inconstitucional
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“I’ve missed you too,” Vincent confesses.
Yeah, this is– they’ve overdone it with the drinks pretty bad.
The warmth from the whiskey churns inside Alastor’s guts, making his fingers feel numb. He tears his gaze away, staring at the whiteness of the ceiling instead of whatever is behind Vincent’s eyes.
The ceiling fan rotates on its axis, not doing much to snuff out the heat of the room. Vincent’s hand is still there, cupping his face, caressing his cheek.
Vincent’s voice cuts in. “Can I kiss you?” Ever so soft.
The fan is still spinning, worthlessly.
“Do you have to ask every time?”
Or: Alastor misses Vincent and they make out. Hard.
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Things are changing. The world is shifting, radio has seen better days, and the only thing more dangerous than a killer’s secret is the desperation of a man trying to expose it at all costs.
As Alastor fights to protect his footing as a radio star from ruthless new investors and a rising tide of conservatism in radio, he finds a different kind of 'fan' in morning news anchor Vincent Whittman: a desperate man, methodical, and dangerously close. A tool to keep his station, nonetheless.
Vincent, meanwhile, is caught between the sharp eye of the law, his hunger for opportunities, and a damning cache of knowledge regarding 'the voice of New Orleans'. All he wants is to unmask Alastor.
Both having sacrificed everything to reach their current heights, they find a common ground.
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“I tasted him, too, just like you did that night at the tree.”
“...And how was it?” Alastor murmurs, soft.
“Sweet. Warm too, he was still fresh when I licked the knife. Couldn't keep the taste out of my mouth for days, it clung to my throat– made me think of you, again.”
The building heat deep inside him curls, and Vincent just notices his hands have slipped to Alastor's vest – he has them wrapped around that sinful waist, feeling the pulse under his palms. He can feel every shift of Alastor's muscles, everything. It's a delirious feeling that makes him lightheaded.
He gasps. “God– Alastor… Wish I could taste you, too.”
Amidst the numerous research papers and the bonding ritual, Vincent proves to Alastor that he can be good.
Vincent discovers the depths of his own desires and learns to decipher a bit more of Alastor's signs.
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You're mine to break, darling (all bite no bark) by inconstitucional
Fandoms: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)
29 Jan 2026
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Instead of snarling in a warning or snapping back to his original position, Alastor finds something behind Vox’s glistening mismatched eyes that makes his insides twist to press further, to shine a light where he has not yet looked. So he stretches out even more, all long limbs and curves in a rippling movement that cracks his bones, the power cables pressing tight against his skin in a familiar serpent-like demeanor.
Velvette doesn't seem to notice how Vox is suddenly stunned, lips parting in a silent breath and cyan flushing his screen for half a second. He sharply turns away in his shoes, grabbing her by the shoulders and overgesticulating as he guides her towards the room’s exit.
“Vox! You fucking– don’t touch me!”
Her voice echoes in the halls as they disappear behind doors.
Alastor takes this moment of silence to absorb what really happened, rewinding every expression and every reaction in his head. His smile sharpens up.
“Well, well. Now that’s interesting.”
Or: Tied to the office chair, Alastor finds out first hand how to get under Vox's skin – to break this powerful persona he keeps showing.
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"uhm... I could. Teach you?"
Susie blinks. Kris's voice cut in again.
"... some tips, I guess. On how to kiss her."
It's mid autumn, and there's a Halloween fair happening in Hometown. Susie chickens out after a date with Noelle, panicking with the idea of trying to kiss her with zero experience. In the midst of her distress, Kris just wants to help.
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Vincent invites Alastor out to dinner, where they assume no funny business will take place. But clearly, they’re both lying, since there are no plans on returning to their illegal activities in the near future, meaning it’s just an excuse to satisfy their badly hidden sexual desires.
In other words, Alastor watches Vincent eat oysters and gets turned on, and lets Vincent eat him out.
Bookmarked by inconstitucional
26 Mar 2026
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Vox shivered as Alastor touched his calf, walking the tips of his claws up Vox’s leg in a prickling, torturous line. “Why is it that the man who’s always taken everything won’t even try to take this?”
“Don’t,” Vox whispered, panic clawing at his chest as the red claw-tips reached his mid-thigh, even as a wave of desire surged up, desperately urging Alastor to continue.
Alastor cocked his head, regarding him with bright red eyes. “Don’t?”
Vox’s breath was coming faster, his vision swimming. “I—fuck, I—can we talk about this tomorrow? When we’re not drunk?” This wasn’t a conversation he ever wanted to have, but maybe if he delayed and distracted, Alastor was drunk enough to forget all about it in the morning. And if not, maybe with eight hours of sleep and some food, he could actually figure out how to address this without just blurting it out in the stupidest possible way.
“Hmm,” Alastor hummed, rolling his head side to side, then curving his mouth in a wicked smile. “No. We’re talking about it now.”
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OR: Drunk Alastor wants to know why Vox won't make a move. It's because he's built like a Ken doll, but that's not a problem for Alastor.
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Dr. Vincent Whittman is a marine biologist who should be writing a grant proposal—but instead, he’s binge-listening to “Southern Strange”, a podcast by the ridiculously charming Alastor Hartfelt.
One episode turns into twenty, and suddenly Vincent is convinced he’s studying podcasters instead of bull sharks…and also possibly falling in love. -
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Hell is other people. Purgatory is being a twenty something weatherman with the memories of a being a media overlord who had the entirety of Hell wrapped around his finger.
Sent back to his mortal life with a chance to "do it right this time", Vox has a problem. The Angels have installed a patch in his soul: the Pacifist Protocol. If he tries to kill a rival, poison a boss, or throw a punch, he is paralyzed by blinding agony.
He cannot claw his way to the top if he can't use his claws. He needs a loophole.
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Bookmarked by inconstitucional
22 Feb 2026
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New Orleans, 1933.
Vincent Whittman’s assignment (punishment) seems simple enough: recruit Mr. Alastor Hartfelt, the city’s famed radio star.
But his trip derails the moment he meets the man dressed in a smile too sharp, with secrets too deep, and a presence that hums with something far beyond him.
One broken ritual binds them for decades, pulling them back to each other again and again, to the one soul neither can quite break away from.- Language:
- English
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- 136,563
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Bookmarked by inconstitucional
02 Feb 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
I love this so much swear this could be a fucking TV series too