owner isn’t answering her phone.”
You closed your eyes briefly and sighed.
Of course.
The boutique owner wasn’t just any vendor. She was an old friend of yours—unreliable with calls, terrible with schedules, but brilliant at her work. You already knew what had happened: her phone was probably dead, or she’d gotten caught up with another client and lost track of time.
You stood, picking up your bag. “It’s fine. I’ll pick it up.”
The manager blinked, clearly relieved. “You will? Are you sure? I’m really sorry for causing trouble—”
You waved him off with a small smile. “It’s no trouble at all. I know her. I’ll handle it.”
He nodded gratefully. “Thank you, ma’am. Really. And… sorry again.”
“No problem,” you repeated easily, already mentally rearranging your evening.
*
You locked your office door behind you, the click echoing softly down the hallway.
That was when you noticed Vincent approaching from the far end, his stride easy and confident, a familiar grin already on his face. A step or two behind him lingered Alastor, posture relaxed but his attention unmistakably fixed on you.
Vincent’s smile brightened when he saw you. “Heading out? I’ll drop you home.”
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “I actually have a short errand to run first.”
Both men reacted instantly.
Alastor’s smile sharpened just slightly as he joined you on your other side. “I insist,” he added smoothly. “It wouldn’t do to let you wander about alone at this hour.”
“Yes,” Vincent said, already turning to fall into step beside you. “Can't have a lady such as yourself in danger.”
What danger?? The most dangerous were these two!
You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Alright,” you said. “It won’t take long.”
Vincent’s expression was cheerful, almost eager. Alastor’s eyes gleamed with quiet interest.
----------------------------
The boutique’s bell chimed softly as you stepped inside, the warm glow of display lights washing over racks of lace and silk. You moved ahead instinctively, while Alastor and Vincent followed a step behind you.
You barely had time to take in the quiet before a familiar voice cut through the air. “Well, look who it is.”
Your shoulders stiffened. You turned slowly, already knowing who you would see.
Adam, Chief of Police, stood near the counter, arms crossed. He wore that same smug, irritating expression you had come to loathe.
“What a pleasure to see you, sir,” you said, folding your arms behind your back.
Adam huffed, stepping closer, his eyes scanning you with open suspicion. “Of course it is.” His gaze flicked briefly to the men behind you, then back to your face. “You’re the one who’s been making it very difficult for us to investigate your media building.”
You met his stare without blinking. “You must know, sir, that you require a warrant for that.”
His mouth twisted. “I’ll get one. Sooner or later. And then we’ll see what you’re trying to hide.”
Before you could respond, Alastor stepped forward. A slow, malicious grin spread across his face, all sharp teeth and faux charm, his eyes gleaming with something dark and amused. “Oh, I do hope so,” he said lightly. “It would be dreadfully disappointing if all this suspicion amounted to nothing.”
Vincent shifted beside him, posture casual but alert, his gaze fixed on Adam with open hostility now, the cheer stripped away entirely.
Adam turned and walked out, the bell chiming again as the door closed behind him.
You barely had a moment to exhale after Adam’s departure before the curtain behind the counter rustled.
Rosie's face lightened up instantly when she saw you. Before you could say a word, she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a tight hug. “Oh my god—look who it is!”
“It’s been ages,” she exclaimed. “You disappear into that big media empire of yours and forget all about me.”
You laughed softly, returning the embrace. “I could never forget you. I just… get buried in work.”
Rosie pulled back, hands still on your shoulders, eyes sparkling as she took you in—then promptly looked past you.
“Well,” she said slowly, a grin spreading across her face, “I see you didn’t come alone.”
You cleared your throat and gestured behind you. “Rosie, this is Alastor; a very popular and charming radio host.” Then you motioned to Vincent. “And this is Vincent—famous news anchor. They’re colleagues.”
Both men inclined their heads politely.
“A pleasure,” Alastor said smoothly, smile impeccable.
“Nice to meet you,” Vincent added, easy and charming.
Rosie’s gaze flicked between the two of them… then back to you.
Oh no.
She laughed, delighted. “So,” she said brightly, “are you stringing both of them along, or am I witnessing something much more interesting?”
You felt heat rush to your face. “Rosie!”
She waved a hand. “Hey, I respect the hustle.”
“I’m not,” you protested quickly, mortified. “It’s not like that at all—”
“Oh, relax,” Rosie cut in, laughing. “I’m kidding.”
Before you could recover, Alastor chuckled. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice warm and indulgent, “I wouldn’t mind being led on by a woman as talented as yourself.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Alastor—”
Vincent grinned unabashedly. “Same here,” he said, winking at you. “I can be a fool for you.”
You blushed harder, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Rosie gasped dramatically, clasping her hands to her chest. “Oh, this is delicious. I leave the room for five minutes and stumble onto the best gossip I’ve had all week.”
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, shooting both men a warning look. “Do not encourage her.”
Alastor only smiled. Vincent looked entirely unrepentant.
You grabbed Rosie gently by the wrist and began steering her toward the back of the boutique. “Come on,” you said, trying to sound stern despite your embarrassment. “Show me the wedding dress I came to pick up.”
Rosie laughed as she let herself be dragged along. “Fine, fine—but I’m telling you, darling, if this ever turns into something messy, I want front-row seats.”
You followed Rosie deeper into the boutique, past mannequins dressed in ivory and pearl, past racks of silk and tulle that whispered softly as you brushed by them.
Rosie gestured toward a row of gowns. “Here’s the problem,” she said, exasperated but amused. “Your people never finalized the size. I can’t alter a dress without knowing who it’s meant to fit.”
You stopped short. “They did what?”
Your hand went to your temple as you let out a low curse, sharp and sincere. “I swear, sometimes I wonder how half of them are still employed. I’ll deal with them.”
Rosie chuckled. “I figured you would.” She studied you fondly. “Well, on that note, I had some plans today to eat—I meant tend to my husband.”
You raised a brow. You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and nodded. “Go. I’ll finish up here.”
She reached behind the counter, grabbed a set of keys, and pressed them into your palm. “Lock up when you’re done. Take your time.”
“Thank you,” you said sincerely.
Rosie squeezed your hand once, then the door chimed softly as it closed behind her.
You stared at the rack of gowns, fingers skimming past tags and measurements, your brows knitting together in frustration.
“For the life of me, I can’t remember her body type,” you muttered. “Tall? Petite? Curvy? God—should I just take a medium and let the costume department deal with it?”
Vincent stepped closer, close enough that you felt his presence before his hands ever settled on your shoulders. His touch was light, familiar, entirely too confident.
“She has the same body type as you,” he said smoothly. “So the easiest solution would be to try it on you.”
You turned your head slowly, narrowing your eyes at the unmistakable mischief dancing behind his smile. “You’re up to something.”
Before he could reply, Alastor’s voice cut in, cheerful and agreeable. “I must say, it’s a brilliant idea! Faster decisions mean we can all get back home sooner—and you look exhausted, my dear.”
You glanced between the two of them and sighed. “Fine.”
You changed quickly, stepping into the gown and pulling it up with practiced ease—until you reached the back. The laces were… ambitious.
You twisted, reached, groaned softly. “Of course.”
“Vincent,” you called out. “I need help.”
“I’m coming,” his voice replied immediately.
You lowered yourself onto the ornate sofa nearby, gathering the skirt carefully as the curtain shifted. Vincent stepped inside—and promptly stopped.
You looked up at him. “Don’t just stand there.”
He didn’t move. His gaze traveled over you with open awe, like he’d walked into a painting rather than a changing room.
“Vincent,” you said, flustered, heat creeping into your cheeks. “Stop staring and help me with the laces.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he closed the distance in two quiet steps and cupped your face, his expression unreadable but intense. Before you could protest, he kissed you—deep, unhurried, deliberate. His hands slid into your hair, tangling there as if he had every right.
Vincent’s lips moved over yours with a mix of tenderness and raw hunger, each kiss stoking the fire between you. His hands roamed over the smooth fabric of your gown, sliding over your curves, teasing, and mapping every inch of you as if memorizing your body.
With a deft tug, he pulled the neckline lower, and your breasts spilled into his waiting hands. You let out a startled gasp, the sound trembling, half protest, half need. Vincent’s thumbs brushed over your nipples, hardening them under his touch, and you shivered against him.
He leaned down, lips pressing to the sensitive curve of your neck. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, a mixture of softness and heat that made your knees threaten to give out. You arched into him without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair as he whispered your name against your skin.
“Vin… Vincent…” you breathed, but the sound was more a plea than a command. His lips trailed lower, skimming over the swell of your cleavage, teasing, tasting, sending shivers through your body. His hands molded your breasts, cupping and kneading gently but firmly, pulling a moan from deep in your throat.
Before you could catch your breath, Vincent’s hands gripped your waist, strong and possessive, and laid you back on the soft.
You gasped, a shiver running through you. “Shameless—not here!” you breathed, tugging at the fabric, cheeks flaming.
Vincent froze for a heartbeat, eyes dark and glinting with hunger. Then he leaned closer, a slow, wicked smile tugging at his lips. “You can't blame me, darling. This dress...is giving me all sorts of ideas..."
Before you could respond, his hands moved expertly, sliding your underwear aside. One hand pressed your thigh down, holding you in place, while the other began circling your slick folds, teasing your clit with slow, deliberate strokes.
His tongue followed, brushing over your folds, tasting you. You gasped, nails digging into the sofa cushions as your back arched.
“Nghh… Vincent! Please… oh, God…” your voice wavered, breaths coming in ragged gasps. His hands and lips were relentless, working together to make your body burn and quake.
Vincent hummed, a deep, approving sound, before teasingly flicking his tongue over your clit. “Mmm… you taste so good, darling… so wet for me…” he murmured, each word hot against your skin.
You whined, hips pressing instinctively into him. “Fuck… don’t stop… please, Vincent…” Your voice was shaky, broken by pleasure, moans spilling freely now.
He groaned into you, lips sucking, tongue rolling, fingers teasing and probing. “Shh… I’m not stopping, my dear… not until you’re trembling for me.”
Your moans grew louder, desperate, pleading. “fuckfuckfuck… harder… faster…” you gasped, back arching, legs trembling. Each flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers, made you shiver uncontrollably.
“So beautiful…all for me…” Vincent’s tongue and fingers worked in perfect, maddening unison, circling, pressing, teasing. Your hips writhed uncontrollably against him, every nerve ending ablaze. Each slick glide of his fingers and teasing flick of his tongue sent shocks through you, and you felt your body teetering on the edge.
“Y-you… we should… marry…” Vincent murmured suddenly, his voice low and rough against your clit.
Your eyes widened mid-gasp, breath catching between moans. “I-what?! Nghh… are you crazy?” you managed to squeak, words barely coherent as pleasure pooled so hot, so thick, it dulled your mind.
A low chuckle rumbled through the room, and a velvet-smooth voice cut through the haze. “Why not?” Alastor’s silhouette leaned casually against the doorway, eyes gleaming with that familiar, predatory amusement. “You love us both—so it’s the last step, isn’t it?”
Heat pooled in your chest at the possessive glint in their eyes. The way they both looked at you like they would never let you go. And somehow, oddly, it was comforting.
Vincent didn’t break his rhythm, fingers circling and pressing, tongue flicking, his lips and breath hot against you. “That’s it, my dear… give it to me…” he murmured. Your body shook, trembling, teetering over the edge as he pushed you closer and closer.
“Fuck-I… I’m…!” Your scream of pleasure was cut off by a cry of ecstasy as he brought you over the edge, fingers and tongue perfectly orchestrating your orgasm.
Alastor’s gaze never wavered. He stepped a little closer, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. “Ah… look at that flush on your cheeks,” he murmured, voice low and full of delight. “Absolutely intoxicating…”
Vincent hummed against you, lips and fingers still coaxing the last tremors from your body, before slowly lifting his head, eyes glinting with triumph and desire.
“Maybe,” Vincent murmured, his voice low and rich, “we should show you what it would be like, honey~”
Before you could fully process it, he flipped you over, guiding you down against the sofa cushions. Your body moved easily under him, pliant, still trembling from your orgasm, thoughts slow and hazy.
Honey? He’d never called you that before. It made your stomach flutter, heat curling deep in your belly.
Alastor hummed from where he’d settled into a chair, long legs crossed, elbows resting comfortably as if he were about to enjoy a performance meant solely for him.
“Yes… we can argue our case, shall we?” he said pleasantly. “With me, my dear, you’ll want for nothing. I can provide for you, cook for you, and give you every security you’ve ever desired. Your life would be… effortless.”
You felt your cheeks burn at his words, at the way his eyes never left you.
Then you heard it. The unmistakable sound of a zipper.
Your breath hitched sharply as Vincent stepped closer, his presence warm and overwhelming behind you. His cock slides slowly between your folds, slick with your arousal. You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily as the sensitive, swollen skin dragged against him.
“Still so responsive,” Vincent murmured, one hand settling firmly on your hip, thumb pressing in as if to anchor you there. “Even after I’ve already made you come apart…”
Vincent leaned over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll treat you with the best things money can afford,” he murmured, pressing into you just enough to make you whimper. “The finest clothes, silk, furs, velvet… except, of course, when we are alone… when you shall wear nothing at all.”
Your moan was immediate, loud, shaky, as he finally sank into you with a slow, deep thrust. Your body shuddered around him, hips lifting instinctively, back arching against the sofa. The sensation was exquisite, every nerve alive with heat and need.
Your eyes, still glazed from the haze of pleasure, found Alastor and without thinking, you called out his name.
Alastor’s deep, melodic chuckle filled the room. He rose from his chair slowly, deliberately, each movement drawing your gaze. “Oh? Vincent isn’t enough for you, my dear?” His voice was playful, teasing.
Vincent’s grip tightened, lips parting in a growl of irritation. “Excuse me?!” he hissed, thrusting harder, each movement sharper, faster. Your moans spiked in response, head thrown back, unable to form a coherent protest as pleasure and friction consumed you.
Alastor hummed, slow and satisfied, as if savoring every sound and motion. “Very well, then… I can oblige you,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. The next moment, his cock was pressing against your lips, warm and demanding.
“Go on, dear,” he murmured, voice velvet and steel. “You deserve it.”
Your lips parted instinctively. You took him in, mouth sliding along his length as you moaned around him. Vincent’s thrusts from behind became more deep, his hand gripping your hip, holding you still so you couldn’t pull away.
“Ah… yes… just like that, my dear…” Alastor murmured, fingers threading through your hair, guiding your mouth, keeping your lips on him. “So eager."
“Fuck… you’re so tight, so wet…” Vincent growled behind you, one hand sliding to cup your breasts, the other gripping your hip hard, slamming into you faster and deeper.
Alastor hummed approvingly, pressing you down gently but firmly, guiding your head, his hips pressing slightly forward as your lips and tongue worked him over. “Yes… just like that, darling...you’re making me feel so good, mmmm...”
Vincent groaned, a deep, guttural sound that made you arch wildly, your walls clenching around him. “I’m… I’m… oh fuck—” he growled, slamming into you harder, faster, chasing release.
Alastor let out a low, satisfied hum, a sharp inhale escaping as he spilled into your mouth. “Ahhh… yes… oh my—”
You shuddered, lips and tongue working with every bit of energy you had left to swallow as Vincent’s cock drove deep into you, rutting fast and hard. Your body convulsed, and with one last, desperate scream, you felt Vincent cum inside.
Your body trembled violently, completely overwhelmed. Vincent slowed, still buried inside you, hips occasionally twitching as he caught his breath. Alastor pulled back, licking his lips, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction as he brushed your hair back from your flushed, exhausted face.
*
You scolded them as you locked the boutique and handed them the wedding dress to wash it and bring to the office tomorrow without fail.
*
Later that week, after some begrudging agreement, Alastor and Vincent brought joint property together so they can make you move in with them.
Ok ok ok.. hear me out lol. What is this takes place in an AU where human Alastor and vox are enemies like normal but a little more tame with each other as they work in the same media building. (Vox in visual media, and alastor in podcast plus radio) What if the reader is like a director and comes in to help with each of their show episodes. They both like the reader and keep close eyes on her. The reader also has feelings for both of them but keeps things professional. And when they find out that the reader has been getting treated badly at work they kill the guy but the reader walks in on them doing it and runs away. She doesn’t tell anyone but avoided them the next day. They confront her after work. maybe some possible smut or suggestiveness??!!
Vincent x f! Reader x Alastor
Notes: omg this is such a good ask i'm cackling as i wrote it! hope you enjoy it as well!
CW: Murder (obvi), a little smutty (fingerfucking)
Word Count: 2.8K
The sound booth always smelled faintly of coffee, old wood, and Alastor’s cologne — something warm, old-fashioned, almost wickedly nostalgic.
You adjusted the microphone levels, sliding knobs with practiced fingers while Alastor sat behind the desk, script pages resting loosely in his gloved hands.
But he wasn’t reading them, not really. You could feel his gaze — steady, lingering, deliberate; following every shift of your wrist, every tilt of your head. “You’re very focused today,” he commented.
You shot him a small smile over your shoulder. “Someone has to keep this place running.”
He chuckled, the sound dipping into something that felt like a private secret, meant only for you. “And you do so beautifully.”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck, but you kept working, adjusting the condenser mic.
Clearing your throat, you started gathering your things, only for his voice to slide in again, smooth and careful, “What are you doing after work?”
Your heart tripped. His tone wasn’t casual — there was weight behind it, like he was testing something, reaching.
You opened your mouth to answer—
“Director!”
Alastor’s eyes snapped to the entrance, irritation flashing bright and instantaneous beneath the courteous veneer.
Vincent leaned in the frame, one hand on his hip, "I need you,” he announced, “We’ve got an issue in Studio 4. Something only you can fix.”
Alastor’s jaw tensed so sharply you heard the tiny click of his teeth grinding together.
You tried to keep your voice neutral. “Oh— um… okay. I’ll see what’s wrong.”
You grimaced apologetically. “Alastor, I’m so sorry. I should check that out. If his show misses broadcast time, corporate will yell at me again.”
He forced a small wave. “Of course, my dear. Duty calls.”
Vincent stepped aside with exaggerated politeness, hand near the small of your back. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured to you.
But his eyes flicked past you to Alastor, taunting him silently.
*
The conference room was too small for the amount of tension inside it.
You sat at the middle of the long table, folders and production notes spread before you. To your left sat Alastor — tidy, composed. To your right sat Vincent — leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, ankle crossed over knee.
Half the department was there, but it felt like only the three of you breathed.
“Alright,” you began, scanning your notes. “Visual media first. Vincent, why is your show’s prep behind schedule this week?”
Alastor's grin widened. Oh, what excuse will the tv show host give? Alastor prided himself over punctuality, over how he put everything in his script until it was perfect. And you liked that; that's the reason he got along with you so well.
Across the polished table, several visual-team staff braced themselves. Vincent didn’t. He leaned back in his chair with a lazy confidence that made Alastor’s eye twitch.
“Rendering issues,” Vincent said, waving a hand. “A few tech hiccups. A few idiots.”
He smoothly pivoted. “But I know you understand the struggle. You’re a capable, independent woman — brilliant, actually, and you know sometimes the schedule just can’t keep up with your creativity.”
You rolled your eyes and let out a warm laugh. “Flattery, Vinny, will get you far… but only so far. Double your pace this week, and I’ll approve the new graphic set.”
Vincent pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. “For you? Twice the usual speed.”
“Good.” You nodded professionally, tapping your notes. “We need that if you want your premiere to stay on schedule.”
Alastor wasn’t amused.
A pet name? Since when did Vincent earn a pet name? Since when did you smile at him like that?
Vincent felt the stare and smirked a little harder, leaning back comfortably, clearly enjoying the reaction he was provoking.
You flipped to the next page on your clipboard, shifting your attention from the team to your right.
“Alright, radio division,” you announced, tone brightening. “Alastor—your last episode was fantastic, but…” You looked at him with a half-smile he instantly leaned into. “You know I adore your perfectionism, but the audience needs a little more drama. A bit more spice. Give me some razzmatazz.”
He lifted his chin and considered you for a heartbeat, “If it’s excitement you want,” he said thoughtfully, “how about we cover that serial killer who’s been making headlines? An investigative segment, perhaps. Something… tantalizing.”
Your eyes brightened. “Oh—yes. That would absolutely work.”
He hummed, smug satisfaction softening his posture.
You added, almost without thinking, “Good work, Al.”
Across you, Vincent’s head snapped up like someone had thrown ice water on him. Al. Pet name. The same kind of casual affection you had used with him.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward Vincent and smiled a smile so self-satisfied...A shit-eating grin, sharp and far too pleased.
“Why, thank you, darling,” Alastor replied, voice deliberately silky, eyes fixed on Vincent as he said it. “Always happy to provide exactly what you’re looking for.”
Vincent bristled, sitting forward in his chair as if ready to throw hands across the meeting table.
The meeting wrapped with the usual shuffle of papers and exhausted groans from the staff. People filtered out, chatting in low voices.
But Vincent and Alastor didn’t move. They both leaned forward at the same time, clearly ready to talk to you before the other could—
The producer marched in, face red with irritation.
Your brows lifted. “Sir? What brings you here?”
He didn’t answer right away. He held up a stack of papers, slammed it down on the conference table, and spat. “Our ratings have dropped.”
You blinked. “What? No—sir, our network is ranked first among all media houses this quarter.”
“And still not high enough!” he barked. “We’re only ahead by a thin margin. One scandal, one failed broadcast, one wrong creative decision—and any rival house can overtake us.” His glare sharpened. “Frankly, I should’ve known better than to hire a woman for this position.”
Your jaw tightened, but your voice stayed controlled. “I’ll do better.”
He scoffed. “You’d better. Or I’ll move someone competent into your position.”
And then he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him. Both men were staring at the door like they could burn it down with their eyes.
Vincent’s jaw flexed once—hard. Vincent had met dozens of directors who cared about nothing but money, who would’ve thrown him away the moment a better opportunity came. You had taken a chance hiring him when everyone else treated him like some young, untested brat with flashy ideas.
You listened to him.
You trusted him.
You put your career behind his show.
And this bastard spoke to you like that? Hearing someone belittle you ignited something feral in him.
Alastor, meanwhile, was eerily silent. He stared at the door the producer had vanished through, eyes darkened with something cold and ancient. He had seen cruelty. He had seen discrimination.
But he had never seen a director who fought for every employee—race, background, gender—none of it mattered to you.
You made the workplace better simply by being in in it.
And this man dared to undermine that? To insult you? To threaten your job? Unacceptable.
----------------------------------------
It was nearly midnight when he tossed the producer into an office chair, the metal scraping across the concrete floor. The man’s face was already swollen—one eye purple, lip split, cheekbone bruised.
Vincent hadn’t held back.
A strip of cable wire bound the producer’s wrists behind the chair.
Vincent rolled his shoulders, adjusting his gloves, and casually flipped a knife through his fingers.
The producer whimpered. “P-please—this wasn’t personal—”
“Oh, I know,” Vincent purred, circling him like a shark. “You treat everyone like shit.”
The producer sobbed. “I’ll— I’ll give you money—anything—”
“Boring.” Vincent stepped around him again, bringing the knife to the man’s cheek. “I want something more valuable.”
The blade glided lightly over swollen skin, leaving a thin trail of blood.
“Tell me,” Vincent said softly, crouching to eye level, “what’s your favourite organ?”
The producer’s breath hitched. “W-What?”
Vincent tilted his head, smile growing. “Your eye? Should I take that first?” He lifted the knife, blade inches from the man’s trembling eyelid.
“No—no, please—!”
“Oh, no, no…” Vincent grabbed the producer’s jaw with one gloved hand, fingers digging in until the man cried out. “I’ve decided.”
The knife tapped the corner of the producer’s mouth.
A cruel sparkle lit Vincent’s eyes. “I should take your tongue first. For dishonouring our sweet, beautiful director.”
Vincent swore under his breath the second the cable snapped.
The producer twisted violently, the chair tipping. Vincent lunged for him, but the man ripped free, shoving Vincent hard enough that he stumbled backward into a desk.
“You little—!” Vincent hissed, regaining his balance.
But the producer was already sprinting down the hallway of the abandoned building, blood dripping, breath ragged.
Vincent straightened. “Shit—”
He stalked after him. The producer didn’t get far. A strangled scream tore through the building.
Vincent rounded the corner and stopped. The producer was sprawled on the concrete, clutching his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his palm.
Above him stood Alastor, coat pristine… and a hunting knife embedded in the man’s shoulder.
Not a fatal strike, just enough to stop him.
“Well, well,” he purred, turning toward Vincent, “someone’s new at this.”
Vincent blinked then choked out a low, incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He stepped forward until he and Alastor stood shoulder-to-shoulder over the trembling man.
Alastor lifted the producer’s chin with the tip of his knife. “But it seems we are… like-minded in our intentions tonight.”
The producer sobbed, trying to crawl away. Blood smeared under him.
A feral grin spread across Vincent’s face. “Alright then, Al.” His voice dropped, dark and hungry. “How about you show me how you do it?”
Alastor’s eyes gleamed with vicious delight. “Why, my dear Vincent,” Alastor murmured, “I would be delighted to.”
*
You had almost reached the elevator when you froze.
Your stomach dropped. Your bag. You’d left it in your office. Your keys, your ID, your entire life was in there. “Great,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “Just great.”
The building was mostly empty now, lights dimmed for the night.
You walked back down the hallway toward your office.
A faint crackle echoed from deeper in the building. Then you turned the corner. And your heart stopped. The world tilted.
Vincent and Alastor stood over a body. Blood pooling beneath him.
All three of you froze. No one breathed.
“Sweetheart,” Vincent began, hands half-raised as if trying to block your view. “It’s— it’s not what it looks like—”
Alastor snapped his head toward him. “That is the lamest excuse,” he hissed, voice low. “It won’t work on her.”
You turned and ran.
You didn’t think. You sprinted down the hall, shoes slapping the linoleum, heart punching your ribs, the image of them over the body burned into your skull.
*
You had spent the entire day carefully avoiding both men. You moved through the hallways with calculated precision, taking different routes to meetings, sipping coffee at odd times, and slipping in and out of rooms so no one could catch sight of you.
By the end of the day, you were exhausted. Relief washed over you as you packed your things into your bag, exhaling shakily. I can’t do this every day, you thought. Maybe I should just look for another job.
You were so absorbed in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the soft click of the office door closing behind you.
Your spine prickled, and instinctively you turned around. “Vincent,” you breathed, startled.
He was leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes sharp and unreadable.
“H-Hey,” you stammered, trying to steady your voice. “Um… did you want something?”
He pushed off the door, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. “Tsk,” he said, his voice low and amused, eyes sweeping over you, “Pretending everything is fine?”
You instinctively took a step back, your hip hitting the edge of your desk. “Stay away from me,” you said, forcing steel into your voice, though your pulse thundered in your ears.
Vincent chuckled softly, a sound that slid under your skin and made your body tense. “Why? Are you afraid?” he asked, stepping even closer.
“I’m not,” you said too quickly, and the honesty slipped out before you could stop it.
Instantly, his smirk widened, sharp and knowing. He placed one hand on your waist, firm and possessive, yet not hurting you. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the side of your neck.
First came a slow, warm press of his mouth, and then another kiss. He trailed a delicate suck across the pulse point of your neck. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop it, a soft moan escaped you.
Vincent hummed against your skin, his voice vibrating softly. “So you weren’t lying,” he murmured. “Your pulse is fast… not because you’re afraid, but because you want me.”
Heat rushed to your face, and your stomach twisted. You hated that he was right. Vincent’s eyes sparkled with cruel delight as he leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear. “Look at that,” he whispered, voice low and teasing. “So pretty when you get all shy.”
You pull back only an inch, indignation caught tight in your throat.
“You—”
But the protest dies as something shifts behind you — a familiar presence, a familiar warmth, those unmistakable arms sliding around your waist like they belonged there. Your breath stutters.
Alastor.
He steps out from the darker corner, as if the shadows themselves had been holding him. Had he been hiding there from the beginning?
So… they planned this.
Your pulse jumps.
Alastor’s fingers curl around your hips as he gently turns you toward him, sharp eyes softened with that theatrically polite guilt.
“My dear,” he murmurs, “forgive us if we startled you yesterday. We simply… disliked how that man spoke to you.” He exhales a laugh that doesn’t touch his eyes. “You will forgive us… won’t you?”
Before you can even shape a reply, he leans in.
His mouth claims yours — warm, coaxing. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer.
Then Vincent’s lips touch your neck. You jolt, breath catching sharply.
His grip tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, with every slow kiss he trails down the column of your throat.
His hands glide upward, teasingly slow, fingers tracing beneath your ribs as if savoring every inch. Then they rise higher, cupping your breasts through your clothes — reverent, hungry, palms warm and deliberate.
You gasp into Alastor’s mouth.
Alastor smiles against your lips, amused at how they unravel you between them. His thumb strokes your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, guiding your mouth to open wider, inviting him in.
Behind you, Vincent unbuttoned your blouse, massages your breasts in slow, claiming circles — his thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten under his touch.
Your breath shatters the moment Vincent’s hand slides lower — past your stomach, past the edge of your waistband until his fingers slip beneath the fabric.
Al leans in, lips grazing the side of your neck before sealing around your skin. The first slow pull of his mouth is deliberately sinful — hot, wet, claiming. He sucks hard enough that your knees weaken instantly, and his hand tightens on your waist to keep you upright.
“Oh, she likes that…” Vincent breathes behind you, as his fingers find your pussy.
You gasp — loud, involuntary — head tipping back against Vincent’s shoulder as his fingertips slide through your slick folds, stroking you like he’s mapping every reaction.
“Fuck…” he mutters, low and delighted.
Alastor’s chuckle vibrates against your throat. He shifts, sucking a deeper mark just below your ear, lips dragging lower, teeth grazing lightly before he closes his mouth around your skin again. He takes his time — each hickey bold, deliberate, like he wants you painted in him.
Vincent sinks two fingers inside you. You choke on a moan, body jerking, clutching at Alastor’s chest to stay upright. Vincent’s other hand locks around your hip, pulling you tighter against him as he pumps his fingers slow, deep, purposeful — curling just right, hitting that spot that forces your thighs to tremble.
“That’s it,” he purrs, fingers thrusting faster now, slick sounds growing filthy in the quiet room. “Take it. Give it to me.”
Alastor nips your neck, humming with pleasure at your every sound.
Your hips start moving on their own, chasing Vincent’s rhythm — shallow, desperate little rolls you can’t control. Your breath comes in sharp, needy bursts, your body tightening with every curl of his fingers.
Your moan rips out of you, your entire body seizing as the orgasm hits fast and violent — heat rushing through you in a pulse that makes your vision blur. Vincent holds you firmly as you shake against him, fingers relentless until you’re gasping, overstimulated, clinging to Alastor like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.
Alastor’s lips finally leave your neck — several dark bruises already blooming there and he tilts your chin up with a wicked smile.
“My, my…” he murmurs. “Already so undone.”
Vincent withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, and you feel the wet slide of it. You shiver.
“We’re not even close,” Vincent whispers against your ear.
“Not yet,” Alastor adds, smiling like he’s about to ruin you in the most patient, elegant way.
Summary: Alastor discovers how much his southern accent and French affect you… and uses it to his advantage.
Type: Romantic, Headcanon.
Warning:Intense flirting, deep voice, melting accents, stable relationship
══💞══╡°˖✧💌✧˖°╞══💞══
The day had been long and peaceful, and the house was enveloped in a gentle silence, the kind of silence that only exists when the person you love is near. You were in the kitchen tidying up, taking your time, enjoying the simplicity of the moment. The warmth of New Orleans drifted in through the window, mingling with the sweet aroma of wood and coffee.
You heard the front door open.
Alastor was back. His footsteps were unmistakable: light, elegant, almost musical. But when he spoke, you froze instantly.
"Afternoon, darling."
The Southern accent hit you full force, warm, deep, smooth like melting honey. You felt a shiver run down your spine so quickly that your hand went limp and you almost dropped the plate you were drying.
Alastor noticed it immediately. He always did.
"Everything alright here?" "—he asked as he entered the kitchen, his smile calm and that mischievous glint hidden behind his eyes.
You swallowed, trying to compose yourself.
"Yes… yes, I'm fine. I was just… surprised."
He approached slowly, like someone approaching a small animal they want to observe closely without scaring it. Or, in his case, like a man who had just discovered that his voice could make you tremble.
"Were you surprised… by what exactly?" he asked, leaning slightly forward to get a better look.
You looked away, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.
"By… by your accent."
Alastor's smile became slow, satisfied, dangerously charming.
"Does my southern accent bother you?" he asked, moving even closer.
" "I-I didn't say that…"
He chuckled softly and took you by the waist, with a gentleness that contrasted with the firmness of his fingers.
"No, you didn't say it. But you showed it very well," he whispered near your ear.
Your knees almost buckled. Alastor felt it. He held you tighter, as if he'd been expecting it.
"Careful, my love… if you react like this to a word, I don't know what I'll do to you," he murmured with that marked, slow, delicious accent.
You hid your face in his chest, utterly embarrassed. And he chuckled softly, completely pleased.
Later, you were in the living room. You were trying to concentrate on a book, but he moved around the room with that irritatingly perfect elegance, as if he knew you were watching him out of the corner of your eye.
At one point, he needed a notebook and asked you:
"Pass me la petite noire, ma chérie…"
The sound of the French words struck you like lightning. Your breath caught in your throat. The book slipped from your hands and fell to the floor with a thud.
Alastor looked up immediately.
And when he saw your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, and your mouth trembling, speechless… He set the notebook aside and walked slowly toward you, savoring every step. He crouched down to your level and placed a hand on your knee.
"Cherie… is everything alright?"
You didn't answer. It was impossible. Your throat wouldn't allow it.
He brought his face close to yours. His nose brushed your cheek. His warm breath caressed your ear.
"Does my French make you feel this way…?" he asked in a low, deep voice.
You let out a sound you didn't even know you were capable of. A small moan mixed with nervous laughter. Something completely involuntary.
Alastor smiled, sliding his hand up your thigh to help you keep from falling off the chair.
"God… you're adorable," he whispered.
He took you by the waist and pulled you toward him, sitting you on his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Your legs trembled. He placed one hand on your back, the other on your thigh, holding you steady.
"If you only knew what it does to me to see you like this…" he said, this time in French, soft, slow, dangerously intimate, "viens ici, mon cœur…"
You clung to his shirt. Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You were far, far from being able to maintain any dignity.
He knew it. And he chuckled softly, a mixture of tenderness and mischief in his voice.
“My love…” he whispered, his lips brushing your neck without quite kissing you. “If I can melt you just by talking… imagine what I could do if I really wanted to.”
Your nails dug into his shoulder. He tilted his head, savoring every micro-reaction.
“Do you want me to keep talking?” he asked.
“Do you want… a little more of my accent?
Or… do you prefer my French, hm?”
The way your body responded was all the answer he needed. And he, smiling like the elegant devil he was even in human form, rested his forehead against yours and murmured:
“Very well, darling… Then I’m not going to stop talking at all.”
It was Mother's Day, and I knew the kids were all grown up, especially Arthur and Asher, who had grown up with their adorable daughter Eloise. He had planned to make reservations at this one special place called Buttercup Bistro, which was a nice place, but everything was a surprise. He wanted to make this day extra special because Alden was now at the table, knowing he had told her about this place and where to find it. Now he was just waiting for his wife.
Alden was fiddling with his fingers and thinking about his wife. Oh, she was stunning, and he managed to get her pregnant three times. She was not only the ideal mother, but also the ideal wife that any man could hope for. It was only 4:00 p.m., but it seemed like so long ago. He was ignoring anyone else that would catch his attention.
Elizabeth finally arrived, looking as stunning as ever, with his glowing strawberry blonde hair and emerald-shaped eyes. She was glad Alden had decided to take her out for Mother's Day. It's not every day she gets to spend time with her husband, knowing that he isn't always the outgoing type, but he was well worth it. She was scouting him out until she noticed him sitting alone at the table.
Alden noticed Elizabeth rushing over to him, and he knows how much he enjoys that kind of enthusiasm, especially from his wife, so he began to wave towards her to let her know where to find him. Elizabeth soon starts to sit across from Alden. "I am so glad you chose this location." Elizabeth said as she started to look him in the eyes. "I figured going out as a couple would be the best Mother's Day gift I could give you." He said as he slowly reached for her hand.
Of course, Elizabeth took his hand in return. "I know the kids are grown up now, but I miss being a mother more than ever. I'd like to pay you a visit whenever possible, but for now, let's focus on each other." Alden understands how much she misses being a mother, but he has already decided to pay them a visit. "I am sure Eloise, Asher, and Arthur would love to be visited by you." He knows he wasn't the best father, but he'll do anything for Elizabeth. "Now I want to spoil you with my love~" Alden said as he decided to kiss her on the hand.
Alden looks back at her as he starts to browse the menu. "I've heard positive things about this location. "I can be ready for dessert with you, but it was difficult to make reservations at this place." Elizabeth laughs at his flirtatious behavior back when he had no idea what flirting was. Oh, how the years have passed. "With you, there's never a dull moment. makes me fall even more in love with you." Knowing how much he has changed, she said, grinning. She said, "...Oh, you remember when you weren't sure about being a parent?"
Alden sighed before returning his gaze to her eyes, recalling that question as vividly as if it were yesterday, now that their children had grown into adults. They have this free time for themselves. "Yes, I was, until I saw you holding Asher in your arms. I knew I was going to become a father." To think it was only Mother's Day, but this was her day to be honored as the mother who had given birth to both his son and daughter. Although he wishes Asher were his biological child.
"So, what will you eat, my dear? It's my treat." Alden inquired, looking at her with those eyes that knew exactly what she intended to eat. He could think of any New Orleans dish she could order and eat at this restaurant. And this restaurant was at the pinnacle of New Orleans cuisine.
"Hmm, I'm not sure yet." Elizabeth said, before looking over the menu and noticing all the creative names, that she could go for some gumbo. She could order this seafood-flavored gumbo; seafood can be expensive, and she was feeling fancy. "What about this seafood gumbo?" Elizabeth mentioned showing off the menu, and he couldn't help but savor the taste inside his mouth; it does sound delicious.
Alden decided to be a little more creative when it came to selecting a dish; perhaps he should try a burger. He knows burgers aren't a big deal because Vincent seems to enjoy them more than he does. He much prefers a good steak. But for today, he will be a little more daring. "I am not sure if they serve steak, but I will order their bistro burger." Alden said with a wide smile, and Elizabeth looked at him in awe.
The waitress approached the table, noticing Elizabeth and Alden together as their hands quickly began to interlock again. "Hello. Are you both ready to order?" Elizabeth smiled at the waitress and said, "Hello, yes, we are ready to order." Elizabeth said as she looked back at her husband, urging him to say something. "Hello, I apologize for being distracted; we are ready to order." He soon found himself waiting for his wife to say something.
"I'll take the seafood gumbo, please and thank you." Elizabeth's voice still possessed that kindness, and she was truly kind to everyone she met. The waitress looked at him, and he began to speak. "I'll have the Bistro Burger, please." Alden spoke, and the waitress nodded as she began to write it on her notepad. "And for drinks?" The waitress asked. "Just one bottle of wine for us." Soon enough, the waitress left.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
"So, when was the last time you took me anywhere?" Regardless of their age, they felt like a young couple again inside this diner. "It's been a while. I know I've been preoccupied with my long-term fame and passing that legacy down to my son." He wasn't thinking about his age; he's no longer in his twenties and thirties. "I have been taking care of the home as usual, but you have been working hard; now I only have a husband to take care of," she teased.
"It's been relatively easy now that I don't have three children running around, you were better at parenting." Alden understands that he was not the perfect parent, but he did his best, and Elizabeth appreciated it as he began to lean toward her and caress her cheek. "Happy Mother's Day, my love." Elizabeth begins to blush as he caresses her cheek with his hand.
"I know you had doubts about your parenting abilities, but I think you did an excellent job. Asher and Eloise both love you. I understand you and Arthur have struggled with your relationship, but you have years to make up in their adult lives." Elizabeth did her best to reassure Alden as she looked at him lovingly; of course, he played a role in favoritism, but growing up with an abusive father did not help him.
"Yeah, I miss those moments. I'm still sorry for what happened; it was my fault, but despite you pushing that baby out of you, I thought you'd die... but I'm glad you survived and we have our beautiful baby boy. I suppose it was easier once Eloise arrived." Elizabeth could not help but smile softly again. "It was a little easier. But I'll do it again with you." Elizabeth stated that knowing how much she adores Alden, he was the ideal man she married and the best father in her eyes.
The waitress returned with their meals without a single doubt. "Here are your meals, Mr. and Mrs."She soon had her seafood gumbo, while he had his bistro burger. Elizabeth's gumbo was a traditional New Orleans gumbo with Gulf shrimp, crab meat, and okra. Elizabeth couldn't help but appreciate how well they made it. Just the way she liked it, much like her cooking. Alden ate his burger, despite the fact that he didn't particularly enjoy them. This burger altered his mind. It consisted of brisket, short rib, and chuck, with Tillamook extra sharp cheddar cheese and applewood bacon on a brioche bun with crispy pommes frites.
"It's time to enjoy our meals." Elizabeth said with a small smile, aware that their conversation had been partially interrupted, but she didn't seem to mind as long as she could enjoy dinner with her husband. Elizabeth began to eat her gumbo while maintaining eye contact with her husband, despite the fact that they had a bottle of wine and two wine glasses on the table and were too preoccupied with the food. He began to open the wine bottle, intending to pour it into both glasses.
This was ideal—just him and his wife, with no one else to bother him. They rarely went out when they had children because children came first, but he would not change his life; his life was perfect and there was nothing wrong with it. He wasn't particularly fond of children at first, but he grew to enjoy being a father as he took a large bite of his burger; the crispy bacon felt good on his tongue. He kept eating his burger, swallowing each bite.
Elizabeth had already finished her gumbo and was savoring every bite. She never imagined her husband would plan such a big surprise. Although he can be quite romantic when he sets his mind to it, she grabbed her wine glass and began to drink it. It was a lovely shade of red, just how she and her husband preferred it.
When the burger was finished, he grabbed his glass and wanted to toast with his wife, but he didn't know what to say. A part of him realizes she was reading his mind. He held his glass and tilted his head slightly to look at Elizabeth. "Let us toast to parenthood, my dear." Alden said as he waited for her to grab her glass, and they both began toasting together.
They soon started toasting together as they both began to drink. It was delightful. To think that today, of all days, was more memorable than the last. However, they wonder what they will do for their children as soon as they arrive. Despite Asher's busy schedule with his children, they understand that they must meet on an equal footing.
What a perfect time for a kiss? Right. Maybe, just maybe, they'll kiss each other at the right time on this perfect day. They placed their glasses on the table, and Alden reached over to it as Elizabeth gazed at her with those lustful eyes. "Je suppose que tu veux un baiser" Soon, their lips met, and he slowly closed his eyes, melting into her warm embrace of a kiss.
It only lasted a moment before the waiteress returned and placed the check. But he blushed again as he looked at the waiter standing there. He planned to pay for it. The waiter noticed that they were having a private moment and placed the check on the table before leaving.
Alden began to pay for the food and slowly stood up from the table. "Are you prepared to go to see the children?" He inquired as he began to extend a hand towards her. Elizabeth smiled up at him, "Of course." Elizabeth said as she quickly took his hand and began to leave the area. It was now 6:00 p.m. Enough time to make it worthwhile.
They both began to walk outside of the Bistro and out, towards Arthur's house, wondering if they were all in the same house. Elizabeth wondered what she was expecting, and she was slightly tipsy from the wine, but not enough to stop walking. "Let us go see our children." He said.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Finally they arrived at Arthur's place, it was just like they imagined, their son was truly perfect in every way especially with the way he chose his house whom he calls his home. However they were excepting the suprise of their lives as soon as they knock on the door waiting for answer. "I hope Arthur is alright." Elizabeth said looking over at her husband knowing how much busy their lives have gone with children.
When Arthur opened the door, he saw his mother and lit up, but when he saw his father, his expression turned sour. It appears that he has not forgotten the memories from his childhood. "Please come inside." Arthur invited her inside to see the surprise that was waiting for his mother and father.
Once inside, Alden noticed Asher was pregnant with his second child. His daughter, Veronica, was with her father Vincent. Asher approached immediately and hugged both his mother and father. "I am so happy to see mama and papa," he said, maintaining his playful charm from when he was a child. "I am so glad to see you here on Mother's Day."
Arthur looks at Elizabeth and Alden, knowing that his wife and daughter are finishing the cake they made for Elizabeth to celebrate Mother's Day. "We have a surprise for you; simply sit down." Arthur said kindly, allowing them to sit on the couch. Eloise was also present as a young adult, albeit she was younger than them. "I am glad you're here, Mama. It was Arthur and Asher's idea to visit here."
Evelyn began to bring out the cake she had helped make and placed it on the table in front of her, with the words "Happy Mother's Day" on it. Arthur soon brought them all together as a single unit. Elizabeth was overcome with happiness. "Really? "For me?" Elizabeth inquired as she smiled at Arthur and Asher, attempting to hold back happy tears.
This was perfect, everything a mother could ask for. Not just a cake, but a family united as one. The cake was half chocolate and half vanilla, and Asher helped light the candles. Elizabeth started blowing out the candles. Everyone clapped together. What a wonderful mother's day. "Thank you all; this is a Mother's Day I'll never forget."
This takes place before the finale, Asher is my persona from Hazbin Hotel and in his source him and Alastor are father/son (in new canon) (Ocs are soul bonded to the characters)
It had been a few months since the hotel was listed on the map, Charlie was exhausted from work, and Alastor was missing. Asher was filling in as a co-host. He wasn't always a radio demon, but he tries. Vaggie finds Asher while trying to direct the guests to their rooms. "Asher, please get your father, Alastor. He isn't doing his job. " Asher sighs, realizing that his father is nowhere to be found.
"I'll go find him, Vaggie. Just check on Charlie. "*She seems stressed." he wonders where Lucifer was, his uncle was maybe to antagonize his father like he always does. Asher decided to get some flowers since he knows that he loves Roses because nature reminds him of his wife Elizabeth. He went to the cannibal colony to buy flowers with the help of Rosie and going back to the hotel.
Alastor was inside his room, sitting in front of the fire, angry that his staff was broken and Rosie was no help, and he didn't want to go see her. He sees no point in assisting if he isn't the most powerful sinner. He heard the knock on the door and appears irritated. "What is it now? " He hopes Charlie and Vaggie aren't bothering him. He began walking towards the door and opened it to see his adopted son, Asher.
"Papa, Vaggie wanted to go find you." Asher said as he looked worried looking at his father like this. He seemed disgruntled. He wonders what was the problem before looking over at his broken staff. "Are those flowers?" Alastor asked looking at the roses which Asher nods in return. "Yes, I thought giving you some flowers would help you feel a little bit better." Alastor immediately takes the flowers to put in a vase right next to the photo of he has of his family.
Asher closed the door behind him and looked around; everything felt more familiar. Part of it was the bayou and two chairs in front of the fireplace. He sat down in the chair, waiting for his father to sit across from him. "Do you know where Mama is? " He asked, looking at Alastor, who appeared to be upset about something. "She is in heaven, but Adam broke my cane. I have not been able to perform my duties. " Asher was more smart than that, wondering what else he was keeping from him. "*You know I can never tell you the full truth now can I?*" Alastor asked as he held his broken cane. "*I have been trying to follow in your footsteps and I know this has to do with Rosie does it?*" Asher said.
Alastor's face was in a permanent smile. "And my husband Vox isn't making this case easy now does it?" Asher asked as he was sitting in the hotel. "Maybe the hotel is changing you and you don't like it." Asher said which Alastor looked at at his son knowing that he couldn't dare to be angry at him for telling the truth.
"Rosie is the primary reason I am chained to her, yes. And the primary reason for my strength. But you know you keep this between us, son. You know how I always preferred you over my own son Arthur, but I feel empty without your mother around." He said, grabbing the picture of him and her with their children. "Now I realize that redemption was possible all along with the help of my niece Charlie." Asher frowned, wondering if this was the primary reason he was hiding. "Is this why you aren't helping like at all? You know I have been helping my uncle to even host the hotel" Asher didn't sound very happy.
"I don't know if I am going to be redeemed that means giving up the prideful parts of me. I have to stop killing people. I can't be unchained. Rosie treats me like her pet. I am not her pet." Alastor said as he was showing off his anger in form of a scowl. "I know even if I could help you get redeemed. I don't think I know how." He said before leaning into his own cane which was a microphone. "We don't know how Sir Pentious got redeemed but he is still dead." Asher said as he noticed that he was angry and he wasn't exactly helping.
"Do you think maybe talking to Charlie would help?" Asher suggested looking at him waiting to hear his answer. Asher knew that his father couldn't say no to him unless his name was his other son. "I know you miss mama but sulking about it, it's not helping. Let's get back." Asher suggested by lending out his hand towards him.
Alastor was quite hesitant to take his hand but he took his hand. "Ah, you are just stubborn as me, huh? Ever since I raised you as my daughter." Alastor remarked as he was helping him up like this. "If redemption is possible then we can do this together." Asher said as he held his hand inside his hand as a platonic dad to son gesture.
Asher and Alastor started to walk outside of his bedroom to go catch up with Vaggie and Charlie. Vaggie immediately saw them and looked at Asher. "Asher, you're just in time. Can you tell Charlie to not feed into Vox's lies?" Asher started to scratch at his neck. "I'll do my best but I can't guarantee anything. My cousin could be pretty stubborn too." He chuckled lightly before leaving Alastor's sight again.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Asher looked around for Charlie, hoping to speak with her about something. But she always seemed preoccupied with something, even though he was the only one who got Alastor out of his room. Asher watched into Charlie who was inside her bedroom, almost about to text Vox. "I know you are going to text Vincent, Colette." He said knowing they are alone inside the room, he sat next to him.
"He keeps spreading these lies about me one after another and another. I would never hurt anyone especially not like this." Asher immediately wrapped his arms around her listening to her woes. "It's not about you, it never has been. I think he's trying to find an excuse to lure my father out. He's always been like." Asher laughed nervously leaning his head against her shoulder. "I would find a way to talk to him but it won't be easy unless he and father can figure out something." Charlie's frown slowly turns into a smile. "Thanks, Asher." Asher nodded, "anytime."
Soon enough, he started to walk outside of the bedroom. He decided to check on anything that he needs to do before settling at the bar looking at Husk. "Hey, Husk." Asher asked looking at him wondering how he's been holding up. After all of this time, he hasn't have the time to talk to him due to how busy the hotel is with guests who choose to stay. "I am doing just fine." Husk said as he begins to clean the bar glasses as he already finished serving some people. "I have been busy, do you mind if you get me a drink?" Asher asked hoping it wasn't much of a bother. Husk doesn't even answer the question but he starts to make him a drink. "Thanks, Husk." Asher said before drinking it.
Asher begins to continue drinking before asking for another. "You finally got Alastor out of his room? Hell even I couldn't get him to do anything." Husk asked looking at him curiously as Asher started to swish with his glass. "He only listens to me nowadays since mama is in heaven." Asher said knowing that before all of this, he was his adoptive father all of this time not knowing his actual biological father drinking. "I still can't believe Alastor is your father let alone he has a wife." Husk said even though he knows Asher wouldn't lie to him.
"I just want the best for my father and maybe talking to Arthur would help ease my mind a little bit. I wonder where Alastor is." Asher said still looking at Husk wondering what he was doing, maybe going to a walk. Soo enough Charlie was bringing Vox and Velvette into the hotel. "*Look what the devil dragged in." He chuckled before looking over at his husband. Vox immediately walked over to him and he started to hit onto him. "Baby, I have been wondering where you were."
"I was spending time here in the hotel with my family." Vox sat down next to Asher as they got closer to each other now. "Let me guess you're here for another rematch, Vincent?" Asher remarked as Vox blushed immediately and started to shush Asher. "Don't call me that in public."
"Just stop spreading lies about my cousin, or else." Asher said looking at Vox which Vox sighed. "Well, I am going along with public opinion and it gets clicks and money, since we have been losing money." Vox said which sounded mostly excuses. Asher rolls his eyes before leaning in to kiss him on the lips. "*Still doing your old ways~" he couldn't help but tease a little bit.
Before Vox could returned the kiss, Alastor appeared in front of them and he seemed annoyed, "am I interrupting something?"
“How’d you get those scars?”
“You’ll find out soon (^ᗜ^ )”
Edit: someone said it looks like I’m de-twinkifying Alastor and I’m sincerely devastated, I would literally NEVER 😭😭😭😭 black twink rep for the win, if it looks detwinkified then I’ve just failed at drawing my intentions! 😭😭😭💔
Okay so like, I'm in the middle of writing a 4k word smut oneshot because of all your headcanons and fics of Ford- THANK U BTW for "His hands know you better than you do"
Can't stop thinking of Ford having a dumbification kink dbjsabka. Anyways, I think Ford would mercilessly spoil reader to the point where words just don't form from their lips anymore and all they can do is spell out their name.
Or him having Reader writhe and spell his name with her hips.
That's it, thats my ted talk, I'm too shy for more details but I can't stop thinking of Ford just switching up and teasing reader relentlessly.
I am so sorry though if this is way too much, please feel free to ignore if this ask crosses any boundaries and I will understand!! ^^
omg hun. first of all there’s nothing to be shy about. literally nothing. we are all mad here :) so pls never apologise for this. we are simply telling the truth about this man.
second of all, im SCREAMING about your 4k smut oneshot, tag me when you'll post it pls? <3
nsfw bc YES. im such a big fan of the headcanon that Ford has a dumbification kink.
also using the “good girl” because i couldn't resist sorry
Ford never even considered himself a good lover in bed because he was still a virgin before you. so even now, after countless nights of slow, overwhelming sex, he still doesn’t really believe he’s the best you’ve had. not until you scream for him and your legs shake and your voice goes high and helpless, so suddenly he’s like “WTFF was that because of me?” YES. YES IT WAS.
listen, he doesn’t even mean to go that deep. it’s just. your pussy is so warm and wet and greedy and his cock slides in so naturally that he loses track of how far he’s going, until the head bumps your cervix and you jolt, crying out.
“shh, oh im sorry, sweetheart. did i hurt you?”
but you’re clawing at him, choking out little “n-no, just slow down but keep going, please, Ford oh fuck”
awww and he’s half-whimpering into your neck, because fuck, he feels bad for your poor, overstimulated body, but he can’t stop, kissing your tears away so gently. so that's how he fucks you stupid and finds out about dumbification existence. and of course he's obsessed by how quickly you unravel. how a few hard deep thrusts or a bit of dirty praise whispered in your ear turns you from a sharp, witty thing into a soft, drooling, incoherent mess.
he’s all “use your brain, darling,” while stuffing you full of cock and then seconds later going “no, no, don’t think. let me do it for you.”
“but F-ford, can’t think when you’re doing that“ you sob and that’s what he wanted, perfect, that's why he spreads your legs wider, murmuring “exactly,” while pinning you to the bed. “don’t think. let me handle everything.”
also overstimulation. he needs to see you babbling, drooling, blinking slow because your brains are gone. he’ll keep going, murmuring about how you’re too precious to be thinking anyway, “i’ve got you, just let me do the work” and you’re sobbing under him, mumbling nonsense and he’s so fucking proud.
and don't even try to say something smart like a full sentence, he will shut it down immediately with a kiss and another hard thrust.
hes so satisfied when he sees you literally melting from his cock. Ford absolutely loves that glassy-eyed look when you’re gone, when all you can do is hold onto him and moan his name like it's the only word you remember. he loves that pretty empty head of yours. the fact that if he pulls out right now and asks what day of the week it is, you won't even know what the word week means.
you start trying to say please but all you can manage is some soft garbled “pluh–pluhh—“ and then nothing but the sound of your body begging for him.
god is he relentless. he’d do it again. and again. and again. until you’re blinking up at him with no real thought in your head besides more and please and him. just his pathetic fucked-out thing who can’t even say “faster” without crying.
“sweetheart,” he says, cupping your flushed face, “you’re doing so well. but you haven’t said my name properly once.”
and your only reply is a whimpery gasp of “sh-shiit, i— mmn—can’t—“
“mm, no? can’t?” Ford drags his fingers down the inside of your thigh where you’re already shaking, overstimulated and barely holding on. “then show me, please? come on, spell it out for me, darling. you know how. S–t–a–n–f–o–r–d. just like that, good girl.” ugh, brain all fogged up so your body moves on its own, soaking him without even realising it. and if you’re too dumbed down to even do that, don't worry, he’ll take over. puts those big hands on your waist and guides you into slow, lazy circles on his cock, groaning.
your head’s tipped back, just letting out pathetic “ah ah ah” as he fucks into you. you smile stupidly hearing millions of “good girl” from the man who is pushing you into the bed with his deep thrusts, spreading lewd sounds of slaps throughout the room
Ford loves when you stutter. he’ll keep going even when you’re so overstimmed you’re sniffling and twitching, pushing his twitching cock into your sopping pussy while cooing, “can’t stop yet, sweetheart. not until you forget everything but my name.”
It's a pity that you can't see yourself from the outside. just how dumb you look underneath him, how sweet and eager to take everything he gives, tears on your cheeks and tongue slipping over nonsense, and how he makes you cum without a single coherent word from your mouth. he’s so in love. and he’s so going to do it again.
i imagine he’d pin your wrists with one hand and press the other flat across your stomach to feel how deep he is, how far gone you are. “poor thing, so full of me you’ve gone completely soft up there, haven’t you?”
and you’d sob out some broken little “mmm, uh-huh, can’t, feels good, Ford. . . can't think”
“i know you can’t, love. that’s the point. just like that. don’t worry your pretty head, i’ve got it all handled.”
pls don’t get me started on his hands. he'll finger you until you’re numb, wet, overstimmed beyond logic, holding your thighs open and saying “one more” when it’s been three
so yeah im a big believer in Ford fucking his girl stupid. and knowing his narcissistic tendencies, after all this, if you also thank him once your voice comes back, you'll receive “any time, darling. i take my work very seriously.”
• always brings you back a rock or something obscure from every expedition.
• says “i missed you” even after just a few hours apart.
• checks the temperature of your tea.
• fixes things around the house without telling you, tightens cabinet hinges, replaces lightbulbs, polishes your favorite ring.
• gets defensive when people question your intelligence.
• over-explains basic shit just because he's excited you asked.
• always reads the ingredients on your skincare bottles. and warns about dangerous compounds
• if you wear glasses, he cleans them for you. wipes them on the hem of his shirt and calls it acts of service.
• makes you tea and stands there awkwardly waiting for you to say it’s good.
• will stop mid-sentence in a lecture to stare at you and smile like a fool.
• will ignore a broken rib if he's on the edge of a discovery. but god forbid you get a paper cut.
• runs his thumb over your lips before kissing you.
• builds a pillow fort just to read with you, then ends up kissing you inside until the books fall over.
• asks “may i?” for kisses before taking them. he always asks for kisses, even when it’s obvious you’ll give him one, still wants permission.
• groans, barely audible, when you rake your nails through his hair. really likes it when you touch him like that.
• he just likes when you tug his hair during a kiss and gets flustered about it afterward.
• never interrupts you mid-sentence, even when you’re rambling. likes it when you share things.
• stares at your lips when you speak. they’re more captivating than stars.
• ties your shoes for you if you’re sleepy or tipsy or just lazy. he doesn't mind.
• stares at you instead of the stars when he’s stargazing.
• carries you up the stairs when your legs give out, murmuring soft reassurances that you’re safe with him.
• kisses you before dangerous experiments, every time, just in case. never skips it. for luck
• gets super flushed if you touch his thigh even a little bit.
• folds you into his chest after fights.
• says “don’t tempt me” with zero idea how sexy he sounds when he says it.
• gets turned on by intelligent conversation, you repeating his smart phrases or words drives him insane.
• calls it “making love” . tries to be polite in bed and asks if things are okay like every three minutes.
• grips your thighs way too tight during foreplay, he doesn’t know his strength.
• gets hard when you chew on pens. every time.
• is really possessive but tries to act chill.
• 100% gets flustered if you compliment his hands, fingers, forearms.
• loves when you sit on the desk while he works but can’t concentrate at all.
• presses his lips to your spine in the mornings when you’re still half-asleep.
• hates asking for help but lets you wash his hair in the shower once and then keeps asking.
• gets off on eye contact but doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing.
• ashamed he makes noises during sex he did not mean to make.
• gets way too turned on when you’re barefoot for some reason.
• calls you “darling” when he’s trying not to say “please let me fuck you”
• he would 100% name a star after you. or a species.
• bites the end of pens. always has ink on his tongue. one time he kissed you like that
• when he figured out how the phone works, he'll definitely send you photos of bugs, butterflies, moss, random flowers, trees, anomalies, fossils.
• says “careful, darling” whenever you touch sharp objects as if you're not a full-grown adult.
• loves when you leave lipstick stains on his collar. keeps samples of your lipstick color just to recreate the print you left on him once.
• so good with his fingers it's unfair.
• tells you what he’s doing as he does it. like “i’m going to touch you here now” and then does and stares at you, watching your reaction.
• has definitely taken your underwear “for analysis”
• will edge you for hours just to test your limits, kissing your cheek, saying “come on now, just one more for me”
• gets off on your brain fog. like when he’s done with you and you can’t talk right.
• whispers “easy now, love, i’ve got you” when you get overwhelmed.
• and then grips your wrists above your head when he wants you to stay still.
• but also really into slow, grinding sex that lasts forever. he wants full-body contact. loves feeling your weight on him, chest to chest, just slowly dragging yourself over his cock until he’s whimpering.
• jerks off way too often while thinking about very specific things you’ve said or worn.
• he’s extremely into humping, like desperate, fully clothed, dry humping against your ass while hugging you from behind. it’s shameful how much he gets off on it.
• he gets embarrassingly turned on from making out for too long, like five minutes in and he’s already leaking. he hates how fast he gets worked up and always tries to act casual but fails every time. but Ford loves kisses very much. too much.
• blushes furiously when you say smth unexpected, but god, he remembers every word for days.
• strokes your calf under the blanket while he reads. doesn’t stop even when you fall asleep + rubs your calves just generally always. doesn't notice he’s doing it. it's just what he does now.
• gets handsy when he’s focused, places you in his lap to, as he says, save space in the lab, but then grips your waist when you're fidgety. he will never finish his project but at least he’ll finish in his pants.
• sometimes groans your name during sleep.
• presses his nose into the crook of your neck when he's overstimulated and secretly loves being overstimulated.
• has a weak spot for the way you smell after a long day, less perfume, more you. leans into your neck and hums when you're sweaty and soft and sleepy. gets off on your scent.
• mumbles “good one / girl / boy” without realizing it when you obey him gently, even outside the bedroom, when you do everyday things.
• places his forehead to your chest when he’s ashamed.
• leaves his glasses on during sex always because he wants to watch.
• corrects your grammar while fingering you. he’s awful like that.
• outside the bedroom, corrects your grammar out of reflex too but apologizes immediately after when he sees your face.
• loves when you correct him too. gets all hot and bothered. “yes. yes. you're right, my darling. you’re always right.”
• pulls you into his lap after lectures. “you looked too good sitting there. couldn’t concentrate”
• whispers “just one more” before every kiss, and then five kisses later still hasn’t let you go.
• gets overwhelmed during kissing and starts pushing. backing you up against a wall, gripping your waist, breathing too hard, muffled groans into your mouth, grinding against you, humping you.
• leans in to smell your hair constantly, especially when you’ve just showered or come in from the cold. but the best thing is if you were busy all day or after workout, etc.
• kisses your temple before going down on you.
• washes your hair for you in the shower.
• melts when you kiss his fingertips.
• buys books he thinks you’d like and awkwardly gives them to you.
• watches you read with an expression that should be illegal.
• lets you fall asleep on top of him and doesn’t move all night.
I DESPERATELY NEED MEAN DOM!FORD PLEASE I DONT CARE IF THAT DOESNT SUIT HIM I NEED HIM TO MOCK ME
mean dom!Ford x fem!reader
a/n: hey its totally ok and understandable, i love this man in every way, sub/dom or switch, i like to experiment and put him in different moods
tags: nsfw, fem!reader, fingering, ford being mean, dom!ford, needy reader, squirting
Ford doesn’t even bother looking up from his book as you squirm, desperate for just a sliver of his attention.
“you’ve been insufferable today,” he murmurs, tracing his long finger along your thigh slowly. “you can’t even sit still for ten minutes. what’s gotten into you?”
“just,” you blink up at him, wide-eyed and needy, clutching at the sleeve of his coat like some kind of plea. “Ford—”
“ah-ah.” he cuts you off without sparing a glance, his face still buried in the dense pages of his book. “don’t whine at me, sweetheart, it’s unbecoming.”
the sting of his indifference makes your cheeks burn, but the gentle, absentminded touch of his fingers only worsens the ache building between your legs. you press yourself closer to him, shifting with an embarrassed wiggle, hoping, praying, for something more.
“so needy,” he tuts under his breath, finally flicking his eyes down to catch your pitiful expression. the corners of his mouth curl into smirk. “what is it you want, hm? use your words, darling.”
“need you, please,” you mumble, breath hitching as his six long, perfect fingers curl against your hip, stilling your movement.
“‘need me,’” he parrots back flatly as if the words mean nothing to him. and then, just as your lip threatens to tremble, his hand is sliding down. languid and unhurried until the tips of his fingers press over the seam of your pajama shorts. “is this what you’ve been sulking about?” his fingers slip past the elastic of your panties now to find the slick heat of your cunt. the sharp inhale you give in response makes his smirk widen
you gasp softly, nodding far too eagerly as the faintest pressure makes your thighs clench together around his hand.
“tch. so pathetic, my love.” he hums like he’s only mildly amused, flipping a page of his book with his other hand as though this isn’t taking an ounce of his focus. “you can’t even get off by yourself, can you? you always need my help.”
your face burns hotter at the truth of his words.
“well,” he hooks two fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them low enough to slip his big hand inside. “lucky for you, i’m generous.”
you pant as he parts your delicate folds, spreading your slick as though he’s analyzing it. his thumb brushes lazily against your clit and your hips buck against him. “please. . . Ford,” you whimper, digging your fingers into his broad shoulders as he presses one thick finger into your entrance, just one, and it already feels like too much. “yes, more. . .”
“shh,” he murmurs, sounding like he’s scolding a misbehaving student. his eyes remain glued to the book propped lazily in his hand, not even sparing you the satisfaction of his gaze. “if you’re going to make this much noise, i’ll stop right now. do you understand?”
you bite down hard on your lip, nodding weakly as you stifle the whine that bubbles in your throat.
“good girl,” he mutters, thrusting his finger in a faint rhythm that has you trembling against him already. the slow drag of his touch, barely applying pressure, feels so cruel. he’s teasing your needy pussy on purpose, barely letting you feel enough to keep from crying.
“you’re already dripping. how shameful,” Ford says absently. “you must really be desperate if my touch alone has you this worked up.”
your hips twitch despite yourself, grinding into his palm like you’re trying to get more friction out of his cruel, lazy pace.
“are you that greedy?” he scoffs softly, clicking his tongue disappointedly. “i haven’t even properly touched you yet.”
you feel him shift slightly, and then, oh god, two of his fingers dip inside your messy cunt with ease, sliding in to the knuckle like they belong there. you choke back a gasp, clenching hard around him as he curls them just so, finding that spot with an infuriating ease that makes your vision blur. all this time his full attention is focused on book as though it is far more fascinating than the way your warm walls flutter and clench around his fingers.
your breath stutters in your throat as he pumps them with slow precision, twisting his wrist to press against the spongy spot that has you seeing stars. he’s relentless, six perfect fingers and half of his attention enough to make you feel like you’re falling apart, you’re losing all sense of yourself against him.
“Ford, Ford, please,” you manage to gasp, hands curling into fists against his chest. your nails claw at the fabric of his coat, desperate to have more of him, to pull his focus away from that damn book.
but he doesn’t even blink and you want to cry. want to scream. want him to look at you, but he’s back to reading again, flipping a page with a practiced flick of his wrist while his other hand pumps two thick fingers into you slowly.
“so awfully impatient tonight,” he remarks, reading his book like he hasn’t just pressed a third finger inside your already-stretched wet cunt. the burn of it, the stretch is delicious, unbearable, too much. “you wanted my attention, didn’t you?” he continues, voice still maddeningly level, as though he can’t hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth or the wet, squelching noises coming from where his fingers fuck into your pussy.
“y-yes,” you choke out, forehead dropping against his shoulder as your body trembles, helpless against his pace. “yes, Ford— need you, please—”
“you have it now,” Ford cuts you off, scissoring his fingers inside you, pressing harder until you cry out, legs shaking and hips jerking against him. the words go straight to your core and your walls flutter around his finger again, he chuckles softly at that, shaking his head because you’re just so predictable.
he pumps his fingers slower again, so unbelievably slow, the pads of them brushing over your spongy sweet spot every time. perfect, practiced, ruthless. and he doesn’t stop reading. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t react when your whimpers get louder or when you grind helplessly against his palm, dripping on his hand.
“Ford— can’t—“ your back arches, needy moan rips from your throat, but Ford just flips another page of his book, his expression bored.
“you act like you can’t take it,” he says flatly, fucking you with his fingers a little bit faster. “but i know better. i know this greedy little cunt can handle so much more.”
“no, no, cant—“
“you can,” he bites out, fingers suddenly stilling inside you. the sudden emptiness makes you wail, but his cold stare finally flicks down to meet yours and it shuts you up instantly. “and you will. you’ll sit there like a good girl and take what i give you or you’ll get nothing.”
the coil in your belly pulls tight, pleasure threatening to snap, to overwhelm you completely. and still, still, he acts so unbothered, so calm, even as your slick drips down the length of his hand.
“hm,” he hums thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he’s only just now beginning to enjoy himself. “close, aren’t you?”
you nod weakly, unable to form words, unable to do anything but whine softly into the fabric of his coat.
the book snaps shut.
you don’t even have time to process the movement before he tosses it carelessly onto the table, curling his hand at the back of your neck to yank you forward, crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs as he finally, finally, turns his full attention on you.
Ford growls against your lips, plunging his fingers back into your cunt without warning, harder, faster now, the rough glide of his palm pressing firmly against your swollen clit. “begging for my attention like a desperate little thing.” he cuts you off harshly, his hand pinning you down as you try to squirm, legs shaking violently around his arm.
“oh, now you’re shy?” Ford scoffs, watching with sharp amusement as you twist and arch under him, trying to take everything he’s giving you. his fingers pump into your little pussy mercilessly now, curling with every thrust as you try to move your hips together with his rhythm, letting him ruin you with only his fingers, riding them desperately, chasing that high.
“Ford—! it’s too—”
“too much?” he finishes for you mockingly, leaning in close until his breath is hot against your ear. “but you wanted my attention, sweetheart. now you’re going to take everything i give you.”
his thumb finds your puffy clit again, rubbing it rougher now, circling, pressing, forcing that coil in your belly to tighten, to snap. you cry out, a soundless scream caught on your lips as your body convulses, pleasure so blinding it feels like you’re being torn apart and you’re literally crying, feeling tears appearing in the corners of your eyes.
“so pretty when you cry,” he leans down and kisses your forehead. “that’s it, my love, give it to me. i want to feel you drench my hand, sweetheart. make a mess for me.”
“i— i can’t—! too much, too muchh. . . cant, i cant, F-Ford!”
“you will,” he snaps and thrusts his fingers so deep it feels like he’s tearing you apart, dragging across that spot again and again until you’re choking on sobs, legs locking up around him and you try to pull away because that feeling is unknown to you, but he keeps rubbing that place inside you with his fingertips again and again. “that’s it, cum for me, love, now.”
and you do, despite all your whines and mewls, you do as you shatter with a loud, keening cry, arching your back. your walls seize around his fingers, soaking his hand, your thighs, the fabric of his pants, even his coat. your slick gushing around his fingers as he fucks you through it.
“there it is,” Ford mutters, watching your pretty needy face. “look at you, darling, so messy. you’re so beautiful.”
Ford finally slows his pace, but his fingers still buried deep inside you as he feels your walls spasming around them. his other hand strokes your thighs and stomach gently, soothing, so tender, as though he hasn’t just ruined you completely.
you’re a mess, trembling, tears streaming down your face, but Ford just clicks his tongue, pulling his fingers free and holding them up in the low lamplight, satisfaction written all over his proud face as he examines the slick dripping down his hand before wiping it against your thigh.
“well, now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, maybe you’ll let me finish my reading in peace.”
So I've seen your hcs about Stan being a boob man (incredible, absolutely incredible btw) and I'm curious to know if you have any on Ford? He's so precious I feel like any part of his darling is enough to get him going but personally I think, if he had to choose, he'd have a deep, unfiltered love for thighs and tummy's but maybe that's just me!
Ford Pines is obsessed with you and your thighs and tummy ♡ headcanons
hey sweetheart!! thank you so much for this ask and for ur words<3 im glad u loved Stanley headcanons and im more than glad to write smth as that with Ford. i agree with u, im sure hes a thigh & tummy guy<3 oh god, scientists fear me for what i have discovered about this man
tags: nsfw, worshipping, thigh fucking, needy Ford, facesitting, oral sex, breeding kink, thigh riding, size kink if u squint, established relationship
also guys look at him, hes so silly awwww i wanna smash him against the wall
꩜⸝⸝ the first time Ford realizes he has a thing for thighs, he doesn’t even register it as a sexual thing. it starts with him resting his hand on your thigh while you sit together, and then he just. . . doesnt move it. well, he loves the warmth, the softness, so he presses his fingers into them and feels your muscles flex when you shift
꩜⸝⸝ he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. half the time, you have to be like, "Ford. honey. why are you gripping me like a stress ball?" and he just blinks, looks down at his hands, then turns bright red, coughing ”oh. um. force of habit?”
꩜⸝⸝ he gets so fucking distracted just absentmindedly rubbing your thighs. you’ll be talking about your day and he’s just kneading your flesh in his big ass hand, blushing madly when you say “Ford, are you even listening?”
“mm? yes, of course, sweetheart, i just, i was just appreciating how— hah—how incredibly soft you are?”
꩜⸝⸝ he will be in the middle of an experiment and just stop because he caught sight of you sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, thighs pressing together. and damn, what a beautiful sight. now this man is staring, zero thoughts, mind blank until you tell him “Ford, honey, you're burning the beaker.”
“what? oh, oh— damn!” he is so mad at himself for getting distracted, but he's so in love with you!!
꩜⸝⸝ but when he realizes he has a thing for your thighs in a sexual way this man is obsessed. he will never be normal again
꩜⸝⸝ the first time you wrap your thighs around his head while he’s eating you out, he genuinely whimpers because he’s never known a pleasure like this. he moans into your pussy, grabbing handfuls of your thighs, because they're so soft and divine and for him this is pure paradise
꩜⸝⸝ his fav thing is feeling them tremble when he makes you cum. he’ll groan, squeezing your flesh, trying to keep you there forever. im sure that if you'll try to pull away, he'll growl and grip you tighter, burying himself between them like a desperate needy man. “mm-mm, no, darling, i’m not finished with you yet.”
꩜⸝⸝ Ford goes feral for thigh fucking. he didn’t even know it was a thing. you had to suggest it and he lost his fucking mind. the first time he tries it, he’s panting like an animal, gripping your thighs so tight. afterward he’s apologizing, stammering. so flustered. “i didn’t, i didn’t mean to grip that hard.” you laugh and pull him down for a kiss because he’s so damn cute when he’s embarrassed
꩜⸝⸝ hell yeah, im sure he would love your tummy in every single way possible. he loves running his big hands over it, feeling the way it tenses when you laugh, when you gasp, when you shudder under his touch. he loves pressing kisses to it, nuzzling into it, murmuring against your skin about how beautiful you are. he loves holding you from behind and resting his hands on your stomach, tracing slow circles while he kisses your neck
꩜⸝⸝ if you’re insecure about it, he will kiss every inch of you, worship you, whisper how perfect you are until you start to believe him. “never hide from me, my love”
꩜⸝⸝ Ford def loves when you wear crop tops, but will never admit it. obsessed with the little sliver of skin that peeks out
꩜⸝⸝ if you let him cum on your tummy, oh my god, he’ll watch with blown pupils, whispering how gorgeous you look covered in him and suddenly, he is so aware of the fact that he wants to see you full in other ways too. cum-dripping, stuffed-full, round with his seed
꩜⸝⸝ whenever these thoughts visit him he immediately buries his face in his hands because oh no, he's realising he got a breeding kink? but how, Ford how?? you're a man of science! a man of rational thought! (i want to mock him, affectionate)
꩜⸝⸝ Ford loves putting his hand on your lower belly when he's inside you. it’s his fav thing in the world. because that way he can feel himself moving inside you and that drives him absolutely insane, so of course he'll get all desperate and moan smth as “hah—ohh, sweetheart, i—i can feel it—can you? can you feel me inside you?” blabbering mess
꩜⸝⸝ he wants you to know just how deep he’s reaching. Ford wants to hear you whimper, see your eyes roll back, feel your thighs tighten around him. but if you grab his hand and make him press harder??? fuck. he groans so loud. he loses his rhythm. his thrusts get messy
꩜⸝⸝ his breeding kink activates. immediately. he moans about how perfectly you take him, how he wants to fill you up, how he wants to ruin you. “ohh, darling, if i—hah—if i came inside, you’d feel so full, you’d—hah—ohhh, i need to, please let me“ and if you do let him cum inside??? he can’t stop whimpering, can’t stop pressing his hand against your belly, like he wants to see his cum inside you. he will stay inside for as long as he can. he wants to keep it there. he wants to make sure it takes. and if it starts dripping out? he fucks it right back into you because “mm-mm, no, sweetheart, we can’t waste it—hah—just one more, i promise—“
꩜⸝⸝ he loves holding it when he fucks you from behind, loves digging his fingers into your softness. prefers to pull you against his chest while thrusting into you, holding your hips and stomach
꩜⸝⸝ Ford loves having you in his lap, loves the weight of you, the way your thighs press against him, the way you squirm and shift and make him lose all coherent thought
꩜⸝⸝ he’ll pretend he’s focused, but his hands will wander, gripping your body tighter, whispering, “love, can’t think when you’re this close.”
꩜⸝⸝ oh no, oh no please, dont grind against him. you hear me? DON'T GRIND AGAINST HIM BECAUSE THAT'LL TURN HIM INTO A MESS. he gets so stupid. he’ll grip your hips, hold you down, moaning desperately into your ear, getting so needy his dick is about to explode. he’ll beg for you to let him fuck you like that, right there, right then, too desperate to care about anything else. “please, please, sweetheart, just let me, just need to feel you, need to be inside you, please“
꩜⸝⸝ god, at this point im sure he loves you riding his thigh, especially when he's working or writing smth. Ford adores watching you grind against his leg with your soft thighs wrapped around his. “god, look at you, so stunning, riding me so well.” as his hands slip under your shirt, palms gliding over your soft stomach
꩜⸝⸝ “patience, my love, i’m going to enjoy every inch of you.”
꩜⸝⸝ sometimes, Ford gets so worked up, so overwhelmed that he just can’t wait to be inside you, that's why thigh fucking is his stress relief. he’ll slick himself up and slide between your thighs, groaning as the soft, plush heat of your skin envelops him. he’ll kiss you senseless while he does it, gripping your hips, pushing your thighs together tighter around his cock
꩜⸝⸝ he ruts against you like an animal, barely holding himself back, panting into your ear, so needy he can barely function
꩜⸝⸝ if he's cumming on your thighs, he definitely spreads it with his fingers. and obviously he gets horny again as he starts rubbing himself against you, because he needs more
꩜⸝⸝ im getting too deep but. . . if you let him lick it off???
꩜⸝⸝ and if you ride him??? he watches you with wide desperate needy eyes, pupils blown, mouth open, completely dumbfounded by how fucking good you feel and look. “mm—ohh—yes, my love, just like that! use me, take what you need“
꩜⸝⸝ if during thigh fucking, you playfully tease him with “wish this was inside me, don’t you?” ohhh, he’ll cum so fast it’s embarrassing. watching his seed spill over your thighs, dripping down, mixing with your slick, he’ll lose his brilliant mind
꩜⸝⸝ thigh highs are his weakness, if you wear them, he will drop whatever he’s holding. walk straight into a wall. stammer through an entire sentence
꩜⸝⸝ as for other body parts, i think Ford has a weakness for calves. loves running his hands up and down ur calves, squeezing, massaging, kissing his way down from your knees to your ankles
꩜⸝⸝ he’ll hold your legs up on his shoulders while hes making love to you, feeling the way your calves flex and tense with every thrust
꩜⸝⸝ and if you wear heels?? if you wear anything that accentuates your legs??
꩜⸝⸝ try locking your legs around his waist, refusing to let him go. he'll cum immediately “hah—ohh, you—hah—keeping me here, are you? mm, clever little thing“
꩜⸝⸝ back to thighs: when he’s feeling needy, he’ll lie back, pull you on top of him and beg you to sit on his face because he wants to be suffocated between them until he can’t think anymore. he’ll grip them like they’re his lifeline, leaving six fingered marks on your skin, dragging you down against his mouth, moaning into your pussy like a man starved
꩜⸝⸝ i mean, he loves the way you grind down, chasing your own pleasure. literally loves being used
꩜⸝⸝ and yeah, i fully believe Ford may unintentionally (or intentionally) overstimulate his partner, so even when you'll finish, he won't let you go, gripping your thighs tighter, licking, lapping and sucking until you’re shaking and crying, pulling away because it’s too much and he’s still begging for more. “please, please, darling, don’t stop, i need to taste you, i need to make you cum again, please“
꩜⸝⸝ Ford prefers making love to you in positions that let him grab, squeeze and worship every inch of you
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