hestia

"He's barely got an eye for anyone," she muttered to you in a stage whisper from behind a cheeky hand. "I don't think he's ever even kissed a girl!"

Across the table, Alastor grins at you, all charm and sharp teeth.

Naturally you'd believed her. Mimzy was one of his closest associates, and besides, it was true - Alastor made you vaguely nervous with his dark eyes like pools of still water in a cave. The way he regarded people was like... like a shark, maybe.

But you liked being in his vicinity, and really, when Mimzy so kindly introduced you to each other, how could you turn down the opportunity? Being around Alastor was like being in the sun’s warmth. People flocked to him to bask in his wit and charm and style, and through him you could pretend to be a social butterfly while working half the magic.

"You smell nice." Your words slur into each other, your fingers curling into the pressed cloth of his dress shirt.

“Do I, my dear?” he asks distractedly. One arm curls around your waist, keeping you close to him, which you have no trouble obeying as you nose at his pulse. The other is behind him, unlocking the door to his suite. “What do I smell like?”

You barely register what’s happening. His pulse is so slow - not at all thrumming like an unmarried man’s should when he’s bringing someone into his bed, not racing, not stuttering in the least.

“…Roses.” It takes a moment for you to find your tongue. “Fresh soil. Metal.”

“Metal? Like iron?” You catch a glimpse of a raised eyebrow, before Alastor leans in to press his forehead against yours.

“Like blood,” you mutter, and sling your arms around his neck, and kiss him.

You find yourself on your elbows and knees an hour later on the verge of collapse.

“A-Alastor,” you choke out. “Ah, mmph, Alastor…”

“Yes, my sweet,” he coos, not at all sounding like a man with his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside you. “That is my name.”

Alastor twists his fingers around, curling them to stroke against a throbbing vein within you. You gasp, whine, your legs slipping close.

“Keep them open for me,” he says in that sing-song way of his. “My darling. Your head is full of nothing but me, isn’t it? How adorable.”

You feel the heat of Alastor as he leans over you, and consequently the sharp bite of canines into the nape of your neck. Your cry of pain and pleasure is accompanied by a ruthless thumb circling your swollen clit.

“Say my name again, my sweet. I want to hear you sing.”

"Fuck," he grumbles against your jaw. "Fucking clothes-"

The fabric falls off your shoulders then and his mouth follows. For a moment you hear nothing but the sound of your breathing and his, panting, stifled whines as he makes his way down, peeling aside layers of clothing.

“Vince,” you gasp as he nips at the soft skin of your waist, digging your fingers into his hair. He nuzzles into a ticklish spot in your side and you yelp, tightening your grip - Vince tips his head back for a second - his lips are wet, eyes dark and cheeks flushed with desire. You feel even more wetness pool into your underwear.

"We won't be needing this," he chuckles breathlessly, and Vincent Whittman secures his teeth above your hip and pulls off your undergarments when you arch into him with a shameless moan.

He finds your mouth again, hot and searing, letting you pull at his clothes until his skin is pressed eagerly against yours.

“I love you,” you whimper. “Please, Vince-”

The sentence breaks off in a desperate keen when Vincent presses his hardness up against your folds.

“So wet, baby,” he pants, rocking his hips shallowly. Each grind sends sparks of delight up your clit until you’re shaking, your knees weak, your eyes watering. “You love me? Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” you nearly cry from relief at the feeling of him, so close yet so far from you. “Inside, ple- mmph!”

Your head lolls back against the wall as he sheathes himself inside you in one thrust. All thoughts flee your head while Vincent pulses inside you, thick and heavy and warm. His nails dig into your hips in a way that you know will leave marks the next day.

"Fuck," he hisses, his voice trembling like glass about to shatter. His head rests briefly on your shoulder, and you take in his redolent scent, pressing your nose into his hair in a desperate bid to get closer even though he was literally already inside you.

Vincent raises his head, a lopsided grin on his face. "Could be deeper, don't you think, baby?"

Before you can reply, he hoists a leg around his waist, and-

You cry out his name, throwing your head back, fingers scrabbling for purchase onto something as Vincent grinds roughly into someplace so deep and sensitive within you that your vision nearly blacks out.

"Good job," he praises, the words resonating in his chest, pressed up against you. "That's my baby, yeah? Taking me so well?"

You can't do anything but nod and sob out agreement, clutching onto your last shred of sanity as he starts thrusting into you, pulling out slow, slamming back into you just to hear you cry out.

"Cutie," he moans. "Y’so tight. Should I fuck you more often? You're squeezin' me so- so-"

The words tumble past your lips before you can stop them out of shame. "I'm cum- Vincent, please, I'm so close-"

Your orgasm crashes on you both like the shattering of floodgates. You're wrenched taut, feeling the wild twitching of his dick within you as Vincent groans, long and low and rich in his gorgeous telecaster’s voice, nudging so deep into you that you swear he’s spilling straight into your womb.

He kisses you as you both come down from your highs, you weak as jelly, trembling in his grasp. Vincent is much more gentle this time, stroking your damp hair from your face and laying a hand over your lower belly that still spasms with aftershocks.

“That’s my doll,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Keep this up and maybe the audience’ll be getting a special treat on-air very soon…”