Chapter Text
Vincent Whittman was, in Alastor’s simple, professional opinion, pathetic.
Not incompetent—no. That would have been easier to tolerate. Vincent was worse than that. He was capable, but needy: a man who strutted and postured and glanced every few seconds to see if the performance had landed. Alastor had always found that kind of hunger embarrassing. Wanting to be constantly seen, constantly reassured of one’s own excellence, was a flaw.
Wanting his attention was downright pitiful.
Vincent was always performing. He had been trying for weeks—months, really—to be seen by him. Not just watched, but acknowledged. Praised.
Of course, Alastor never offered that courtesy.
He remained detached, clinical, a critic rather than a peer, and he knew Vincent felt the dismissal like static crawling under his skin.
Tonight should have been no different.
It was Vincent’s turn to plan their kill: layers of timing and misdirection stacked so neatly they almost bored Alastor. He let Vincent chatter through it, offering the occasional nod where silence might have seemed too cruel. Things went wrong in a small way. A stumble, a miscalculation—Vincent moving before Alastor expected him to, closing the distance on the victim fast instead of waiting for instruction. Alastor watched with mild irritation as Vincent handled it.
Handled it well.
The man was immobilized almost immediately. He didn’t scramble or overcorrect. He adjusted, his stance grounded as he drove the man back and down in one smooth motion. There was no desperation in it, no frantic need for approval—only confidence, clean and unhesitating.
Then, as he so often did, Vincent drew the moment out deliberately, speaking to the victim in a soft, almost patient tone, as if explaining something simple to someone slow-witted. He loomed there in that infuriatingly pristine white shirt: tailored, expensive, meant to suggest authority. The fit of it emphasized broad shoulders and solid mass, the kind built by a man accustomed to taking up space. A man who knew exactly how to use it.
Alastor found that vulgar. All that mass, all that strength, wasted on…theatrics.
Finally, the blood came. The act itself was efficient enough, Alastor supposed. Vincent’s hands were steady: he noted that with faint irritation. His posture didn’t immediately collapse into his usual childish excitement. That alone almost earned him a point…which Alastor promptly rescinded on principle.
A sudden spray from the victim’s throat, bright against the white shirt, invaded Vincent’s chest and throat before catching his mouth. Red bloomed across pristine fabric.
Vincent froze for half a second, recalibrating. Blood marked the corner of his mouth, stark against skin, obscene in its contrast. He didn’t wipe it away, not immediately. Instead, he smiled, like the psychopath he was, and simply continued in his craft, strength undiminished, presence unbroken.
Oh?
The thought caught Alastor entirely unprepared. He found himself wondering, not why it had caught his attention, but how often, how often Vincent looked like that when no one was watching.
It was unusually…
…attractive was a ridiculous word.
Unthinkable.
Enticing, maybe.
In the meantime, Vincent had straightened, exhaling, broad frame tense yet comfortable, muttering under his breath about the gross iron taste and the mess the victim had made.
His size suddenly read differently: larger, more imposing. His lips curved.
“Stop whining,” Alastor said, “You act like you’ve never seen blood before.”
Vincent shook his head, glancing down at his ruined white shirt, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Freak” his lips curled into an annoyed smirk. “Sorry I don’t necessarily enjoy drinking it, like you do” he spat, offended.
Alastor’s gaze traaced the dark streaks of blood dripping across Vincent’s neck. The way it clung to his skin, intense and red against the pale line of his jaw, made his pulse quicken. There was something intoxicating about seeing Vincent like this. The annoyance in his tone, the way he spat words with reckless defiance, it only heightened the effect.
He stepped closer, slow, invading the space Vincent had always tried to claim as his own. His eyes roamed over him in a way they never had before, tracing the ruined white fabric, following the blood streaks across skin.
He leaned in just a fraction, voice soft, almost conversational, yet carrying a sharp edge that promised mischief.
“Bet I could make you change your mind” he murmured, voice silk, teasing and warm in a way that made Vincent swallow hard. “After all, you’ve never looked more delicious.”
Vincent froze, chest tightening, eyes widening, caught in the dangerously small gap that had suddenly yawned between their lips.
“H-Huh?” he stammered, unable to pull back. His chest heaved, hands clenching at his sides.
The mix of confusion and desire swirling in the other’s gaze was far too entertaining, far too captivating. Alastor’s eyes gleamed, dark with amusement and fascination, savoring the moment exactly as he intended.
Vincent was flustered, vulnerable, and entirely caught in his orbit. His smile sharpened at the sight, letting the tension stretch just long enough to watch him squirm.
His fingers drifted slowly, deliberately, from Vincent’s damp lips, tracing a path down his jaw and along the tense line of his neck.
He didn’t close the distance between them, that was the cruelty. He remained exactly where he was, close enough for Vincent to feel his warmth, to sense the intent thrumming just beneath the surface, yet never granting any actual relief. It was indulgent, a private experiment in reaction.
Alastor savored the way Vincent’s composure faltered in subtle, telling ways: the tightening of his jaw, the shallow breaths, the way his attention contracted until Alastor was the only thing that existed.
Ah, there it was again — his full, undivided attention.
Then, with his usual poise, he straightened and stepped back from the other man.
“Now, now, Vincent, we must attend to the task at hand,” he said smoothly, voice regaining its usual detached precision, “we should start cleaning up.”
Vincent blinked, flustered. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the flush creeping up his neck. He tightened his fists at his sides, the faint tremor betraying the composure he fought so hard to maintain.
“R-right.”
---
The bayou lay thick and still under the moonlight, moss draping from the cypress trees, water dark and slick. Vincent’s shoes sank slightly into the mud as he carried the body, shoulders straining, white shirt marred further with streaks and smears of crimson. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Alastor, making the smallest, almost hopeful movements: checking, seeking a flicker of approval.
Alastor said nothing. He never did. Silence was his sharpest instrument, the most precise way to keep Vincent on edge.
The body slid into the water with a soft splash. Ripples spread, then smoothed over, swallowing the evidence as though it had never existed. Vincent wiped his hands on his trousers, grimacing at the red smear. His hands still trembled slightly, though he told himself it was the humidity, the adrenaline from the kill—anything but the truth. His mind wasn’t on the cleanup, wasn’t on the mud squelching beneath his Italian shoes, wasn’t even on the faint stickiness of blood.
No. It was entirely, catastrophically, embarrassingly… Alastor.
He replayed that earlier moment over and over, like a broken record stuck on a single, devastating note. Every detail tormented him: the deliberate brush against his lips, the slow, teasing glide of fingers, the way Alastor had looked at him.
What was that? Why did he do that? Vincent could almost hear his own brain groaning in exasperation. Seriously, Vincent? Again?
Every rational thought, every shred of self-respect, was buried under one overwhelming, undeniable need: to understand what had passed through that impossible mind, what had sparked that teasing, that attention…and, above all, how he could make it happen again.
The cabin loomed through the mist. Vincent’s pulse raced despite his best efforts, chest tight, jaw set. He straightened, lifted his chin, projecting the illusion of control, though every fiber of his being was on fire. Alastor closed the door behind them, the dim light casting long shadows across the wooden floor. He turned slowly, eyes sparkling with the usual permanent enjoyment that made Vincent’s pulse spike.
“Why don’t you undress?” Alastor said as he started undoing his own bow tie.
Vincent stumbled, nearly face-planting onto the floor. With cheeks burning, his mind scrambled for composure.
Could this really be it?
Could Alastor actually be… noticing him?
Wanting him?
“I-I… what?” he stammered, throat tight. “I… I m-mean I can, but… uh…”
Alastor’s smile was as sharp as a razor. Tilting his head, he let the words hang in the air. “Or,” he said, voice slow, precise, “do you intend to return to town looking like...that?” His gaze swept over the bloodied, ruined fabric, lingering just long enough to provoke a flush across Vincent’s face.
“Oh… y-yeah, right.” Vincent muttered, voice barely audible.
“I suppose I might have something suitable for you to wear.”
Vincent's hands shook as he reached for the buttons of his blood-streaked shirt, failing miserably to unhook them, eyes still inspecting the man in front of him. This time, he wasn't shaking because of the adrenaline of the kill, but because Alastor was being… nice. Nice to him.
At the constant tremor in his hands, annoyance grew in the other. Before Vincent could even register it, Alastor’s fingers brushed against his, guiding them, helping him undo the stubborn buttons.
“Here… allow me” he said, calmly.
Vincent twitched, startled. The warmth of his hands, the closeness, the casual intimacy…it was almost unbearable. He had reached for Alastor’s touch countless times before—briefly, awkwardly—but had always been met with withdrawal, subtle annoyance, a sharp look that reminded him Alastor would never indulge his gestures.
Now, Alastor’s touch was gentle, sweet, and Vincent’s posture betrayed every ounce of the impact: shoulders stiff, knees locked, fingers trembling, lips pressed into a thin line. Heat started pooling low in his stomach, his mind suddenly scattering into static.
His pride whispered he should pull away, assert control, maybe treat Alastor with the same cold indifference he had always received...but his body betrayed him completely, shivering under the simple, domestic gesture.
Alastor looked up to him as he undid the last stubborn button, brown eyes glinting, almost smiling like he always did.
Vincent’s knees threatened to buckle.
He had never wanted anything more in his life. Never.
As the shirt fell open, Alastor’s expression changed just slightly, mischief returning to his eyes.
“Hmm…” he murmured, pausing to inspect. “It seems… my garments might not quite accommodate you, after all.” His hands lingered near Vincent’s chest, tracing lightly over the smeared blood and taut muscles. “Look at how robust you’ve become.”
Vincent’s stomach flipped painfully. His want for Alastor—always so enormous—clashed violently with the rapid pounding of his heart. He blinked, trying to read the smile on Alastor’s face, searching for some hidden catch, some cruel trick. But no: this time, the gleam in those sharp eyes wasn’t laced with mockery.
Not entirely. Not like before.
“I-It’s… all the… dead-body lifting you make me do” he chuckled nervously, grasping at some semblance of composure.
Alastor leaned closer, fingers brushing lightly over Vincent’s chest, lingering just enough to make him shiver. More heat pooled low in Vincent’s stomach, knees weakening at the nearness, at the warmth, at the impossible thought that Alastor might—might—actually be indulging him.
He hadn’t dared imagine it before. Alastor had always been untouchable, unreachable, dismissive of every small touch Vincent had ever tried to offer. And yet here he was, close, voice low and smooth, carrying that teasing, warm lilt that made Vincent feel like he alone existed in the world.
Yet Vincent knew the truth. The instant he reached out, even just a tentative brush, Alastor would probably withdraw, shattering this fragile bubble of closeness. A grin flashed on Alastor’s lips.
“Hm… and yet again, it is my doing,” he murmured, voice deliberate, almost amused. “I made you into something worth looking at, didn’t I? You know… you look quite appetizing like this with sweat and blood, all over you.”
Voice trembling, half-shock, half-need, Vincent managed to respond.
“A-Are… you… going to… kill and eat me too?”
Alastor's hands slid upward, brushing over Vincent’s chest before threading into the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
“You act as if you wouldn’t like that” he murmured, voice low, almost coaxing.
Vincent’s eyes widened, a flush spreading across his face, and a small, breathless smile broke free. His chest rose and fell quickly, fingers fisting lightly at Alastor’s sides from pure, uncontainable delight.
The other didn’t stop talking.
“Wouldn’t you like that, Vincent?” Alastor purred, tilting his head and looking up to him. “My mouth on you?”
The words landed like fire. Vincent’s pulse surged. He swallowed hard, completely lost in the thrill of the moment.
He nodded, frantically, giddy.
“Al…please...” he stammered, breathless, trying to form words that wouldn’t ruin the moment.
He couldn’t.
The man's gaze swept over him.
“Go sit over there” he said, voice calm but commanding, leaving no room for argument. “On the sofa. Hands behind your back.”
Vincent obeyed instantly. Every ounce of his obsession compelled him forward. He practically dove onto the worn leather, sliding in carefully, hands placed behind him exactly as instructed, legs crossed, hiding the proof of his excitement.
His posture was stiff, tense, his muscles alert, but inside he was positively buzzing—thrilled, overwhelmed.
His eyes tracked every movement of the man before him, as if he could drink him in whole. Even in the dim cabin light, Alastor’s presence was magnetic. Tall and lean, his suit fit him flawlessly, cinching at the narrow waist and emphasizing long limbs and broad shoulders. The loosened bow tie swung slightly, a casual imperfection that only heightened his allure.
Vincent was so utterly consumed, by the way Alastor moved towards him, straddling him, the way he smiled, the warmth radiating from him, that he didn’t even register the knife in his hand. It was completely invisible to him, a detail lost in the haze of fascination and desire that had him pinned to the spot, heart hammering, breath shallow, unable to think beyond the man on top of him.
On top of him. Alastor Heartfelt was on top of him. Willingly. If you would have told Vincent from just a couple hours ago he would have thought this would be impossible. Ridiculous, even.
And yet, here he was, trapped beneath him. Not trapped, actually. No, he was very much where he wanted to be.
Vincent’s mind went entirely blank when the man fully sat down on his thighs, save for one screaming, insistent need: he wanted to touch him back. To hold him. To wrap his arms around Alastor, to press into the warmth that had haunted his dreams for years. Every nerve in Vincent’s body burned with the longing to push his face into the chest of the man straddling him, to breathe him in, to feel the impossibly tangible proof that he was real, right here.
His hands twitched, itching to close the gap, to claim even the smallest measure of closeness. And he almost did. Almost.
“Don’t you even think about it” Alastor murmured, voice low and sharp enough to cut through Vincent’s racing thoughts. “I said hands behind your back. I think I am indulging you enough, am I not?”
Vincent could feel the faint press of Alastor’s legs against his sides, the warmth, the weight pressing him down. He nodded rapidly, almost violently, trying to sit straighter.
“Y-yes… yes, of course. Please… sorry. Sorry.”
“Now, now,” Alastor murmured, tilting his head, letting the knife trace slowly across Vincent’s chest, careful, deliberate. The cool steel against his blood-streaked shirt made Vincent shiver, heart racing. “Such a shame that the blood on you already dried out. You looked so… captivating, covered in it. Would have licked you all up before.”
If he wasn’t already sitting down, Vincent thought he might actually collapse. Every shred of composure he somehow maintained till now vanished like smoke in the wind. He was completely intoxicated by those brown, evil eyes.
He wanted this so bad.
Wanted him.
Every glance, every teasing word, every fraction of his attention had been a feast for him. His chest felt like it was on fire.
The knife felt like a dangerous, intimate brush. Even with the danger pressing so close, Vincent couldn’t tear his eyes away, completely absorbed by the man above him, caught somewhere between awe, admiration, and that maddening, undeniable pull.
“Fuck. C-Cut me up then.”
---
Alastor looked confused but interested.
“Hm?”
“Y-Yeah, I can handle it. Bet my blood is much better than that…that filthy…commoner…scum.”
Alastor’s lips curved, satisfied, watching Vincent unravel like a toy. His glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, lens catching the dim light, his pupils blown wide, luminous with adrenaline and longing. His chest, now bare, was pale and slick with sweat and dry blood, muscles tense and flexing with every shallow breath. He was almost heaving now, inhaling and exhaling hard, and Alastor could see the desperation, the need he had been hiding behind polished composure for so long.
The black hair, usually so neatly kept, was utterly ruffled, strands falling across his forehead, white streaks peeking out in rebellious flashes—the ones he never allowed himself to show to the public.
“Oh, Vincent,” Alastor murmured, voice low, melodic, “that is one, irresistible proposition.” His eyes roamed, mapping every line, every tense movement, every subtle ounce of vulnerability Vincent had never allowed anyone to witness. Only him, he only showed it to him.
Alastor’s knife traced lightly over Vincent’s chest, just enough to leave a thin, fleeting line across the pale skin. It wasn’t deep, barely more than a scratch, but it made Vincent’s breath catch and pulse spike.
The exhale he drew seemed to make Alastor lean closer, tracing the line with the tip of the knife again, just brushing the skin, testing, savoring.
He adjusted his grip, the knife gliding with quiet purpose. The pressure changed. Something warm traced downward. Alastor stilled, watching the way Vincent’s chest rose and fell, the way his breath went uneven despite his obvious effort to keep it steady. A faint line marked where the blade had passed, darkening slowly, unhurried.
“Ah,” Alastor murmured, mild, almost conversational. “There we are.”
---
“Still with me?” Alastor asked lightly watching the blood trickling down Vincent's chest.
Vincent nodded at once.
Of course he was. He always would be.
His chest still stung faintly, but it barely registered, a trivial price for the attention, for this.
Alastor went quiet, head tilting as though a thought had just occurred to him, one he found quietly amusing. He leaned down.
Vincent felt the wetness first, a brief, unmistakable contact at the cut, followed by a slow, deliberate pass that drew a sharp hitch from his lungs. His breath stuttered, body locking beneath him, every nerve alight.
Al was tasting him.
His hips moved on his own. He was so hard he could cum just like this.
Alastor straightened, composure perfectly intact. A faint smile lingered as his tongue slipped back behind it, subtle and telling, as though he’d sampled something and reached a verdict.
“Mh. Acceptable.”
For Vincent, that alone felt like a victory.
“Have some more,” he spoke, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You barely scratched me. C’mon, Al… don’t tell me you’re scared of hurting me, now.” The bravado slid back into place like familiar armor. He lifted his chin a fraction, eyes bright behind crooked glasses, all challenge and reckless eagerness.
He knew this game. He knew Alastor liked to be provoked, liked the resistance, the backtalk, even while he insisted on his own superiority. And Vincent, as always, had never learned when to stop pushing.
Alastor, amused in that way that usually meant Vincent had gone just far enough, had laughed.
“Oh, Vincent,” he said softly, almost fond. “You really do enjoy tempting fate.”
He leaned in again, closer this time, his free hand settling on Vincent’s hair— not gripping, not pulling, just caressing it. He was patting his head. The contact alone was enough to make him still, breath hitching despite himself. That had been the most unusual, sweet thing Alastor had done that evening.
Then the knife rose again. Just lifted and placed with deliberate care beneath Vincent’s chin, the flat of the blade cool against his throat, guiding his head back a fraction more.
“Careful,” Alastor murmured, voice light, almost playful. “That mouth of yours has a habit of getting you into situations you can’t talk your way out of.”
Vincent swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting against the metal. His grin wavered, only slightly — but his eyes stayed locked on Alastor’s, bright, devoted, thrilled. Alastor watched him closely. Too closely. Near enough now that Vincent could feel his breath, steady and unbothered.
Then Vincent spoke. “Is it too vulgar,” he said, voice unsure but earnest, “to say that I could show you what my mouth can really do… if you let me?”
The words hung there. Vincent braced himself.
This was it. He’d finally said the wrong thing. Any second now, Alastor would pull away — amused, irritated — or worse, decide he’d had enough altogether and kill him for good. Why was he like this?
But Alastor didn’t move away. Instead, his gaze shifted, slow and assessing, traveling over Vincent from head to chest and back again. He reached up, fingers catching the bridge of Vincent’s glasses, nudging them aside just enough to peer at him unobstructed. He leaned in, impossibly close, inspecting him like a curiosity he hadn’t quite decided what to do with.
“You know what?” Alastor murmured.
The knife moved. A firmer press this time, higher up, near the collarbone. Vincent sucked in a breath, this one was more painful to endure without moving, and his shoulders tensed as the red warmth liquid bloomed beneath the skin again.
Alastor paused, watching the reaction, then leaned down once more to lick it clean. Vincent could only moan, trying his very best not to untangle his arms from his back, to not rub himself against Alastor’s legs. To appear as if that didn’t just almost make him orgasm untouched.
Alastor straightened.
“My, my,” he murmured lightly, as if nothing unusual had occurred. “You do have a remarkable way of asking for trouble… Yet, here you sit, so obedient. I might have expected that by now you’d have defied me. I should reward you.”
Vincent chewed his bottom lip, impatient, eager. He tried to take it all in, the dark curls framing Al’s face, the tanned skin, the plump lips. Alastor’s eyes glinted, a playful, predatory amusement dancing in them.
“I think… you should have a taste of it too” he whispered to his face, a few centimeters away.
Before he could even process the words, Alastor had leaned in a fierce, consuming kiss.
Vincent whined, eyes nearly rolling back, heat pooling low in his stomach. Alastor wasn’t just kissing him—he was claiming him, tongue diving boldly into Vincent’s mouth, and Vincent let him, helplessly eager. A metallic tang hit his tongue, sharp and undeniable. His mind scrambled—then comprehension: he was tasting blood. His own blood.
And yet…he didn’t pull back. Couldn’t.
Alastor was biting the edge of his own lower lip in a subtle, enticing way. It sent a bolt straight through him. Every nerve screamed. His heart pounded so loud he feared Alastor could hear it. And in that second, in that impossibly intimate space, Vincent lost it. He didn’t think about propriety, control, or the absurdity of the situation. He only knew that he loved Alastor. He had always loved him. And now, pinned beneath him, tasting himself in Alastor’s presence, he had never felt more undone, more alive.
He shivered, breathless, hips desperately trying to find friction. He didn’t care that he had no control, that he was utterly exposed to the other’s whims.
Alastor leaned back just enough to separate their lips.
Vincent’s eyes went wide, chest heaving, and instinctively he tried to close the gap again, to press back into him. A sudden flash of cold steel stopped him in his tracks. The knife hovered at his lips, light enough to tease but unmistakably dangerous. Vincent froze, fingers tightening at his sides, heat pooling low in his stomach, mind a mess of panic and desire. Alastor’s voice cut through, teasing.
“And what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing, Vincent?”
Vincent’s throat went dry. His words came rough, ragged.
“S-sorry…” He couldn’t even meet Alastor’s gaze, lost completely in the heat of the moment, fixated on his lips. “I… I just—”
Alastor’s eyes sparkled as he looked down to Vincent's throbbing member, as if the man’s helplessness delighted him.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Vincent’s chest heaved, voice small, almost pathetic. “It’s… it’s okay, Al. Don’t… don’t worry about it. Forget it… just… come back here, please.”
He knew, deep down, that nothing would happen down there—sexually, at least. Alastor barely tolerated being touched, much less anything further. Asking for more would have been ridiculous, foolish even. Vincent had long given up on expecting more.
But even knowing that—actually, especially knowing that—he couldn’t help himself. How could he not try his absolute best to get Alastor to kiss him again? It wasn’t about the kiss, really. It was about the want, the feeling of being wanted in return, of having Alastor’s attention, even just for a moment.
Alastor’s lips curved faintly and Vincent shivered, powerless but wholly devoted.
The stars must have been aligning, or he must have been a really good guy in his past life to deserve this, but somehow, Alastor shifted closer to him, ass now pressed fully against Vincent’s front. As he felt the heat and weight on top of him, Vincent could only, instinctively lean back into the sofa, letting out a sharp, breathless groan. His fingers digged into the sofa as he tried, vainly, to steady himself. He tilted his head up, eyes to the ceiling, searching for some foothold, some anchor to regain control.
God, he wanted to be inside him so bad.
“A-Al, what are you doing?”
Alastor’s smile was soft, deceptive, long lashes fluttering as if he was a small, innocent child.
“What do you mean?” he said lightly, eyes flicking to Vincent as if he hadn’t noticed the obvious tent in his pants, the flush, the way Vincent’s chest heaved. “I’m just… sitting here. Isn’t that allowed?”
Tears of pure want pricked at Vincent’s eyes, and he couldn’t stop them as Alastor shifted again, pressing just enough to make every movement deliciously maddening for him.
“Goodness,” Alastor murmured, mock concern lacing his voice. “You seem… rather uncomfortable. Or is it that you’re… enjoying it a bit too much?”
Vincent choked on a whimper at the feeling of another wound being inflicted on his chest, the delicious pain stinging him just right. The combination of it, mixed with the friction he was finally getting, made it impossible to shut up.
“F-Fuck, Al, just like that. God, you are so pretty, let me touch you back, please” he croaked, voice thick, trembling.
Alastor tilted his head, expression perfectly calm, almost bored.
“My, Vincent… I didn’t realize you were capable of commanding me.”
His hips shifted ever so slightly, the pressure maddening. Vincent squirmed, and Alastor’s hands found their way to his shoulders, keeping him pinned as he sucked on his new wound. His teeth then trailed all over his chest, biting at the flesh of his pectorals, the ones that had recently turned…meatier than usual.
“Y-You like that?” Vincent had spoken, voice groggy, “Bet I taste better than anyone you ever had.”
His breath hitched, hips pressing up instinctively, right under Alastor’s weight.
“Mmm… you’re… quite the dog, aren’t you?” the man on top of him murmured, voice low and smooth.
Vincent couldn’t speak. He was shivering, eyes wide and blown. Alastor’s chuckle was soft, indulgent, almost amused. He let the knife fall aside, both hands coming to Vincent’s face, thumbs brushing gently over his probably still blood-stained lips. He parted them just slightly as he struggled to breathe.
“I’ll tell you what, you’ve been so good…”Alastor’s tongue peaked out, licking his open lips in a teasing, flickering motion. “That I’ll let you hump me.”
The words struck Vincent like lightning.
Permission.
Freedom.
His hands twitched instinctively, desperate, hovering over Alastor’s sides, wanting, needing, aching to connect. Still, asking for further consent.
“R-Really? Al? Can I? Oh my god, can I? Actually?”
Alastor’s grin glinted.
“Quickly… before I change my mind.”
Vincent didn’t hesitate then. Instinctively, he reached out to him, arms wrapping around Alastor’s back, pulling him close. He pressed his face against his neck, inhaling, memorizing the scent, the warmth, the way his pulse seemed to – for some unknown, but very welcome reason – now suddenly thrum under his hands. Every muscle in him ached to hold him tighter, to never let go, to feel this—him—forever. He didn’t even notice how fully clothed Alastor still was, too lost entirely in the closeness he never got before, in the moment.
Vincent’s words came out in a low, almost desperate murmur, his breath hitching as he pressed closer. “I’ve waited… I’ve waited so long for this,” he admitted, voice rough, trembling with longing.
His hands slid around Alastor’s waist, holding him like he might disappear if he let go.
“I… I can’t believe this is real. You… you smell… you smell amazing.” He buried his face a little more into Alastor’s shoulder, drinking in the scent, the warmth, the very presence of him. He dotted some kisses along the very little exposed skin he could find, trying to mark him as much as he could. Every nerve in him burned with the closeness, the sound of Alastor’s laugh vibrating against his chest, the feel of him—so real, so near.
The desire was impossible to ignore, he couldn’t help but rut helplessly against Alastor’s ass, the friction so delicious, the sensation so good, his eyes teared up again from the pleasure.
Alastor’s hand shot up, gripping Vincent’s hair with a firm, teasing force, tilting his face away from his neck.
“Enough of that,” he commanded, a sly glint in his eyes. “Get to it, or else.”
Vincent’s chest tightened at the tone, a shiver running down his spine. The sudden shift from gentle closeness to Alastor’s usual playful dominance made his heart pound faster. He blinked up at him, caught somewhere between hesitation and craving, before letting himself be pulled closer again, guided by that irresistible, daring energy.
He breathed hard, “I-I don’t want this to end…” he whispered, voice trembling. His hands tightened around Alastor’s waist instinctively, gripping him as though holding on could anchor both his racing pulse and his resolve.
“You’re pathetic, Vincent…” Alastor grinned, knowing. “Makes me wonder why I even let a filthy man like you do this to me in the first place” he said, the words like a spark across Vincent’s skin, mean as always.
Then, Vincent swallowed a moan at Alastor’s tongue suddenly on his nipple.
"N-Nh!"
“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you. You aren’t even that tasty.” His words, sharp and teasing, only made the want in Vincent deepen.
“N-No! No… I’ll be good, Al, I promise, k-keep going” he whispered, voice soft but unwavering, each word carrying the weight of everything he had waited for.
“I-I am almost there.” He pressed up his aching member again, letting himself melt into the gratification, letting Alastor’s presence dominate him, letting himself be exactly what he wanted.
A dog in heat.
Alastor smiled as he trailed his tongue all the way up to his neck and jaw, occasionally scratching his canines against his skin. Vincent could only sigh, mouth open and desperate, hips almost pounding into that clothed, round ass of his. His hands reached down, fully fondling it, imagining how it would feel to be inside him.
Spilling into him.
“Ffffuck…Al” A pleasurable heat started coursing through him. He knew he was close, so close that words kept spilling out in a trembling rush.
“P-Please…again” he begged, desperate, looking up at Alastor’s lips, his voice barely more than a sigh. His hands tightened around Alastor’s ass, pressing himself closer.
Alastor looked down at him and tilted his head, his usual amused grin spreading across his face.
“Wow…You really are insufferable” he said, voice teasing, but there was a spark of indulgence in his eyes.
When their lips met, Vincent’s hands rushed to Alastor’s face, cupping him and pulling him closer, savoring the closeness he had longed for since the first time he saw him. Alastor’s hands stayed at his sides, but the corner of his mouth curved upward, a subtle acknowledgment of Vincent’s boldness. The kiss was slow, warm, and full of intensity. Vincent’s fingers moved through Alastor’s curls, tracing gentle patterns as if memorizing every detail. Then, a familiar, metallic taste of iron flooded his mouth. He must have bitten his own lower lip too hard in the rush, and a small bloom of blood had started to spread like a delicate rose.
And then he heard it—a soft, sensual, content sigh.
Not from him, this time. But from Alastor.
Vincent almost froze, heart hammering.
No way. There was no way.
Another moan. A tongue invading his mouth, eager.
Wait.
Alastor was eager?
The realization left Vincent breathless, a rush of exhilaration and wonder washing over him. He must have not been the only one to notice, because Alastor had immediately yanked his head back against the couch’s headrest with such violent force that Vincent thought he might have torn out every strand of hair. And then Vincent saw it—Alastor’s eyes, wide and blazing, flickering with want, frustration, and barely-contained annoyance.
Vincent couldn’t help it.
He laughed. Darkly. Maniacally.
His laughter echoed through the room, raw and unrestrained, a thrill running through him that was almost too much to bear. The way Alastor’s eyes burned with equal parts desire and irritation—it was… intoxicating. He couldn’t believe it. The realization that Alastor, with all his pride, superiority and control complex, was just as caught up in this as him. It tickled him in a way that was almost painful, a delicious, sharp delight he couldn’t contain, even though he was being pulled away with a painful force, he couldn’t help but ask.
“I thought I wasn’t tasty enough for you?”
Alastor’s jaw tightened, a growl rumbling in his throat, but the heat in his eyes was still present. Vincent let his hands drift to Alastor’s thighs, teasing, testing, savoring every flicker of response from the other. Vincent drank it all in, not just Alastor’s body, but by the fact that the predator had become, for a second, a little prey.
Or so it seemed.
“Oh Vincent…” Alastor’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint igniting in them again, sharp enough to cut through the air between them. The warmth in his gaze had vanished, replaced by something colder—scary, deliciously evil.
He leaned just slightly forward, just enough to whisper those words an inch away from his lips, just enough to remind Vincent that the hunter could snap back at any moment. “You don’t even know what I would do to you if you were actually tasty enough for me.”
A slow, cruel smile curved his lips as a single finger reached down to Vincent’s throbbing member, trailing down the shaft peeking through his extremely tight pants.
“G-God, Al, w-wait, I thought-…”
His pulse quickened at the challenge in Alastor’s eyes, a shiver running down his spine. Crap, and just like that, he was close again.
“You want my mouth on you, don’t you?”
Vincent almost chocked on his own spit.
“Oh f-fuck, yes, yeah please.”
Vincent felt his eyes roll, tears prickling his cheeks from the dirty talk.
“Mh. I’ll humor you next time if you behave now, will ya, ol’pal?”
Alastor’s hand was fully cupping him now, moving his hand up and down, the other hand pulling Vincent's hair deliciously.
Immediate release was inevitable.
“H-Holy shit, yeah, I am going to be so fucking good for you, Al. Ffffuck.”
Vincent came so hard he saw white.
---
The room was quiet, save for the sound of their ragged breathing. Vincent’s body under him was twitching involuntarily, muscles still taut and jerking from the intensity of what had just passed, like the final convulsions of a body after a jugular cut. Small shivers ran along his arms and legs, and his fingers traced small, tentative circles along Alastor’s thighs.
Alastor’s own breathing was low and rough, uneven, a steady rhythm that mirrored Vincent’s. For a long moment, they simply stayed like that, catching their breath.
An amused chuckle slipped past him—half-growl, half-laugh. He had felt desire before, sure, but this… this was different. Blood always excited him, had always done so, but this…Vincent, warm beneath him, begging for him…was something else entirely.
He didn’t mind it. Not in the least.
Vincent, finally drawing in a shaky breath, let out a stunned laugh, waking up from his post orgasm daze.
“Hooooly hell, Al… now I need to change my shirt and my pants. How am I even gonna get home, now?”
Alastor’s chuckle deepened.
“I suppose you’ll just have to figure that out, won’t you?” he said smoothly, shrugging. “Besides, I like the look.”
Vincent froze, heat surging through his face.
“O-oh… r-really? I mean, I can, like…” He trailed off, utterly lost, words tumbling over themselves as his hands fumbled nervously over the couch.
Alastor let out a short, teasing laugh.
“I was joking, of course. I’ll go get you something to change into. For real, this time” He pushed himself up from the couch, effortlessly.
But before he could step away, Vincent’s hand shot out, grabbing Alastor’s arm. His chest heaved, eyes wide, voice shaky.
“W-wait… you—were you for real, before? Will you really… will we, like… get to do it again?”
The corner of Alastor’s mouth twitched as if fighting back another chuckle. Then, he arched an eyebrow, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make Vincent squirm.
“Well,” he said finally, “I suppose that depends entirely on you, Vincent.”