Imagine being a guest at the hotel when Vox and Velvette visit. You’ve slept in, so you know nothing about them visiting, and just come downstairs in your shark onesie for some bacon and waffles.
Vox and Velvette are about to leave when Vox sees you out of the corner of his eye and whips around. You’re yawning and shoving at least three waffles in your face at the same time, oblivious to the Overlords by the door.
In Vox’s eyes, everything slows down and his systems pick up. How did he not know you were here? Did you like sharks? Next time he visited, he’d bring Shock.wav and - next time?
“Vox?” Velvette waves her hand in front of his screen, which is glitching out faster than she’s ever seen before. “Vox, what the fuck, are you broken?” He doesn’t even think before moving her hand and staring at you again.
“That’s the one, Vel.” She looks at you, then at Vox, and then at you again.
“The one what?” Vox ignores her and sighs.
“She’s beautiful.” He forces himself to look away and turns to Charlie. “You know, Princess, maybe you’ve got a good thing going on with this hotel. We’ll make sure to spread the word.” Both Charlie and Velvette make identical faces of sheer confusion.
Vox makes to leave, but sneaks one last look at you. Utterly in a world of your own, you’re sprawled across the sofa watching a shark documentary. One of the ones he’d produced and narrated in.
His systems fry as he gets into the limo, and Velvette shrieks as the power goes out.
“We’re coming back here,” he says. “Absolutely. In fact, let’s come back in an hour. With Shock.wav and Vark. And a wedding planner.”
CW: f!reader, Vox's POV, boss/employee dynamic, unsolicited 🍆 pics, reader is a lil shit, teasing, blowjob, vox being slightly insecure, @peach-flavored-flambe brain infected mine and gave birth to this and it won't go back in so now it's out, fluff (?), attempt at humour
Vox sends you a dick pic (that he totally didn't spend all morning working on) and waits for you to shower him with grandiose praise, except you had other plans instead. (vox x reader)
Vox bounced his leg so hard the floor practically vibrated, his eyes snapping between his phone and the live feed on his monitor. The camera was aimed at his not-crush...
...okay, fine, his crush. His very real, very inconvenient crush.
It had all started… innocently-ish.
You, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, stupidly earnest about learning “how his operation works.” You had smiled at him—actually smiled—and laughed at his jokes like he wasn’t the most dangerous man in the room. Then came those tiny touches: your fingers brushing his arm, your hand lingering at his wrist when he passed you a file.
And suddenly Vox was here, sweating over his phone like a teenager with a Wi-Fi addiction.
He had followed Valentino’s advice.
Which was, in hindsight, his first mistake.
“Mi corazón,” Val had purred, “if you wanna bed a bitch, you gotta show her what you’re packin’.”
So Vox did exactly that.
Which was mistake number two.
After hours of morning prep and precisely 78,564 practice shots of his dick—from every angle, lighting, and level of enthusiasm—he finally chose the best one. He would’ve asked Velvette, but the moment he tried, she gagged so hard she threw a hardcover book at his face.
He wanted a woman’s opinion.
But apparently not.
Rude.
Still, he trusted his gut.
And his gut said: Damn, I look good.
Valentino had warned him that cameras make dicks look smaller—“angles are everything, cariño”—so Vox picked the image that captured the full heroic scale of his situation.
Then he sent it.
With a smirk emoji.
And an invitation to his penthouse.
Smooth. Elegant. Fucking seductive.
And it remained… unseen.
At first, he thought maybe the network was down.
Totally normal.
So he sent more.
And more.
And after the 87th picture, still nothing.
By then, Vox was moments away from hunting you down and shoving his phone in your face like, “HELLO?! A RESPONSE WOULD BE GREAT.”
He kept checking the screen every thirty seconds, his irritation rising like a stock graph on steroids—
Then.
“Seen.”
His spine shot straight. He clutched his phone so hard it squeaked. He pressed the screen to his face like he could absorb your attention through sheer desperation.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Those cursed three dots never appeared.
You always replied fast.
Always.
At least when he wasn’t sending you a small museum of unsolicited cock art.
He swallowed.
Maybe you were busy. Maybe you didn’t actually look. Maybe you just didn’t notice the size, which was frankly a tragedy, because it was right there.
Yeah. That had to be it.
So Vox forced himself back to work—expanding influence, making plans, controlling empires—while checking his phone every sixty seconds like a man being slowly psychologically tortured by his own thirst.
Nothing.
Nada.
Not even a goddamn eggplant + sweat emoji.
Unbelievable.
Vox’s eye twitched so hard his vision glitched.
Rejected? Him?
Him?
The most powerful, most successful, most devastatingly sexy sinner in all of Hell’s history—
(Fuck Alastor, sincerely and permanently.)
A rogue spark popped off his bevel and fizzled out on his shoulder like it, too, had given up on life.
He was not disappointed.
Nope. Not even a little.
He was perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly fine.
…Perfectly imagining you biting your lip and eyeing his crotch like a starving demon eyeing a five-star meal, because yes—it really is that big.
And you were going to react once you saw him. You had to.
After all, today’s meeting was important. The Vees. Him. You. His brilliant pitch for the new VoxTek Home Security System™ which was a top-tier, Hell-wide technological marvel that was absolutely not just a glorified spy device he planned to install in everyone’s living room.
Obviously, you were just playing hard to get.
Obviously.
But then you walked in, Velvette on one side, Valentino on the other, and nearly obliterated the last functioning pixel of his sanity.
You sat down primly, like temptation incarnate dressed as a secretary: pencil skirt hugging your hips, blouse dipped into a sinful little V, clipboard balanced neatly in your lap. You were taking notes.
Actual notes. Like a professional.
Not like someone who had 87 unsolicited pictures of his dick haunting her phone's memory.
Vox tried to position himself confidently, but his eyes kept drifting toward you like he’d been factory-programmed for thirst.
Then you looked up.
Tilted your head.
Gave him the sweetest, most innocent smile imaginable.
Like you hadn’t seen his cock in widescreen, portrait mode, night mode, panoramic, fisheye, artistic shadow play and the goddamn rule of thirds.
His chest tightened.
Oh, Hell.
Could it be—
Did you not like it?
Were you… turned off?
Was he the clown in this circus?
Were the signals all in his head?
“-ox.”
Should he text you right now and claim someone hacked his phone?
Would that work?
He could blame Alastor. Everyone blames Alastor.
“Vox!”
Maybe he should wait until after the meeting, corner you somewhere private, laugh it off, pretend he wasn’t spiralling into a self-inflicted existential dick crisis—
“For the love of—VOX!”
WHACK.
A notepad slammed into his face with enough force to reboot his entire operating system.
“OW! WHAT THE HELL, VELVETTE?!” He rubbed his cheek, glaring daggers.
Velvette stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel. “If you’re going to fuck our intern with your eyes, can you at least try not to waste my time while you do it?”
Vox sputtered. “I—I wasn’t—”
Valentino snorted, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “Aww, Voxxy,” he crooned, voice dripping with malicious sweetness. “You still haven’t fucked your crush?”
Your pen froze mid-note.
Then Val looked directly at you, grin widening.
“And sweetheart, if it ever happens—would you let me record you two?”
Vox short-circuited so violently the lights flickered.
You shook your head with a teasing smirk, like this was all some sitcom you’d already seen the punchline to.
“I think the boss is just tired,” you said lightly. “He worked so hard all morning.”
Velvette groaned dramatically. “Yeah—probably spying on that awful bobcut twink again.”
“HEY!” Vox slammed both palms onto the desk hard enough to rattle the pens.
He had spied on that stupid twink for fifteen minutes, tops.
He sashayed out with enough hip swing to violate workplace safety standards.
Then the door shut.
And Vox’s panic hit him like a collapsing signal tower.
Just him.
And you.
And the horrifying awareness that you had likely seen all 87 (read: eighty-seven!!!) pictures of his dick, and were probably silently plotting how to sell them, leak them, and ruin him forever.
Fantastic.
He inhaled deeply, forcing a painfully stiff smile. “So—”
“You know,” you interrupted, your tone shifting, warmth fading. Something darker drifting in. You glided to his desk and placed your hand on it, leaning forward until your cleavage hovered right in his line of sight. “That’s sexual harassment, sir.”
You said it in a flat, almost bored tone.
As if discussing a spreadsheet.
A sexy, devastating spreadsheet.
Vox froze.
Hot shame shot through him. His circuits buzzed, a flush of static racing up his neck.
“Wha—I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, crossing his arms quickly. Defensive. Tight. Transparent.
Denial.
Excuses.
Lies.
His holy trinity.
“Mhm.” You hummed, unimpressed.
Then you sat on his desk.
Just sat there, like…like it was your rightful throne or something! Your skirt sliding up, inch by scandalous inch, until he had full view of your black lace lingerie. You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t adjust. You didn’t shy away.
Vox’s mouth went dry.
He dropped back into his chair so fast it squeaked, crossing his legs like it was a lifeline to dignity.
But you weren’t having that.
You slipped off your left heel, slow and deliberate.
Then your bare foot pressed against his crotch, right against him, sending a jolt through every wire he had.
He choked on his own breath.
“A-ah—”
You smirked, your toes gently massaging the outline of him, feeling him harden under your foot.
“Don’t tell me you’re shy,” you teased softly, “after sending so many pictures of your cock today…”
Your head tilted, devilish, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
“Sir,” you whispered, the word flicking over him like a spark catching dry kindling.
He swallowed hard, his spine stiff as a rod, hands planted on his knees like he was bracing for impact. His cock strained violently against his pants, thick and heavy and begging for your touch.
“Hm,” you purred, soft and sing-song, “I think the picture made it look a lot bigger than it actually is.”
His head snapped toward you so fast a spark cracked off his cheek.
“Haha,” he forced out, stiff and brittle, then narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Well…” You pouted sweetly, your toes gliding up the length of his clothed cock in a slow teasing sweep that made his breath catch. You dragged your foot back down, lazy and deliberate, “It just seems so much more… travel size.”
You bent forward, pausing the motion, letting the insult hang in the air like perfume.
That did it.
His pride flared hard and furious, burning away every shred of restraint.
“Oh, I’ll show you travel size.” His claws flew, unbuckling, tugging the zipper down, freeing his cock with a sharp pull. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the glowing blue tip haloed with a bead of precum that trembled on the edge.
You hummed in approval, a sound that vibrated right into the base of him.
Then you slid off the desk and lowered yourself between his legs. Your knees touched the floor. Your face hovered inches from his cock. Your breath spilled hot over him, and Vox nearly forgot how to speak.
“I need a closer look,” you murmured.
Your fingertips ghosted along the tip, smooth and curious, then traced down the centre of his shaft. Every inch you touched melted his panic, his excuses, all the frantic thoughts that had clawed at him all morning. They evaporated like static.
“Y-you’re still t-too far,” he whispered. It came out needy. A plea his pride couldn’t stop.
You looked up at him with the sultriest half-smirk he had imagined a thousand times.
“Oh?” you breathed, slow and devastating.
You shifted closer and pressed his cock against your cheek. Soft skin to hot flesh.
“How about now?” you teased, giving him a wicked, playful grin.
He exhaled sharply. The sight of you kneeling for him, holding him in your hand, touching him so lightly it hurt, made his cock throb so hard his hips jerked.
“Fuck…” he muttered, voice barely hanging on.
“Closer?” you whispered, sweet as sin.
Then your lips met him.
A soft kiss to the glowing tip.
A flick of warm tongue.
A slow drag down, down, down his shaft until you reached the base.
His breath fractured. “Fuck, fuck…”
His claws tightened in your hair, no longer resting politely on his knees. He guided you back up, desperate, pulling you where he needed you most. Toward the tip. Toward your lips.
You let him.
You opened your mouth, letting him slide in.
A guttural moan ripped from him as the heat of your tongue stroked past his sensitive ridge. He felt you gag when he hit the back of your throat, a twitch he felt all the way up his spine. Pride surged through him in a dark, intoxicating wave.
“Still think it’s small, babydoll?” he rasped.
Your eyes curved into perfect crescent moons, laughing at him even with his cock filling your mouth. Then you moved with purpose. Your fingers wrapped around his base and squeezed, firm and possessive. Your head bobbed, lips slick and hungry, spit shining his cock with every messy, wet stroke.
The room filled with the sounds of you.
Sucking.
Swallowing.
Breathing him in like he was something you needed to survive.
And Vox could only grip your hair tighter as everything inside him threatened to unravel.
“Oh… fuck,” Vox hissed, the sound raw and scraped from the bottom of his chest.
All he could do was stare.
You devoured him greedily, your mouth stretched around his cock, your lips gliding wetly down his length. Every slurp shot straight through him like electric current. His balls tightened, drawn up high, primed by the obscene sight and the louder, hungrier sounds you made each time you sank deeper.
His hips twitched upward before he could stop himself. Just tiny thrusts at first, testing how your mouth took him, how your throat fluttered around him.
Then you squeezed his tip.
Hard. Wet. Deliberate.
A low, animal sound tore out of him as his hands flew to your head, claws digging gently into your scalp. He lifted himself partly out of the chair, haunches tense, and began to fuck your mouth in earnest. His hips snapped forward in sharp, desperate motions, his cock sliding against your lips and cheeks before plunging back into heat again.
He chased his climax with reckless abandon, each thrust more frantic than the last.
You didn’t slow. You didn’t flinch. You let him take.
You gave him everything.
He didn’t last long. Not with your tongue flattened so perfectly against his shaft, not with your throat tightening around him, not with your hands holding him steady like you owned him.
A distorted groan ripped out of him, his voice glitching, breaking apart into static as his vision doubled.
Hot pulses of cum spilled into your mouth in thick, creamy waves. His entire body shuddered as his cock jolted again and again against your tongue. He groaned through it, a long, breathless exhale of pleasure as he emptied himself into you.
You swallowed every drop.
Slowly, deliberately, your lips slid off the head. His cock left your mouth with a soft, wet pop. Vox watched, dazed, as you opened your lips, showing him his own release pooled on your tongue, then closed your mouth and swallowed with a small, satisfied hum.
He nearly came again just from that.
You rose on shaky knees and sat back on his desk, your breath uneven, your cheeks flushed. Then your legs parted. Invitation written in the slow drip of slick between your thighs.
Your panties were sheer, ruined, soaked darker in the centre.
“It’s only fair I send you a picture… right, sir?”
Your voice was honey-sweet, wicked at the edges.
You hooked one manicured finger beneath the elastic and slid the fabric aside, revealing the soft, glistening folds he’d only dreamed of.
Vox froze.
Every pixel of his focus locked onto you.
His eyes darkened, hunger overtaking them as he leaned forward, breath caught in his throat, ready to take in every angle you offered.
Breaking News - Vincent Whittman (Vox) x Fem!Reader SMUT
Summary: Vincent fucks you on his newscaster desk while the rest of the studio employees are out to lunch.
Contents/Possible Warnings: Rough sex, Semi-Public Sex (they fuck in an empty news studio), Fingering, PIV Sex, Creampie, Mentions of filimg sex, no actual filmed sex, Degradation, Praise, SMUT, MDNI
You always admired the way he looked while he reported the latest news story; eyes focused on the camera as he read off his notes, the small smile he'd do at the beginning of each segment, the way he'd absentmindedly fidget with the pen in his hand as his co-host spoke, a boredom on his face the average viewer wouldn't pick up on. It all made him so handsome to you, so lovable. Seeing it in black and white on the television was one thing, but seeing it all in color just a few feet away from it all was another. It was almost entrancing.
"That's all for that story, folks," Vincent spoke confidently, smiling into the camera as he brought the report to a close, "and remember, trust us with your news." He finished, and the camera panned out before turning off, leaving a studio full of employees eager to go on break, including him. You moved past the crowd and towards the newscaster's desk, mouth curving into a grin as you came to him, his lunch in your hands. His eyes turned upwards from his papers to look at you, a pleased smirk making its way onto his face at the sight of you visiting him at work, something you didn't always do often.
"You left your lunch at home again," you spoke with a smile, setting it down on the desk.
"Maybe I meant to, after all, it did earn a nice little visit from you," he replied, motioning for you to come sit on his lap. You obeyed, taking a seat on him as you both leaned in, lips meeting in a sweet kiss that Vincent soon turned heated, lightly nipping at your bottom lip as you separated for air. You let out a gasp as he grabbed you by your hips, grinding you down against him.
"Vincent!" You hissed, the sound turning into a light moan. "What's gotten into you?! We're in public!" You scolded, your words falling on deaf ears as his lips moved to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.
"And? That isn't going to stop me from fucking you right here on this desk," he purred against your neck. "Come on, be a good girl for me." He insisted with a growl, moving down to push the skirt of your dress up, the fabric bunching around the top of your thighs as his hands slipped down to your underwear, tugging them to the side eagerly. A finger slipped into your wet heat, fucking you slowly as he chuckled at the noises slipping out of your lips, and the way you hurriedly covered your mouth with your hands to suppress them.
'V-Vincent," you stuttered, "h-hold on, we'll get in trouble—" you slapped your hands over your mouth again as he added a second finger, then a third not long after, your cunt clenching down on them out of reflex as the pleasure shook your body. It was all happening too quickly, and you were struggling to keep up with every wave of ecstasy that overtook you.
"Fuck, look at you, dripping all over my hand like a slut." He curled his fingers, brushing over your sweet spot, your legs shaking as a jolt of pleasure shot through you, your toes curling. "Hmm? You like that, honey?" He purred, voice sickeningly sweet as he mocked you, repeating the motion. "That's my pretty girl, coming undone all over my hand like the little whore she is." You moaned at his words, head reeling with the rush of it all.
"Vincent 'm gonna cum," you slurred out, barely able to speak as the pleasure began to fog your mind, unsure just how he was managing to fuck you dumb with just his fingers so quickly. "Fuuuck, gonna cum, Vincent! I—" You let out a long, frustrated whine as he pulled his fingers out, the beginnings of your orgasm already starting to ebb away. "Dammit, Vincent!" You hissed.
"Shut up." He growled out, picking you up and laying you on the desk, the lunchbox you had placed on it earlier falling to the ground with a loud 'clang'. "Can't believe how fucking desperate you are right now, just a few minutes ago you were asking what was wrong with me." He pulled your panties down, letting them fall to the studio floor before he moved to unzip his pants. He pulled them down just enough to free his hardened cock, the large tip already leaking pre-cum as he lined himself up with your wet pussy.
He slid in with one swift movement, the desk jolting beneath you both as he began to move, not bothering to give you any time to adjust to the stretch of his cock splitting you open. He let out a pleasured grunt as he began to fuck you, watching his thick cock disappear into your tight cunt with every thrust, your pussy gripping him. "Fuck!" He growled, rutting into you roughly, hips snapping against yours. "That's right, take me like the good little fucktoy you are." He hissed, lips moving back down to your neck, nipping at the flesh, making sure to leave a mark you'd have for weeks to come.
"Can you imagine someone walking in on us? You'd be so fucking beautiful, wouldn't you? Gripping my cock like a whore while you take me, all those little sounds leaving your lips while someone watches." He groaned at the idea, fucking you deeper, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filling the large room. "They couldn't touch you, because you're mine, aren't you, honey? My sweet girl. Come on, baby, say it, say you're all mine."
You moaned in response, head falling back as your eyes screwed shut, unable to speak as he pounded into you, every thrust rougher than the last.
"Answer me." He barked, grabbing your face, "Tell me who you belong to."
"You! I belong to you, Vincent!" You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as you pulled him even closer. "I'm all yours! Fuck! I don't want anyone else!" He chuckled in satisfaction at your declaration, kissing you roughly, his thrusts beginning to grow sloppy as he grew closer to his climax.
"I should get the cameraman in here next time, yeah? Record a nice little movie of you. Maybe I'll show it off to the others, show them what they can't have." He moaned out, rutting into you deeper. "I'm gonna fucking cum," he announced, looking into your eyes. "I'm gonna fill you so fucking deep you'll be dripping for days." He came hard with a long groan, hips stuttering as thick ropes of cum shot into you, spilling onto the desk. You came soon after, shaking with ecstasy as your orgasm ripped through you, clinging onto him desperately as you rode out the last waves.
"Fuck," he panted, hair slick with sweat. "That was the best sex I've ever had." He buried his face into your neck, riding out the last aftershocks of his climax with shallow thrusts before his hips stilled. He pushed himself up off you, sitting back in the chair as his eyes drifted over to the clock.
"You know, we still have a while before the others come back from lunch..."
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.
𝐂𝐖: Nothing, really, just Vox being a sucker for you
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: This is a short, fluffy little story about you convincing Vox to stop working, to go back to bed with you by sweetly begging — and calling him by his old name, Vincent — which is something he dreads. He can’t resist you, not when every version of his name nicely rolls off your tongue.
Dedicated to @lilsleepybear1029 🤍
Vox loathed when you did that, when you pulled that cute little stunt every time you didn’t get your way. No matter how firm he was, you straddled his lap, clung onto the lapels of his coat, and whimpered at him with that look on your face — your lower lip jutted out in a pout as you stared up at him through your lashes with soft, doe eyes.
If you didn’t have a chokehold on him, he would have easily brushed you off and continued working.
“Come on, baby, you’ve been working all day,” You whined, trying to get him to meet your gaze. “I miss you — come back to bed with me.”
His chest vibrated with an exasperated sigh.
“Oh, sweetheart, you know I can’t do that,” Vox told you, leaning in and extending his arms, but not to embrace you. “I have to get this report done.”
You perched your chin on his shoulder with a soft grumble as you heard his keyboard clicking.
Still, Vox knew that you weren’t done with him. He was no stranger to your stubbornness, your persistence, but when you felt neglected by him? Oh, you made sure to remind him just how staunchly determined you could be when your adorable display failed you. In fact, he could hear the words already, a groan bubbling in his throat.
It was his least favorite tactic, though only because it never, ever failed you.
Vox’s eyes fell shut, his brows scrunched together, and the corners of his mouth stretched to form a long grimace, especially as he felt your fingers release the lapels of his coat. He stopped what he was doing, bracing himself, the only sounds that resonated throughout his office being the soft squeak of his chair and the rustling of his clothes.
“Please, don’t,” Vox started, his voice slightly buffering. “You know I have to get this report done — just a few hours, that’s all I need, fucking please.”
You pulled back from his shoulder and craned your neck, plush lips delicately grazing the corner of his screen; and your palms smoothed over his chest, making his heart rate pick up. He knew it, that there was no point in trying to reason with you. When you touched him, felt him, fingers tugging at his vest, he knew that your mind was made up.
So, Vox slumped back into his chair, cracking open his eyes with a sigh, resigned, defeated as he watched you shoot him the most innocent of smiles before parting your lips to inevitably sound out the familiar set of words he dreaded as much as he adored — something only you had the privilege of doing, at least behind closed doors.
“Vinny, baby, come on,” You begged, pressing yourself up against him. “I can’t wait another few hours — I don’t want to. I love you and I miss you.”
Just like that, you had him, hook, line, and sinker.
He tossed his head back and clutched at the edges of his screen with a long, pathetic whine.
It took all of your willpower to not giggle at him.
“Fuck, this isn’t fair!” Vox cried out, the sound of his name on your tongue driving him nuts. “You always do this — always! — and I fucking hate it.”
You ignored his petulant tirade and leaned in to pepper him in kisses, making him flush cyan. A few strands of your hair flew up, tiny sparks of electricity pecking your skin, but you didn’t mind. You quite liked the static his screen emanated when he blushed, repeating his name over and over again, dissolving him into a flustered mess.
“Vincent, Vince, Vinny — is that a yes?” You pulled away and asked, as if you didn’t already know the answer. “Please tell me it is because I — oh!”
He grasped the bottom of your thighs and stood up, your hands scrambling to clutch his shoulders.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Vox conceded, screen still cyan and fuzzy. “I’ll just leave the rest to Ethan and hope he doesn’t fuck it up and embarrass me.”
You let out an excited squeal as he zapped you to your room, looking displeased, frustrated — but deep down? Oh, that wasn’t the case. The love he had for you, it was insurmountably problematic, especially for his career. In fact, if you weren’t so quick to apologize to him in bed, he would have accused you of trying to sabotage him.
⋆｡ﾟYou have a tendency to accidentally make them jealous ﾟ｡⋆
— Blitzø, Vox, Verosika, Lucifer
Blitzø fucking hates going to clubs and bars with you given that it always ends with him getting into a fight and sometimes even killing people. If you weren’t so dense when it came to telling when someone is flirting with you it’d be easier, you were more than capable of handling yourself, but you were always oblivious to others advances. Well, at least he enjoys killing.
Vox zips around Pride Circle like a man possessed when he sees someone flirting with you when he checks in on you through his cameras. He appears next to your side, hand on your waist instantly, and greets you with a wide smile that turns into something mean when he looks at your company. They scurry off with a scared expression and he makes a mental note to find their address later.
Verosika and you both have jealousy issues. She’s always getting hit on due to her looks and status and it frustrates you. But you don’t seem to notice how she has the same problem. You get hit on almost as much as her, to the point where she stays glued to you when you two go out. When someone tries to approach you, she’ll instantly start up gross levels of PDA to get them to leave.
Lucifer tries to awkwardly steer you away from the person hitting on you, and when they persist he just goes full demon mode. He’s not very good at hiding his emotions and you just don’t seem to grasp when someone is coming onto you, so sue him. If he has to intimidate a couple of sinners here or there it’s not even really his fault. He’s just protecting you, it just happens to be very aggressive.
it’s been awhile since i’ve done one of these, is it good?
