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.
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