Genius Of Love

Vincent Whittman is an insatiable force. Once he sets his sights on something, he will stop at nothing. He’s relentless and unapologetic in his pursuit to fulfill his every want and desire. He’s a bit brutish and carless, too, but what really grates on Alastor's nerves the most about the younger man is his gross lack of self-control.

Despite the reputation he has built for himself over the years, someone who’s calm and composed and sickeningly suave, Vincent devolves into an animal behind closed doors.

An animal that is almost incorrigible, untamable, and Alastor can’t help but feel as if he is partly at fault for his partner’s ways.

Vincent is sort of like a serrated knife, smooth on one end, rough and jagged on the other — a revelation that came to light once he and Alastor moved past drafting and refining scripts to host a show worth remembering over the radio together.

The entertainment industry has a dark side, and it is brimming with unsavory individuals — far too many for one man to weed out alone.

It’s doable, of course. Alastor spent the beginning of his career taking care of his own dirty work; but eventually, he found himself enjoying the younger man’s presence.

And, after observing how Vincent dragged the sharpened tip of a fountain pen across paper, leaving behind no smudges, not the faintest hint of smeared ink, Alastor truly thought Vincent was capable of being just as flawless and meticulous in his execution when he decided to introduce him to his favorite pastime: cold-blooded murder.

But he was deceived.

As he fastens his grip on the very end of Vincent’s tie, rotating his wrist and wrapping the rest of the fabric around his clenched fist, Alastor tugs with the sheer force of someone who has yet to forgive or forget, a choked gasp resonating throughout a bedroom that has witnessed far more rough quickies than it has slow, passionate sessions.

“It’s time someone put you in your place,” He speaks into a furrowed brow beading with a nervous sweat. “And who else is better suited to do so than I?” His eyes drift downwards, expression immediately softening, “Right, ma petit chou?”

A couple of years have passed since Vincent became Alastor’s partner in crime, and since then, the two of them have taken up a lover — you, staring up at both men through your lashes, the plump flesh of your lower lip caught in between your teeth, tentative and unsure, as if you haven’t borne the brunt of Vincent’s shortcomings.

“I suppose you are,” The mattress softly creaks as you pull your arms in to support yourself on your elbows, nimble fingers curling into the sheets, “But, well… are you sure about this, Al?”

You’re splayed out on your back near the end of the bed, dressed in a sheer nightgown and lacey panties, legs sprawled wide open in a tantalizing display. The thin, cotton fabric between your thighs is damp with anticipation, enticing Alastor to come closer and treat it with the tenderness it deserves; but instead, he forces the man in his grip forwards.

“Fuck,” Vincent has the gall to complain at being manhandled as he’s sent stumbling forwards, stomach pushing into the mattress, cheek meeting the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

He hasn’t treated you as tenderly as a lover should, and it makes Alastor’s blood boil, heat simmering beneath his skin. But again, he feels partly at fault for his partner’s ways. Time and time again Alastor had witnessed Vincent wrap those large hands of his currently flexing behind his back mimic the same gruesome acts he had committed.

And, despite how messy and careless he was in his execution, Alastor stood by and watched Vincent Whittman snap — the mental restraints that help him masquerade as a civilized man unraveling, devolving him into something unhinged as he repeatedly sinks a freshly-sharpened blade through flesh, tearing into fibrous layers with a satisfying —

Schlick!

Schlick!

Schlick!

It hurt to admit, but he — Alastor Hartfelt, a 32-year-old man — was far too entranced by the sight of Vincent Whittman, a man 6 years his junior and so eager to please, to even think about toying with the notion of stopping Vincent from thoroughly butchering his victims before he turned into the insatiable force he is now.

“I’m sorry, but Alastor? Is Alastor sure about this?” Vincent turns his head, the tip of his hooked nose brushing your bundle of nerves, pulling a breathy noise from you. “What about me, huh?”

He peers down at Vincent, a furious blush sprawling across his pale complexion. Nervous tremors wrack him — his fear, his apprehension is palpable — but Alastor doesn’t backtrack. He failed to keep Vincent in check out of his own sick pleasure, and he feels the weight of being a shoddy mentor bearing down on his wiry shoulders now.

“And what about you, my unruly mutt?” Alastor cranes his neck with a low, sarcastic drawl, rotating his wrist, loosening his grip on Vincent’s tie. “You never fail to think about yourself, non?”

Mismatched eyes clench shut behind thick, boxy frames, lips twisting in a wonky frown, making for an endearing display.

“No. This is… this is different,” Vincent protests weakly, tugging at the belt wrapped around his wrists with a frustrated growl, but it doesn’t budge. “This is beyond me being —”

“Selfish?” Alastor muses.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Vincent stumbles over his words, refusing to acknowledge his behavior, exacerbating his partner’s displeasure, “Fucking hell, you fastened this real tight.”

He releases the tie he had used as a leash, hand finding his nape, the calloused pad of his thumb teasingly caressing the hair there.

“Always so eloquent,” Alastor teases as he proceeds to trail his hand lower, feeling his spine shift in tandem with every tug and pull. “Sometimes I can’t believe we work together.”

If he didn’t allow Vincent to get sucked into the all-consuming experience that is a murderous-haze, Alastor wonders as he slides his hand down the man’s back if he would be more disciplined. If he would be less susceptible to losing himself in the throes of excitement, even if his brain seems to be wired a certain way, as Alastor’s is.

“I’ve waited far too long for this… issue dear Vinny has to correct itself,” Alastor finally addresses you as he finds the swell of Vincent’s ass, palm feeling appreciatively. “Alas, I must intervene, for my patience has run incredibly thin.”

A low groan seeps past thin lips, the tips of Vincent’s ears flushing to match the red hue of his face, blue-green eyes glazed over with shame and something else Alastor can’t quite decipher as they flit up — hope, maybe, which is rather silly. He should know better than to allow a gentle touch to lure him into a false sense of security.

How many times had the younger man witnessed him dole out the same treatment to his victims from the shadowed corners of a speakeasy?

Alastor couldn’t say — he lost count a while ago.

Though it was far too many times for Vincent to cling onto something as silly as hope when he is awfully familiar with his game.

Save for his suit jacket and trousers, both bunched at his knees, Vincent is still dressed in each article of clothing he had stepped out in for his shift at the radio station. The corners of Alastor’s lips curve upwards, baring his canines in a wicked grin. Even through the cotton fabric of his briefs, he can feel Vincent’s muscles slacken and relax.

The long, slender legs pressed thigh-first into the edge of the bed stop shifting so restlessly, pulling an amused chuckle from Alastor.

Ha, as if he would spare him a semblance of kindness — why should he reward bad behavior?

As his palm slides up, calloused pads smoothing over the waistband of Vincent’s briefs, Alastor is straining painfully against his own trousers.

He has tented into something considerably awful at the mere thought of what he’s about to do to his unruly lover, skilled fingers hooking into the waistband, even if he is just as unsure as you are over his decision — though only because he’s journeying into the unknown for the sake of punishing Vincent.

It wasn’t often the three of you had sex, at least not together.

Alastor’s libido is low and unimpressive in comparison to the man letting out an embarrassed noise at the feeling of the cool air caressing his rear.

What he’s about to do, the concept isn’t foreign to him, no, but it is most definitely new.

And it is also riveting, far more riveting than the idea Alastor initially toyed with — tying Vincent to a kitchen chair and forcing him to watch you be treated to soft and saccharine sex.

He must learn how to be a gentle lover, how to not leave his partner swollen and aching the next day.

Alastor has had to bury his face in between your plush thighs and douse your needy button with open-mouthed kisses to ease your discomfort.

— discomfort that you willingly take.

But then Alastor realized it would be too kind, too lenient, forcing him to be a voyeur. Vincent will never learn a thing by simply watching.

And also, Alastor remembered something — that experience is the greatest teacher of all.

The only way for Vincent Whittman to learn to be a gentle lover is to be at the receiving end of his insatiableness, to experience what it’s like to be in your position — stirring awake to the feeling of your most sensitive area protesting in discomfort, having to roll out of bed instead of simply rise, struggling to do something as simple as walk.

It’s time Vincent Whittman be put in his place.

Alastor’s hand returns to the belt keeping Vincent’s wrists tightly bound together, fingers curling into the leather material, and he tugs. Hard. But he isn’t testing its durability, no. In fact, he’s simply trying to remind Vincent that he has no intention of being kind, not even remotely, despite the newness of the entire ordeal.

“When you’re asking me to be slow and gentle, begging me for mercy between choked sobs,” Alastor starts, voice low and dangerous as he reaches behind him, fingers grazing a bulge in his back pocket. “Just remember, you reap what you sow, mon compagnon.”

His words have the intended effect, because, not even a millisecond later, Vincent jolts up in a panic. He tries to stand, but the older man is quick to lodge a slender knee in between his trembling legs, sending Vincent doubling down into the soft flesh of your inner thigh once more, trapping him in between the bed and his lanky frame.

“Ah-ah-ah, you’re not going anywhere,” Alastor chastises him as he tosses something on the bed — a tin of petroleum jelly. “Down boy — stay.”

“I-I’m not a fucking dog,” Vincent hisses through a snarl, but it doesn’t come out as tough as he wishes it had, a pathetic whimper immediately following. “This is… this is humiliating.”

“Tch,” Alastor clicks his tongue against his teeth in disapproval, fingers reaching for the fly on his trousers. “And yet you keep acting like one.”

Alastor has his trousers slung low on his boney hips in no time, cock in his hand, palm sliding across the hot, velvety skin of his length. The tin of petroleum jelly is sitting on the end of the bed, open, where your bare feet shift nearby in a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, especially with Vincent’s breaths picking up.

“Now, Vinny, darling,” Alastor leans in over his back to croon into his ear, making the man shiver, “Don’t forget why we settled on this position.”

You, who has patiently been watching your two lovers go back and forth with each other, reach down and thread your nimble fingers into medium-brown hair, scratching soothingly. The short, ragged breaths fanning against your clothed cunt hitch to a standstill, mismatched eyes flying up to regard you, though the appreciation is fleeting.

“Put that mouth to use,” Alastor pretends to be unfazed over the tender act as he looks up to meet your gaze. “Come now, ma petit chou, don’t be shy. Use Vinny here without any shame or hesitation as he has time and time again.”

You may be kind and forgiving, but Alastor is not. There’s no going back now, no promises Vincent can make that will change his mind, even if he remains just as uncertain about the painful lesson he’s about to inflict as he smacks his free hand on his ass, the other still lubricating his aching flesh in his fist with slow, measured pumps.

“Fuck you,” Vincent stubbornly fights him.

He’s all bark and no bite right now, and though it’s rather endearing, hearing Vincent curse as you obediently let go of his hair to pull your underwear aside and tuck the slick-drenched fabric into your inner thigh, baring the needy flesh of your throbbing cunt, Alastor can’t help but be overcome by displeasure.

The absolute gall the younger man has.

In fact, he should consider himself lucky that he decided to use lubricant, considering how long you had spent taking Vincent’s cock without much foreplay.

“Insolent brat,” Alastor hisses through a snarl, the hand on Vincent’s ass finding the hair on the crown of his head, only to push his face into your cunt.

“Mmff!”

“We aren’t at the station — there’s no need for such blabbering,” Alastor finishes off as he stands up and straightens his spine. “Get. To. Work.”

Raw, unbridled satisfaction churns in his gut, the muscles in his abdomen pulling inwards behind his vest as you fall back onto the bed, a filthy mewl tumbling from your lips.

The man has finally been silenced.

Blown pupils watch behind a round pane of dainty glasses as a tongue tentatively drags through your wet slit, parting folds shining with slick, finding the sensitive button it had long neglected. Alastor grins as your hand threads into the hair he had gripped harshly just a second before, keening at the warm muscle circulating your bud.

“Vinny!” You let out a pleasured cry, your thighs locking around his head, ankles crossing over one another.

The bulky frame of Vincent’s glasses clack.

But it seems your lover got off on such a strong start that you are able to ignore the pinching sensation against your skin.

Good, Alastor thinks.

“Mff… fuck, I… m’forgot…” Vincent speaks into your cunt, vibrations pulling another cry from you. “I forgot how good you taste, sweetheart.”

Despite the clear pleasure on your face, brows furrowed together, eyes clenched shut, lips slightly agape, the damage has been done. Alastor knows if it weren’t for the leather around his wrists, Vincent would have pressed you into the mattress underneath his looming frame, chasing his own pleasure instead of yours.

“Well, let’s begin, shall we?” Alastor hums to himself.

His palm lands on Vincent’s ass, calloused pads sinking into the flesh and pulling it aside, revealing a ring of muscle that shyly clenches once revealed. The nervous fear he was previously radiating, it returns twicefold, a startled, muffled noise sounding from the tight space between your clenched thighs, wrists flexing again.

Still, with his hand around the base of his slick length, Alastor guides the weeping tip of his cock to the tight opening of his virgin channel.

He experimentally prods at it, and unsurprisingly, it doesn’t let him in.

It protests.

A noise of discontent rumbles in Alastor’s chest.

He continues to push, though, and it reacts in kind, refusing to let him enter.

You haven’t earned your way inside — the ring of flesh tells him.

But Alastor doesn’t care to listen.

They way it protests, it reminds him far too much of its owner's entitlement, whose muscles are tensing and stiffening up like a board.

And he can’t have any of that. The tension in his larger frame only makes it a lot harder for Alastor to do as he pleases. So, he finds himself sliding the hand on Vincent’s ass down south, fingers curling around the neglected cock hanging between trembling thighs, half-erect from the hardness trying to breach its way into his body.

“Relax, Vinny,” Alastor huffs, pumping the velvety flesh in spite of himself, the tight muscle flexing against his weeping tip. “Relax.”

It takes a bit, but Vincent’s cock eventually hardens to its impressive size in his palm, thumb sliding down to caress the vein on the side of his length before pressing against the tip, throbbing and spurting beads of precum at the pressure. Alastor should be using his fingers, too. It would make everything much more effortless.

Oh, and less of an uncomfortable entry, too.

But Alastor pistons his hips the moment he feels Vincent’s body open up to him at a particularly delicious stroke of his cock, because why should he be slow and careful? Why should he ease slick finger after slick finger until the tight muscle has gradually opened up for him like petals unfurling with the gentle coaxing of sunlight?

“Gah!” Vincent cries out.

Vincent deserves is to feel what you felt all those nights you were led to bed with the promise of a sweet release — the painful disappointment of yet another night of winding up crushed underneath your lover’s weight, bruises in the form of crescent moons marring your hips as your swollen cunt throbs away, utterly dissatisfied.

“Nghh… Al. F-Fuck. Ease up, will you?” Vincent whimpers before latching back onto your clit, the slick, lazy sound of his mouth working on you resonating throughout the room.

Alastor doesn’t listen, of course, a low, guttural cry tearing from between your thighs as his cockhead finally reaches uncharted territory, even if it’s caught in the entry. The hands once flexing restlessly above Vincent’s back stiffen, and Alastor is certain his jaw has slackened from the penetration — until he receives a response.

“Relax, darling, you’re all right.”

“Ah… ah-ha-ha, relax? You gotta be kidding me!”

“Yes, Vinny. Relax — that’s what you need to do.”

“Your dick is in my ass. You… you didn’t prep me or anything — how do you expect me to relax?”

“Remember all the times you did the same to our lover here?”

“My ass doesn’t get wet like her pussy, asshole.”

“And yet you still go in dry.”

“Fuck. You. Sincerely.”

Thin rings of rich brown fly up to see that your legs have fallen open, the mouth that was latched onto your clit resting against your mound, jaw flexing with insurmountable tension. The corners of Alastor’s lips curve upwards as he decides to lean into his lover, pushing his sharp nose into the crook of his neck, which is stricken with sweat.

“I’m already on it,” Alastor drags his tongue across what little exposed skin the collar of his shirt doesn’t cover, salt penetrating his tastebuds.

He has stopped trying to push the rest of himself inside of Vincent’s channel — the tightness is overwhelming.

“Ngghh… it’s so… it’s so hot,” Vincent complains.

“It is, isn’t it?” You pipe up rather casually, voice soft and low, procuring a chuckle from Alastor. “But it’s funny, because you usually don’t bother stepping out of your clothes to fuck me.”

“I…” Vincent barely musters, “I don’t?”

You offer him a gentle ‘No’ before tangling your hand in his hair, encouraging him to resume what he was previously doing, unfazed.

“Good girl,” Alastor praises you with a sultry purr, pulling a disgruntled noise from Vincent, but he noses at your clit anyway. “Take what you want.”

And, just like that, the short-lived conversation is over, and Alastor is back to pushing. He is squeezing the hard, velvety flesh in his palm as Vincent dives into your folds and wraps his lips around your needy clit, the bedroom resonating with a cacophony of your cries of pleasure and Vincent’s muffled groans of discomfort.

“Fuck,” Alastor allows a rare curse to seep past his gritted teeth, his brows furrowing and eyes clenching shut, tightness enveloping his length inch by inch.

And he doesn’t stop, not until his boney hips are pressed against muscles flexed with tension, not until almost each and every inch of his cock is buried deep inside of the tight, scalding heat he never thought he would experience, not with you in the picture — who’s practically using Vincent at this point, movements having faltered.

“G-Gah!” Vincent heaves low and deep into your cunt, the thick frame of his glasses resting low on his hooked nose. “This is.. this is too much…” He unlatches from you to stutter, voice cracking. “T-too much at once — I can’t… so… so fucking full.”

The younger man trembling beneath him, struggling to lap at you, is right. It is too much. The warm, virgin canal Alastor pushed himself into is squeezing rather tightly, the pressure threatening to push him out — but he releases Vincent’s cock and scrambles to anchor himself on his hips, keeping himself nestled deep inside of him.

“It is too much, isn’t it, Vinny?” Alastor murmurs into his neck with a saccharine sweetness that is most definitely feigned.

But in the all-consuming haze of being penetrated, let alone by someone he had only ever found pleasure with by using each other’s hands and mouths, Vincent can’t tell Alastor isn’t being genuine. He can only take the older man’s words as he hears them, failing to remember how he wound up in such a precarious situation.

Alastor can tell he’s taking everything too literally, as if he’s depending on him to spare him some kindness just because they’re lovers.

— or at least that’s what he assumes.

Either way, Vincent thinks he’s tugged at Alastor’s heartstrings with his pathetic begging.

He feels the tension in his muscles relax against his chest, a long, deep sigh exhaling into the sensitive flesh of your cunt, glistening with a mixture of his saliva and your viscous arousal.

“Oh, oh fuck. Thank you. Thank fucking God —”

Mercy. Vincent thinks he’s receiving mercy.

Alastor almost laughs as he peels himself from his body, moving his hips back, weeping cockhead catching the entrance of his gaping flesh.

He can only wish for mercy.

“Thank you? Why, thank you for what?”

Vincent’s relief is palpable as it is momentary, because not even a second later, Alastor thrusts back inside of him, teeth gritting and jaw flexing with a pleasured grunt.

A hooked nose pushes into your inner thigh with a choked cry, startled.

— he should have known.

As Alastor fastens his grip on Vincent’s hips, that’s all he can think, that he should have known he wouldn’t dare leave a job half-finished.

Nor would he allow himself to forget how often the younger man had allowed himself to take you like a dog — like an unruly mutt acting upon its base instincts at the mere scent of a bitch in heat — leaving you with a nasty case of knocking knees the next morning, and all because of his gross inability to keep himself in check.

“F-Fuck, Alastor… I can’t…” Vincent tosses his head over his shoulder to whimper, trying to appeal to him with teary eyes. “It’s t-too much.”

So, he allows his partner’s pleas to go in one ear and drift out the other, pulse quickening, breath picking up, arousal curling deep in his gut. And if he focuses on anybody, it’s you, thin rings of rich brown watching you sit up with the help of your elbows to regard the debauched scene between your warring lovers, lips parted in awe.

“Is it, now? Is it too much?” Alastor huffs as he pulls out almost completely, a wicked grin sprawling across his face as he meets your gaze. “What do you think, ma petit chou?”

Vincent tries to lift his face from your inner thigh to stare up at you pleadingly, to appeal to you with those mismatched eyes you adore.

However, the moment he fixes to look up at you, you tilt your head and let out a low hum.

“No, I don’t think so,” You shake your head, slow and teasing. “I know what too much is, and that ain’t much at all, if I’m being frank.”

Vincent’s shifting against your thigh and lifting his head up, stupefied.

“Wait, what?” He almost cries. “Come now, sweetheart, s-surely you don’t think that —”

But Vincent doesn’t get to finish his sentence, cut off by the awful snapping of Alastor’s hips, sending him lurching forwards into your lower belly.

“— Gah!”

You squeak, startled.

“Jesus H. Christ, that… that was… w-what the fuck was that?”

His prostate, perhaps, Alastor muses to himself as he sets a quick and punishing pace, length gliding in and out of Vincent’s channel.

“F-Fuck, that doesn’t feel… that doesn’t feel too bad — it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

The flesh is starting to loosen its grip, to give instead of push — but even with his cockhead driving into that spot that makes the younger man keen into your belly, he’s still begging for kindness.

“But please… I can’t take it. T-Too fast, too rough — Please, I’m begging you. It still hurts.”

A string of pathetic whimpers tumble from Vincent’s lips, trying to reach either one of you, but it’s no use, his pleas fall upon deaf ears.

“Oh, it hurts?” Alastor huffs. “I know it does — but it feels great for me. Absolutely divine, actually.”

His boney hips repeatedly smack against his supple flesh, dainty glasses sliding down his sharp nose, a familiar pressure coiling in his gut.

“The way your body clenches around me… I can’t find it in myself to stop — you’re taking me so well.”

Vincent drops his face in your belly with furrowed brows and clenched eyes, trying not to sob.

“Do you see how unfair it is, Vincent? Do you finally understand how much it hurts, to be handled so roughly, without any regard to your pleasure?”

A choked series of ‘Yes’s’ issues from Vincent’s lips in quick succession.

He’s nodding his head with each vigorous thrust, too, satisfaction mixing in with the arousal churning deep in his gut, and all he can think is —

“Good,” Alastor pushes himself inside of Vincent’s warm channel a couple more times before letting up on him. “Good, I’m glad,” He hums contentedly. “But there’s still something you have yet to do.”

Mismatched eyes flutter open with a long sigh of relief, the cockhead pounding viciously away at his prostate suddenly receding, leaving him clenching around nothing. A ‘Thank you’ almost falls from the wrecked man’s lips, but then skilled fingers suddenly hook into the belt around his wrists and tugs, forcing him to stand up.

“Gah! What the fuck?” Vincent stammers out, limbs unreliable from, knees threatening to buckle underneath him. “I’m standing — w-why am I standing? What do I have yet to do?”

“You see, our lover here hasn’t reached her peak,” Alastor hums as he sends the man whirling around on a stable heel to face him. “Which is your fault.”

Rich brown lock with green-blue, inspiring apprehension and confusion.

“I t-tried — I really did,” Vincent immediately starts to protest. “It was just hard to focus with you fucking plowing into me from behind —”

A hand presses onto a heaving chest, gently pushing back until thighs meet the end of the bed.

“Relax, Vinny, I’ll be more… merciful from here onwards. You’ve been a good boy,” Alastor croons as he lifts his other hand to wave sideways, “Move aside, darling, for I have something in mind.”

Before Vincent knows it, he is the one who’s on his back, legs sprawled open, rear propped on the edge of the bed. He’s still in his clothes, save for his trousers and his briefs, discarded haphazardly upon the ground. But even as you hook a leg over Vincent’s slender waist, Alastor can see the younger man has never felt so exposed.

“You ready, pretty boy?” You tease the man underneath you through a breathy whisper, nimble fingers curling around the base of his length, hard and beading with viscous arousal.

“I… I really despise you two right now,” Vincent mutters, hands flexing anxiously against his chest, wrists still bound together by his belt.

“Really?” You lean into him, dragging the weeping tip of his cock through your slick folds, lathering him in your wetness. “Because it certainly doesn’t feel that way — not right now, at least.”

Alastor lets out an amused chuckle from behind you, one hand holding the back of a knee trembling in anticipation rather than nervous fear, the other smoothing across the velvety flesh of his throbbing length. Schlick sounds emanate from each and every flick of his wrist, the tin of petroleum jelly sitting open on the bed.

“I’m still tied up, for Christ’s sake, I can’t do anything,” Vincent weakly counters. “God, my wrists — why do I need to continue wearing this?”

“Because you’re a big, strong man,” You press your lips into the underside of a sharp jaw.

Vincent tips his head back against the mattress, brows furrowing, lips parting with a dog-like whine.

“Ah-ha-ha, that’s… that’s sarcasm. You’re being sarcastic. Hilarious.”

You’ve finally lowered your hips, impaled yourself on his cock, aching flesh effortlessly sucked in by your warm, wet cavern.

“You can tap out at any time, you know,” Alastor hums. “Besides, you tend to be rather… touchy.”

He finally guides his cockhead towards his lover’s opening, prodding at the ring of flesh.

“I can tap out but not ask you to be gentle? What sense does that make — fuuuck.”

“Oh, Vinny, it’s your philosophy I’m following,” Alastor heaves as he pistons his hips, the tip of him effortlessly breaching his entrance. “Remember?”

He scrambles to grab the back of Vincent’s other knee — and he shuffles forwards on legs that start to protest from how long they’ve been forced to support his weight. But Alastor steels himself and pushes, and he pushes and pushes and pushes, until he can feel your warmth penetrate the layers of clothing on his lanky frame.

Until you’re planting your palms flat on a heaving chest — its owner having sunk his canines into leather that has long gone warm from friction — and slowly moving back to fully seat yourself on a cock that’s surely pushing against that sweet spot inside of your walls, Alastor’s lanky frame only mere inches from meeting your flexing shoulder blades.

“Ngghh… m’fuck,” That’s all Vincent can muster.

The younger man is being used, and oh, must he feel full — completely and utterly full with one lover easing his throbbing cock into his scalding heat until he’s almost buried to the hilt, the other sinking down until mismatched eyes flutter open… only to drift down and realize all it can see is the muscles in its abdomen flexing in unfettered arousal.

Alastor grunts at the thought — he can’t see much of Vincent’s reactions with you rising and falling in front of him, chasing your peak with quick bounces, soft cries spilling from your lips.

He can only fasten his grip on the back of his knees, hone in on the sweet sounds in the air as he sets a reasonable pace, length dragging swift but not rough. The ring of flesh repeatedly welcomes him back with a tight and yet delicious embrace, the warm channel where he had carved a space for himself accommodating him beautifully.

However, even as Alastor feels himself slipping into the throes of ecstasy, much like his lover has a tendency of doing, he’s painfully aware.

Vincent must be tipping his head back further into the mattress, overwhelmed by the constant push and pull.

— because he moans.

He actually moans, and its not deep and low in a shy way, but its high-pitched and breathy in a keening way.

If it wasn’t for the particularly loud cry you let out as you slammed your hips down, he would have thought the sound had issued from you.

A loud curse resonates in Alastor’s mind — he barely just started anew, and already he can feel a familiar pressure coiling in his gut, his breathing picking up and thrusts starting to grow sloppy and uncoordinated. The way Vincent’s body flutters around his length, gripping and releasing teasingly, doesn’t exactly help, either.

The younger man must also be close with the combined efforts, cockhead bullying his prostate, length sliding deliciously within gummy walls.

And, as much as Alastor wants to feel Vincent come undone, to unravel and devolve into a babbling, overstimulated mess with his cock still nestled deep inside of his warm channel, he hasn’t forgotten how either you or him wound up using your lover to coax yourselves over the brink of ecstasy. No, he hasn’t forgotten at all.

“Just remember, darling, you can’t cum until we both do,” Alastor manages between gritted teeth, a frustrated whine immediately piercing the air. “Otherwise, you’re in for a looong night.”

“No, no, you can’t be serious,” Vincent immediately spits out the leather in his mouth, aghast. “H-How do you expect me to hold it in? I… I can’t!”

“Figure it out,” You breath out as you impale yourself completely on his cock, bearing your hips down, massaging your needy button against his pelvis. “Just like you always left me to do.”

“You heard the lady,” Alastor chuckles in amusement, a groan immediately following, the coil in his gut growing incredibly taut. “Fuck, lucky bastard… I’m… I’m not too far, anyway.”

You slide your hands away from Vincent’s chest and fall back onto the man thrusting behind you, the back of your head meeting a chest, eyes flitting up to see a grin strained with raw, unbridled pleasure. Alastor can’t help but dive down and crane his neck, hips still pistoning, albeit much slower as his mouth descends upon your own.

You reach behind yourself and curl your fingers into the curls on his nape, eyes fluttering shut, eagerly sliding your lips across his.

Alastor keens into the kiss with a full-throated groan.

— he catches a desperate noise, but the way he squeezes his length tells him everything.

Vincent is close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy, ready to tip over the edge and spill himself deep inside of your walls.

The younger man is enjoying the sensual display unfolding in front of him, eyes drifting sideways to catch him watching behind blown pupils. Thin lips fall open, and Alastor can tell he’s fixing to ask for his own kiss — up until you pull away and saddle yourself again on his lap to speak, voice dangerously low and breathy.

“Oh, Al. You… you should have let him find out the hard way,” You lean down to kiss a flushed ear, grinding your hips down, slow and undulating. “Why… this man here, he loves his cream pies.”

“Wait… wait, what?” Vincent struggles to string a sentence as you drag your tongue across the shell of his ear. “You’re not… you’re not saying that —”

Alastor tries to resume his previous pace, cockhead bullying into the younger man’s prostate, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“— gah! Fuck. I’m so… I’m so close,” Vincent cries, toes curling in frustration.

Alastor has no doubt that he’s stiffening something awful inside of your gummy walls. His own walls are starting to protest, to push like earlier, tense.

“Don’t worry!” You add. “Unlike me, you don’t… you don’t have to obsess over your monthly until the day it comes. You’ll be all right, Vinny.”

“That’s right… you’ll be fine,” Alastor thrusts and drives into Vincent’s prostate a little too hard, pulling a cry from him. “Come now, y-you’re a man. You can just clean yourself up and that’s it.”

Despite the overwhelming tightness gripping his own stiffening flesh, Alastor continues thrusting — he’s right there, on the very brink. He’s ready to tip over, ready to feel the sweet pressure of a mind-numbing orgasm crescendo and completely envelop his senses, his jaw slackening and the edges of his vision growing unfocused, blurring.

In fact, the older man doesn’t realize it, but he is falling forwards and meeting your back as you pull away from Vincent, shuddering. Nor does he realize that you’re right there with him, an arm wracked with tremors reaching back and locking around his head, nimble fingers curling into curls that have gone damp with sweat and gripping.

“Oh God, please tell me you two are close —”

“Please, please, please — I can’t do it!”

“I can’t hold it in — gah! — I need to cum.”

“Pl-Please, I need to cum so fucking bad.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is too much —”

Alastor can’t hear Vincent crying out like some whimpering puppy desperate for a lick of attention from its owner, chin resting atop your shoulder, hands gripping your waist through your nightgown instead of bare, trembling knees. He just feels — feels his eyelids drooping, the warm channel of Vincent’s body embracing him something awful.

And he definitely feels the moment the taut coil in his gut finally snaps.

— and you’re still there with him, reaching that high without his intervention.

The coil in your own belly snaps alongside him, not a second sooner or later. It’s simultaneous.

You’re taking what you have always deserved to receive from Vincent in spite of your initial apprehension, slamming your hips down, mewling into an ear that feels as if it’s brimming with cotton — and as much as he wishes to hear your ecstasy, Alastor is glad that he’s aware enough to know that you both reached your ends first.

“Nghh… oh, fuck, that feels s’much better… but also… eugh… also kind of weird at the same time.”

But at least his hearing makes its return once his cock has finished spilling itself deep inside of Vincent, Alastor thinks in satisfaction as he pries his eyes open and guides his hips back, softening length slipping out of the throbbing channel he’s certain he left in ruins, a thick, viscous trail of his pleasure following closely behind.

“It is weird…” You giggle as you relinquish Alastor from your grip, arms falling lazily at your sides. “It’s definitely uncomfortable… but don’t worry, with time, you’ll get accustomed to the sensation.”

The older man stumbles back, rear gently knocking against the edge of the dresser situated right across your bed, fingers catching buttons.

“A-Accustomed to? Ah-ha-ha, as if!” Vincent laughs through short, ragged breaths, still coming down his own high. “Can you get this off, by the way? I’m starting to feel a little claustrophobic.”

It’s hot — too hot.

He doesn’t care if he’s standing there, looking the epitome of indecent with himself hanging out.

He just wants out of these clothes.

“Can’t blame me for enjoying that — and sure,” You giggle, nimble fingers finding the belt. “Well, more like I’ll try,” You add beneath a mumble. “Damnit, Al, you tied this on real good.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Alastor huffs as he shrugs off his vest, shirt trailing closely behind.

“Fuck, my wrists are going to hurt like a bitch,” Vincent huffs, frustrated. “I can already feel it.”

“What about out back?” You casually ask, rolling off of him, having given up on trying to remove the belt. “Can you already feel that?”

“Shut up.”

“Ah, does that feel better,” Alastor pipes up, pulling his briefs over his hips as he strides towards the bed. “And the answer is most likely yes.”

“Hurry up, please, I’m no less sweaty than you are,” Vincent mumbles under his breath, pale skin absolutely flushed. “I need to shower…” He adds beneath a whisper, “I feel fucking disgusting.”

“Good — perhaps that’ll teach you to pull out from now on, seeing as you’re more of a hands-on learner,” Alastor muses. “Now, come here.”

You have propped yourself on your side next to Vincent, the soft flesh of your cheek resting on your palm, lips curved upwards in a smile.

“I’m… I’m afraid to sit up.”

“I bet you are,” You watch Alastor rest a knee beside Vincent’s body, leaning in, skilled fingers finding leather.

In one swift motion, the belt has relinquished Vincent’s aching wrists from its bruising hold, leaving behind skin marred in red.

“Oh, thank God — ah-ha-ha! That feels amazing, being able to move my wrists.”

“You’re welcome.”

In no time, the three of you are laying in bed amongst each other, soiled sheets kicked off and draped unceremoniously over the edge of the mattress, joining each and every article of sweat-stricken clothing — save for your nightgown, which continues to sit ceaselessly on your body, the sheer fabric thin and breathable.

The house you three share is seldom messy. While Vincent doesn’t mind setting aside cleaning for a later date, the type to dedicate his Sundays for chores, you and Alastor like to keep things tidy and extremely organized on the daily. Still, you only found the energy to clean the mess on your own bodies after all the delightful debauchery.

“Soooo…” Your lips move slowly as you draw out the simple word, head nestled in the crook of Vincent’s arm and cheek smooshed against the muscled plane of his chest.

Alastor is on the other side, but he’s laying next to the younger man in silence, arm to arm.

“Mm…” Vincent’s body rumbles with a groan. “Not now. M’too busy thinkin’.”

You let out a low hum.

“About what?” Alastor quirks a brow, eyes flitting up, genuinely curious.

“Can’t go to work tomorrow… s’gonna hurt,” Mismatched eyes flutter open, locking with rich brown. “Tell the big boss I came down with somethin’… a stomach bug or whatever.”

The mattress softly creaks, sheets completely joining the ground as Alastor pulls his arms in and shifts up to sit with the help of his elbows, head knocking gently against the headboard. Alastor blinks and looks down once he’s fully seated, immediately finding your gaze, the corners of your eyes crinkled with deep creases.

“Tch, pussy.”

You clamp a hand over your mouth — but you’re a fraction too late, a melodious bout of laughter spilling through the tiny gaps between your fingers. Alastor finds himself letting out an ungodly snort, infected by the sound. And in between your shared amusement, Vincent stares up at the ceiling wordlessly, completely and utterly defeated.

Alastor immediately notices, of course he does — the silence of the usually-talkative man is deafening.